Swordfights & Lullabies (3 page)

“Wawawawawawawa.”  The singsong from the backseat carried tones of impatient demand.  Someone wanted water and waves. 
Now.

“Almost there, cutie pie.”  Cass glanced at the baby in the complex system of mirrors they’d set up to see her face.  “If I go any faster, I’m going to make your da very nervous.”

She didn’t have to look to know he was scowling.  And let her laugh loose into the wind—an ode to the delight of simply feeling happy.

On a day like today, it was impossible to mourn for tomorrow.

-o0o-

“There you go, sweetheart.”  Marcus set Morgan’s bare feet down on the warm sands of North Myrtle Beach and kept a close eye on her—the sand was her favorite plaything, but the small, placid waves ran a close second.

She was going to get a rude shock when they went back to Fisher’s Cove and she tried to stick her toes in the frigid waters.

Morgan eyed the ocean and then plunked down in the tan sand.  “‘Ovew!”

Cass grinned and dutifully dug out the hot-pink shovel that was toddler treasure.  “Going to find gold today,
a leanbh mo chroí
?”

Marcus’s heart hitched.  His girl might already be busy tossing sand with a shovel, but her mind leaned into the familiar Gaelic words. 

Comforted.  Safe in the knowledge that she belonged.

She had gone there so very easily, his tiny child of the naked toes and lavender eyes.  A shining beacon for his crusty old soul.  He reached for Cass, the feelings still sending him off balance.  Marcus Buchanan belonged, too—and that still threatened to knock him off his feet every single day.

Green eyes looked up at his, bright with laughter and things deeper.  And then Cass tucked her head into his chest, eyes still watching the girl who had become theirs.

On days like this, it wasn’t so hard to believe that happiness might be his to keep.

He slid his hand into his pocket, feeling for the ring.  Fashioned in the dark of a Fisher’s Cove night from a pile of sand.  Good, sturdy Fisher’s Cove sand.  And some from Margaree, sent by a very pleased Dave who had asked no questions.  A little from their favorite beach here in South Carolina, and a handful of grains borrowed from the rocks of Ireland.

He’d stood on the beach of home, the rocks vibrating under his feet and Evan laughing from above, every earth witch he knew at his side for power, and two old Irish grannies adding the blessing.

And him, one meager, love-struck man, holding tight to three pebbles and making a fervent magical wish.

That night had been for the witch.  This bright, sunny afternoon was for the man.

Carefully, terrified of dropping something, he pulled the ring and the three pebbles out of his pocket.  And opened his fist under Cassidy’s nose.

For a moment, neither of them breathed. 

Her head tipped up, almost quizzical.

He’d had pretty words ready.  Poetic ones, even.  Ones that told of holes filled and wings spread and glorious, crazed hope and the wondrous feeling of waking up in the night to the sounds of her breathing.  And he couldn’t get a one of them out.

Hands shaking, he tipped the pebbles and the ring onto her palm and wrapped his big hands around the whole mess.  Looking deep into his heart and hers, he found the only words that mattered.  “Marry me, Cassidy Farrell.  I love you so very much.”

Something strong and untethered blasted into Cass’s eyes.

And then she was in his arms, and the last shards of bachelor curmudgeon melted into the sands of North Myrtle Beach.

June 20.  The Last Song.

Cass stood in the center of the bus, Rosie on her shoulder.  Tuning.  Soaking it in.  Trying to shake the light fog that had been dogging her all day.

After tonight, the bus would no longer be home.

It didn’t look like the rig she’d ridden in for the last ten years.  Stacks of building blocks on the floor, little pink socks piled on the end of the table, and something that looked suspiciously like play dough ground into the green shag rug.

But somewhere underneath all of that, the bus still reeked of  years on the road.  A traveler, just like she was.

Just like she’d
been
.  Cassidy Farrell was about to set down roots.

She stared at the ring on her finger, glistening in the dim light as she held Rosie’s strings.

“I’ve never seen magic like when he made that for you,” said a quiet voice from the shadows.  Nan.  Always there in the times that mattered most.  “Such love in his eyes.  And so many who came to help.”

Cass smiled, some of the fog ebbing away.  “He says it’s all their fault the ring got so ridiculously big.”  It pleased her magpie heart to no end.

“It matches what I saw in his eyes.”  Nan was no magpie, but she was a shrewd judge of men.  “He loves you so, Cassie mine.”

“So he says.”  Even if getting out the words the first time or two had nearly strangled the poor man. 

Her grandmother snorted, highly amused.  “Don’t be playing with me like that, missie.  I’ve looked in your eyes, too.”

Cass grinned.  There was no funk deep enough to keep Nan out—and oddly, it wasn’t melancholy she was feeling tonight.  “I expected to feel sadder.  More lost.”  There would be some tears later—the Irish knew how to grieve things properly.  But they weren’t chasing her now.

“I thought you might, too.”  Never tell a lie where the truth would do.

“It’s why you came.” 

“Sure.”  Nan sipped tea from her cozy rocker in the corner.  “Thought you might be needing a good kick in the pants.”

Cass laughed and checked Rosie’s tuning yet again.  They had a special song to sing tonight, and it wouldn’t do to be off key.  “I think maybe I’ve grown up a little these last few months.  You’ll have less cause to be aiming a foot at my behind.”

“Aye.”  Her grandmother stroked a stray pink sock.  “Picking up after a little one will do that to you.”

It had far more to do with loving a man who had found the breathtaking courage to be happy.  “I think it’s going to be okay.”  Cass looked around the bus and realized she’d already said good-bye.

The shape of Nan passed by in the growing dark.  “I’ll be inside, my girl.  I hear they’ve a passable Guinness here.”

Cass watched her go—and felt the love that had been left behind to hold her hand.

She looked around one last time and paused, attention caught by the motley, dog-eared calendar Tommy kept pinned to the wall at the front of the bus.  She never looked at more than one day at a time.  A rule.

Carefully, she touched her finger to the 20
th
 of June and smiled.  No fireworks.  No proclamations of the last day.  Just a place and a time, same as always.

And someone, surely not Tommy, had drawn a whimsical flower on the 21
st
.  Summer solstice.

Tomorrow would be the beginning of a new season.

An Irish witch knew something about trusting the seasons.  Cass firmed up her grip on Rosie, feeling the last of the strange fog slipping away into the dark.  And with the sturdy rumble of the rocks under her feet, walked off the bus and into a North Charleston pub.

It was time for Cassidy Farrell’s last song.

-o0o-

“Hear you asked her to marry you.”

Marcus looked up as Tommy slid into his booth in the corner—there was no mistaking that tone.  “Yes.”

“Hmm.”  A Guinness appeared in front of Cass’s manager.  The man had beer magic.  “You better be good to her.”

That went without saying—and yet, clearly Tommy had needed to say it.  Marcus dug for a reply that wouldn’t make both of them feel utterly silly.

“He’ll do just fine by our Cassidy,” said a lilting voice, tucking in to Marcus’s left.  Nan, carrying a pint that looked almost as big as she was.  A reward for surviving the Internet pixies.

Marcus read the lay of the land and looked at Tommy.  “And if I don’t, she’s far more of a threat than you are.”

Nan beamed at the two of them.  “Indeed I am, and don’t you be forgetting it.”

For a traveling musician, Cass had an awful lot of guardians.  And they currently had him neatly pinned into his quiet booth in the corner.

Tommy looked at the newest arrival for a long moment—guardians exchanging messages—and then got up.  “I’ll go check Cass’s equipment.”

Nan slid her pint Marcus’s direction.  “For you.  I’ve tea coming shortly.”

For the second time in as many minutes, he found himself speechless and digging for words.

Her smile told him that was entirely unnecessary.  “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to my Cassie,” said the old woman softly.  “You see her for who she is, and allow her the dream of who she can be.”

He was only a man lucky enough to stand in the light of her sun.  “I’m pretty sure she had all that long before she met me.”

“No.”  Nan shook her head, and then nodded at the server who dropped off her tea.  “You wear humility well, but it’s not needed here.  You’re very good for her, and I hope you know it.”

She would be good for him every day of the rest of his life.  And he would work every day to be the man Nan saw.  Cass deserved at least that.

Little hands grabbed the side of the table, nearly toppling tea and pint both.  Marcus reached for cups and glasses.  Nan far more sensibly reached for the small girl causing the disturbance and lifted Morgan onto her lap.  “Go.  She’ll want you to share this moment with her.”

He stood up.  Cass was about to face her destiny—and he felt a need to face it with her.

She played a few notes on Rosie.  Checking the tuning.  Finding the feel of the place.  And then she looked up from her fiddle and straight into his soul.  “Most of you don’t know that this is my last night on tour for a while.  I wanted to start tonight off by playing the song that tells the story of why.”

He knew what it would be before she played the first note. 
Alanna.
  The song she’d written for his beautiful girl.  The one she played, rain or shine, small venues and large ones.

And then the music began—and he knew he was wrong.

Something different floated from Rosie’s strings this time.  Teasing, tentative notes.  Sad ones, mixing in with curious, awkward riffs.  Slowly, Cass pushed the notes together.  Caught them again when they frayed and fled.

An odd, strange melody.  A song that couldn’t quite find itself.

The pub had quieted, perplexed by the music on stage.  Celtic fiddling, it was not.

The notes danced, a little faster now.  Still uncertain.  Still not quite in harmony—but they wanted to be.  And all throughout the bar, Marcus felt people beginning to wish that they would.  An unspoken yen for the little hint of a song to find its voice.

Cass’s fingers gathered the notes closer now, and the amorphous wishing of her audience along with it.  The wanting for things unseen.  The dreaming of things impossible. 

And Marcus finally knew what he listened to.  He and a green-eyed Irish witch had danced this way once.

When Cass’s fingers found the first notes of true harmony, his heart surged along with a hundred others.  And crashed again as the chord fell apart.  Chaos now.  And sadness.

It wasn’t his feet that carried him closer—it was apology.  And need.  He remembered that day.

And then Rosie found the chord again and stopped him dead.

The music that came next shouldn’t have worked.  It was still full of tentative notes and not-quite-right ones, awkward riffs still sounding under the fingers of the master.

And all of that paled in the face of the melody Cass wove through their midst.  A thing of utter beauty and fierce aliveness and gentle, consuming wholeness.

It was a love story like nothing he’d ever heard. 

When her notes ended, it was very clear the song wasn’t finished.  And she meant it that way.

She held his eyes and reached for the mike.  “I call that one
Flowers in Winter
.”

Marcus let go the breath he’d been holding for three-and-a-half minutes and tried to collect his shredded, awed, love-drowned soul. 
Bloody stupid daffodils. 

 He saw the mirth hit her eyes before it rang out into the oddly silent pub. 
I should have kept my mittens on.

Wordless now, he let all of his heart, destroyed and rebuilt by the naked truth of her music, flow down the connection to her mind.

Saw the tears hit her eyes.

And heard her heart’s reply, fierce and bright.

Shouldering Rosie, Cass launched into one of her signature reels.  Fast, furious, and defiant as all hell.

Daring anyone to miss her.

Daring anyone to see this as her last song.

Swordfights & Lullabies
, the 2013 tour, might be coming to a close—but Cassidy Farrell was just getting underway.

And the man who got to stand at her side nearly ignited in gratitude.

I hope you enjoyed this small
moment with Marcus, Cass,
and Morgan!  Coming next… 
A Lost Witch (book 7 - June 2013)
all current books in the
A Modern Witch
series
And then I will be starting the new
Witch Central
series, featuring…
your favorite witches :-)
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