Mystical Warrior (17 page)

“Maddy’s brother, Rick. Have you met him?” Gabriella grabbed Fiona’s hand to keep her from straightening away. “He’s Trace’s fishing partner, you know, and he lives with all of us at Maddy’s mother’s house. I slept in Sarah’s room at first, but when I started having bad dreams and would wake up screaming … well, Rick suggested I take his room over their garage.” She smiled crookedly. “Wasn’t that nice of him? And sometimes, when I’ve had a bad dream and can’t get back to sleep, he brings me downstairs and makes me hot cocoa.”

She pulled Fiona closer. “And a couple of times, he’s even given me a bottle of something he calls beer, saying it will relax me.” She fell back against her pillow with another sigh. “It tasted similar to the mead I used to sneak out of my papa’s cup when he wasn’t looking, only I think the Scotch we put in our tea works better. I feel as if even my bones have melted, I’m so relaxed.”

Fiona patted her shoulder, deciding that the Scotch had certainly relaxed the girl’s tongue. “Your dreams will all be pleasant tonight, I promise,” she whispered. “And in the morning, we shall put our minds together and come up with a plan we can present to Trace
before
we implement it.”

“Mama told me that when she wanted Papa to let her do something, the less she told him, the better,” Gabriella said without bothering to open her eyes. She sighed again, snuggling into her pillow. “And that she always made him think it was
his
idea.”

“I believe I like your mama,” Fiona said, walking out of the room.

She went to her cupboard under the attic stairs, pulled out the mattress of sea grass she’d made, and dragged it
to the front room next to the woodstove. Fiona finally lay down with a tired groan and stared up at the ceiling. She touched her fingers to her lips as she remembered Trace’s kiss down in the safe room.

And how very much alive and very womanly it had made her feel.

Or, rather, how womanly
he
had made her feel.

She slowly rubbed her finger back and forth over her lower lip and smiled at the realization that Trace Huntsman desired her. And to her surprise, Fiona found herself wondering if that wonderful, exciting sensation she’d felt in the pit of her stomach when he’d kissed her—which had spread through her like warm, soothing Scotch—might in fact have been her own desire for him.

Lord, she hoped so. Because if what she felt toward Trace really was desire, her prospects of becoming a truly modern woman, one who could
choose
to be intimate with a man, meant that her new life had just gone from a curse to a blessing.

And this time, by God, she intended to have some say in the matter.

T
race couldn’t imagine what sort of crime he might have committed—at least not recently—that would have compelled the universe to send his life to hell in such a crowded handbasket. Honest to God, he was thinking about burning his house down again, only this time to get Mac the Menace to leave. How in hell could anyone sit sprawled on a couch watching television for three friggin’ days and not go insane?

Unless Mac’s real intention was to drive everyone insane with him.

It was no wonder Fiona and Misneach kept disappearing. The woman might claim that she was spending time in the barn to help her animals get over the trauma of the storm, but Trace suspected she was secretly sneaking down to clean his safe room, as well as to escape the woe-is-me antics of their uninvited … guest.

Only Gabriella seemed blissfully unaware of the building tension.

Trace decided he was going to have to take the girl aside and point out that her little hero-worship thing was starting to border on the ridiculous. Nobody needed their pillows fluffed every ten minutes, and the next time she lugged another tray of food in to Mac, Trace was tempted to trip her.

Three endless days of waiting for his knee to mend was taking its toll. He’d swear his muscles were atrophying from not being used, his butt had gone numb from sitting in his lumpy old recliner, and his teeth ached from grinding them every time Mac rang the little bell Gabriella had given him to call her whenever he needed something.

About the only bright spot Trace could find was that his taste buds had recovered enough for him to discover that Fiona was one hell of a cook. Well, and that the goat had stopped giving milk.

And he did have to admit that being laid up had afforded him the time to catch up on his paperwork, which in turn only added more fuel to his growing frustration. Even with Rick pulling double duty, they’d be lucky to break even this year, and Trace couldn’t for the life of him figure out where they would find the money to get their second boat up and running and in the water.

“Could you please keep your sighing to a minimum, Huntsman?” Mac asked from somewhere inside his throne of fluffy pillows. “The batteries in the television remote are wearing down because I have to keep adjusting the volume.”

Trace was tempted to tell him exactly what he could do with that remote, but he merely let out a sigh loud enough to override the blaring … oh, for chrissakes, the man was watching
Sesame Street
!

Mac hit the mute button and pivoted on the couch to look at him. “What is it that has you so depressed, anyway?”

Before he realized what he was doing, Trace held up his checkbook. “I’m trying to figure out where Rick and I are going to get the money to put our new boat in the water.” He sighed again. “Because according to our bank balance, we might as well sink the damn thing and use it as a mooring.”

Mac arched an imperial brow. “You and Madeline’s brother are broke?”

Trace snorted. “We’re not just broke; we’re in debt up to our eyeballs. And if we don’t start catching more lobsters, we won’t be able to finish repairing the second boat we bought.” He pointed his checkbook at the window. “Every time another army of demons chases one of Kenzie’s displaced souls here, the storm not only stops us from going to sea but it also messes up our fishing grounds. We’re lucky if we find one lobster in our traps when we haul them now, whereas we used to find several.”

Mac arched his other brow. “So, merely catching more lobsters is all it would take to get rid of your foul mood?”

Trace eyed him suspiciously. “It would help.”

Mac raised one of his hands in the air, waved his index finger in a circle, and shot Trace a smug smile. “Consider it done,” he said, turning back to the television and hitting the volume button.

“Wait. Consider what done?” Trace asked over the sound of Big Bird talking to some scruffy-looking puppet in a trash can. “What in hell does this mean?” he growled, waving his own finger in a circle when Mac turned to him. “What did you just do?”

Up went that imperial brow again. “I simply told all of the older lobsters to seek out your and Rick’s traps and go inside them.”

“You told them,” Trace repeated evenly. He moved his fingers to imitate running. “And they just scurried into our traps like good little lobsters.”

“Not the little ones, Huntsman, the
older
lobsters. Do you not prefer to catch the larger ones? I was under the impression that your commerce system paid by the pound.”

Realizing that he was gaping, Trace snapped his mouth shut with a muttered curse. Did the man honestly think he was that gullible? Of all the outrageous—“Wait, do the lobsters know they’re going to end up in a pot of boiling water? Aren’t you afraid of bad karma or something, for telling them to commit … lobster suicide?”

Mac shrugged. “They’ve had a good twenty-year run already, and every creature understands its place in the food chain. I merely asked them to fulfill their destinies.”

Holy hell, twenty-year-old lobsters weighed at least five pounds!

Man, he wanted to believe him.

But Mac was a drùidh; Trace knew that much about him because he’d actually seen him
do
stuff. Hell, the guy even had a fancy robe and a pointy hat and everything, just like a real wizard. “So what other tricks can you do?” he asked, this time over the sound of Elmo belting out a song at the top of his little puppet lungs.

Mac hit the mute button again. “Tricks?” he repeated softly. “You mean, like turning annoying people into toads?”

As threats went, Trace supposed that one was as good as any. “Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of you
fixing my bum knee, and getting my truck running again, and making a new pair of work boots magically appear. Because if you could do all that, I would get the hell out of here and stop interrupting your … quality television time,” he offered, nodding towards the TV.

“Consider it done!” Mac snapped, turning back to the television.

“Wait. You didn’t wave your finger in the air this time.”

Mac hit the mute button again, and Trace actually braced himself when the man shot him a glare fierce enough to turn him into a … well, something not pleasant.

“So, it’s true, then, what Gabriella told me?” Mac drawled. “They kicked you out of your war because you had a hard time to get … moving?”

“I was kicked out for beating a man nearly to death when he pissed me off. If you’re going to perform fancy tricks, the least you could do is say abracadabra or make a puff of smoke or something.”

Mac’s glare turned downright ominous. “I’m not one of your modern charlatans, and my
performances
are not designed to entertain. Rearranging time and space and matter is serious business.” He suddenly smiled. “But if you insist.”

Trace gave a strangled shout when a bolt of electricity suddenly shot through his chair. He lurched to his feet without even closing the footrest and spun around just in time to see the recliner burst into flames.

“For chrissakes, put it out! You’re going to burn down my house!”

“I’m sorry; I thought that was your intention,” Mac said with a chuckle.

Trace had to jump back when a deluge of water
suddenly came out of nowhere and landed on the burning recliner, sending up a cloud of sizzling steam. “What, you read minds, too?” he muttered, bending down to pluck his checkbook out of the puddle of water on the floor.

This time it was Mac who sighed. “I wish. No, I can’t read minds. But like you, I do have a knack for reading a person’s intentions.” He grinned. “After hearing Kenzie say you had threatened to burn down your house to get Fiona to leave, I assumed you were considering doing the same to get rid of me.”

“Only unlike with Fiona,” Trace said, “I’m not worried about hurting your feelings. I don’t have a problem
telling
you to get lost to your face.”

Up went that damned brow again. “Then why haven’t you?”

“I figured since I was laid up, having you around might prove entertaining.” Trace gave a shrug. “But it turns out you’re only irritating.” He used his soggy checkbook to point toward the kitchen. “So, you can leave anytime, Oceanus. Just don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.”

Mac turned to face the muted television. “If I leave now, the demons will get me.” He looked back, and Trace went perfectly still at the utter seriousness in the drùidh’s eyes. “And if they somehow manage to kill me, half the earth’s population could be wiped out in the ensuing war my father will wage to extract retribution.”

“Who in hell did you piss off?” Trace whispered.

Mac looked back at the television. “I honestly have no idea. I only know that they seem unconcerned about annihilating anything or anyone that gets in their way.”

“And so you led them
here
? But if your father is such a bad-ass … whatever,” Trace growled, angrily waving at nothing, “then why in hell didn’t you go running home to him instead of to us?”

Mac finally stood up and faced Trace directly. “My father and I haven’t exactly been on speaking terms for several years.”

“But six weeks ago, you came here to get Carolina for him,” Trace countered.

“No, actually, I came after Carolina for her sake, not my father’s. I did not wish to see the brat on the wrong side of his anger.”

“Exactly who is Titus Oceanus that everyone—including even Kenzie’s brother, apparently—gets all quiet and serious at the mere mention of his name?”

“You’ve heard of Atlantis?” Mac asked.

“Sure, everyone’s heard of the
mythological
continent.”

Mac’s grin was somewhat provoking. “Well, Titus Oceanus is what you would call the patriarch of Atlantis. He created the entire … okay, let’s use
myth
for lack of a better word.” His grin turned indulgent. “I can see I had best give you the short version, as well as endeavor to use terms you can relate to. So, where was I? Oh yes, I believe I was at the beginning of modern time, when dear old Daddy built Atlantis as a hidey-hole in which to protect and cultivate his Trees of Life.”

“Wait. Who’s he protecting these Trees of Life
from
?”

“From the gods.”

“As in Zeus and Poseidon and all the other
mythical
gods?” Trace drawled, folding his arms over his chest.

Mac’s grin disappeared. “Believe what you wish, Huntsman,
but the fact is, the gods were so busy trying to wrestle control of the world away from one another that they were all but destroying it. So, my father,” he continued sharply when Trace tried to ask another question, “stepped forward to champion humanity. He created Atlantis, planted groves of his Trees, and educated several hand-picked humans to become drùidhs. But when the gods discovered what he was doing, they actually worked together for once and tried to destroy him.” Mac’s grin returned. “And the myth of a wondrous lost continent began when Titus sank Atlantis and all of its inhabitants into the sea.”