Mystical Warrior (23 page)

Mac shifted Trace’s limp body on his shoulders. “Would you mind a friendly word of advice?” he asked. He gestured toward his shoulder when she nodded. “Try to avoid talking about Mr. Getze to Trace. Just so he doesn’t get the idea that
you’re attracted to your employer,” he explained when she frowned. “Trust me; it’ll make life easier for all of us.”

Mac turned down the stairs, but stopped and looked back, causing Trace’s head to barely miss the rail. “Oh, and you be careful you don’t get too attached to the children, okay? You can love them, but not like a mother loves her child. Mr. Getze is a young man and will likely remarry, and it will be his new wife’s place to instill herself in their hearts.”

“I understand,” she whispered, stepping back inside the kitchen. She closed the door and rubbed Misneach’s fur with her chin as she watched Mac walk down the stairs. Trace’s head kept bumping the railing occasionally, only Mac didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he just didn’t care.

She set Misneach down when they disappeared around the front of the house and went into her front room and sat on the couch and stared at the woodstove. She absently picked up one of the pillows and hugged it, drawing in the scent of fish mingled with a good deal of Scotch, and wondered why she was so relieved that Trace had spent the last three days in some seedy bar instead of with a woman.

S
cowling at the Norman Rockwell scene playing out in his driveway, Trace tried swallowing the burnt toast lodged in his throat by taking a sip of tea, only to jerk away when he scorched his tongue. He wiped the spilled tea off his
Sesame Street
pajama top, then tried lifting the glob of jam—which hadn’t done a damned thing to help the taste of the toast—off Big Bird’s beak without smearing it in.

He sucked the jam off his finger and looked back out the window at Gabriella pulling two laughing children through the snow on a small plastic sled. A totally ecstatic Misneach was chasing after them as Fiona gently lobbed snowballs at the pup, making sure she missed by a mile as she called to Gabriella to save the children from the mitten-stealing monster.

And John Getze, apparently in no hurry to get to work, was standing beside his car in his three-piece suit and overcoat, smiling at the women playing with his children.

Trace decided that smile looked more feral than amused.

“I wonder when the last time was that Fiona looked that happy,” Mac asked—rhetorically, Trace hoped—as he stood beside Trace at the window.

“If she’s the youngest in her family,” Trace said, “and she didn’t have any women friends or ever go down to the village, then what makes her think she knows anything about babysitting kids?”

“She was born to be a mother.” Mac looked over at him. “And she raised enough lambs and young orphaned wildlife to know that, animal or human, all any baby wants is to be nurtured and protected and loved.”

“Why in hell isn’t Getze going to work?” Trace muttered, lifting his mug to his mouth, this time remembering to blow on the tea before he took a sip.

“I believe he’s making sure his children are in good hands, as any concerned father would do. Wouldn’t you be doing the same in his position?”

“I guess we’ll never know, will we, because I’m never having kids.” Trace turned and strode to the counter. He’d make his own goddamned toast, and just as soon as he found out where Fiona had hidden the coffeemaker, he was replacing the bog water in his mug with something strong enough to get rid of the foul taste in his mouth.

“You would punish your mother for giving you life by robbing her of the joy of having grandchildren?” Mac asked, still standing by the window.

Trace spun toward him. “I’m not punishing anyone. I’m saving some unborn kid from having the likes of me for a father.”

“So Grange Huntsman succeeded, then, in his desire to break his son’s spirit?”

“No!” Trace ran his fingers through his hair and turned to brace his hands on the counter. “The bastard never broke me,” he said quietly. “Though God knows he tried.” He looked at Mac. “But he sure as hell didn’t set much of an example for me when it comes to being a father.”

“You had many fine role models, Trace, if you would only look back. You were close to your uncle Marvin, as well as Maddy and Rick’s father. They were the dads you wished for, and you merely have to treat your own children the way those good men treated you.” Mac walked over and leaned against the counter, crossing his feet at his ankles and folding his arms over his chest. “And if I remember correctly, you were the go-to man in Afghanistan for a good number of street urchins, because instead of simply handing them money and trinkets, you gave them the gift of your time. And those you couldn’t help you buried with dignity.”

“Which begs the question as to why I would want to bring a kid into this screwed-up world in the first place,” Trace whispered, staring down at the counter.

“Because children are the epitome of hope. They are the nutrients that feed the Trees of Life, Trace. And every time someone like you refuses to hope, a branch will die and fall off, becoming dust scattered on the winds of despair.”

“And yet you continue to stubbornly refuse to give your father a grandson.”

“Not for lack of trying. Do you have any idea how many women through all of time that I’ve proposed to, only to have them run from me in terror?”

Trace arched a brow, trying to look imperial. “Why? Were you dressed in your fancy robe and pointy hat when you asked them?”

Mac walked to the window. “No,” he said quietly, shoving his hands in his pockets as he stared out the window. “I only thought it honorable to be … myself when I asked. And trust me,” he growled, glancing over his shoulder before looking out the window again, “I’m not exactly a woman’s idea of a dream husband, much less someone she would want fathering her children.”

Trace stilled at the edge in the wizard’s voice. “Why? What are you, really?”

Mac turned to face him, and Trace stumbled against the counter in shock. “For chrissakes, change back!” he shouted. “Now!”

“Do you see my problem, Huntsman?” Mac asked. Or, rather, whatever the hell he’d turned into asked.

“I believe the word you’re looking for is monster,” Mac said softly. “Or bogeyman. Or creature. Or beast. Your quaint little story of
Beauty and the Beast,
which parents read to their children to teach them not to judge a person on looks alone … well, it’s not a fairy tale, my friend. It’s my life.”

“Change the hell back,” Trace ground out, darting a quick glance at the door. He wiped a trembling hand over his face, only to have it come away wet with sweat, but when he looked up again, Mac had changed back to himself.

Or, rather, the wizard was once again the
image
he wished to portray.

Trace took a steadying breath. “Maybe you’d have better luck if you didn’t do that until after they said yes,” he said, gesturing weakly. “Or better yet, after the honeymoon.”

Mac shoved his hands in his pockets again. “I may lack
honor in some things, but I draw the line at deceiving women into sleeping with me.”

“You’re a virgin?” Trace asked in surprise.

“No! Let me rephrase that; I draw the line at deceiving women into
marrying
me.” A hint of a grin lifted one side of his mouth. “But bedding a beauty for our mutual pleasure doesn’t even come close to that line.”

“Then maybe that’s your problem. Have you thought about asking an ugly woman to marry you? Because I’ve heard,” he rushed on when Mac glared at him, “that they can be quite grateful.” Trace turned away and started opening cupboard doors to disguise his shudder as he attempted to shake off the image of Mac the Beast. “How many women have you actually asked to marry you, anyway?”

Mac walked over and sat down at the table. “After several … um, refusals, I stopped even trying. But I actually came close once again, in England in the fourteenth century.” He smiled somewhat sadly. “I honestly thought Lady Cordelia Penhope might be the one.”

“So what happened? Did she also run screaming in fright when you changed?”

The wizard’s face darkened. “I never got the chance. Just when I had finally worked up the nerve to ask for her hand in marriage, Delia suddenly sent me away.” He scowled. “She claimed I was starting to bore her.”

Trace snorted. “She sounds a tad high-maintenance to me. Maybe you should consider yourself lucky Lady Penhope took off
her
mask before you took off yours.”

Mac sighed. “I have spent a good deal of my adult life traveling through time to all four corners of the world
searching for a woman I could be content with, but I’m quickly running out of centuries to search in.”

Trace found the coffeemaker and went hunting for the filters. “Have you ever considered that maybe you’re just too damned picky, Oceanus?”

“Would
you
not be picky if you knew you had to live with a woman for thousands of years? And besides being pleasant, there’s also the fact that she’ll be married to a theurgist, which isn’t exactly something for the faint of heart.”

“What do your parents look like?” Trace found the filters in a drawer, then started looking for the coffee, but stopped when he realized Mac wasn’t answering him.

The wizard was smiling again, though. “You’ve met my sister, Carolina.”

“I’ve met her,” Trace said, remembering how he’d barely dodged that high-maintenance bullet.

“Carolina is the mirror image of our mother.”

“I saw a beautiful young woman, but Kenzie and William saw a heavily whiskered harbor seal,” Trace said with a chuckle. “So, how do I know that if I
had
agreed to marry your sister, she wouldn’t have turned into …” He waved at the window and shuddered again. “Into the mirror image of you on our wedding night?”

“You saw the true Carolina, despite the fact that she had disguised her looks. That’s why she was so sure you were the man she was destined to spend the rest of her life with. I don’t know if you realize your gift, Huntsman, but you have a knack for seeing past the masks people try hiding behind.”

Trace continued hunting for the coffee, hoping it was in
the fridge. “So if you take after your father, then why don’t you just ask him how
he
got your mother to say yes?”

“Titus is legendary for his good looks.”

Trace straightened from searching the fridge. “Then what in hell happened to you? Was your mother doing drugs or something?”

Mac went back to glaring at him. “I wasn’t born this way. I was a perfectly normal, beautiful child—right up to puberty.”

Trace bent to look in the fridge again, mostly to hide his grin. “So you’re saying that instead of your voice cracking, your face did?”

The interior of the fridge suddenly exploded, and Trace instinctively lunged to the side and rolled away from the shower of food that shot halfway across the kitchen. He continued rolling and sprang to his feet, and spun to face Mac. “Don’t you
ever
make something explode near me again,” he ground out, taking a threatening step toward him. “Or finding a wife will be the least of your worries, you ass.”

Mac merely arched a brow in response, saying nothing.

Trace pointed at the floor. “And you made the mess, so you’re cleaning it up. Where in hell did she put the coffee?” he said when Mac still didn’t respond. He started opening cupboards again. “I know I bought some a couple of weeks ago, because I distinctly remember putting it in a stainless-steel canister.” He gave up and headed toward the door. “Dammit, I’ll just ask her.”

Mac scrambled to his feet and cut him off. “I don’t believe that would be wise.”

“Why in hell not? If she couldn’t be bothered to draw a
map of where she put all my stuff, then she’ll just have to tell me where everything is.”

“I’m fairly certain she doesn’t wish to speak with you at the moment. Or anytime soon, I would imagine.”

Trace waved that away. “I was drunk. And besides, you would have jumped to the same conclusion if you had been in my boots.” He turned away and went back to opening cupboard doors. “And you might want to believe she was just looking to get laid like any other modern woman, but the jury’s still out for me.”

“I think you might find your coffee in Mrs. Peterson’s old Christmas cactus.”

Trace pivoted toward him. “Why would Fiona put my coffee in a plant?”

“Probably because when she opened the canister to see what it was, she assumed it was potting soil. At least, that’s what I suspected when I saw her sprinkling the contents of a small container into the planter.”

Trace grabbed the filter and a spoon, and strode to the living room. He didn’t care if he ended up brewing dirt; he needed something stronger than sissified tea if he had any hope of feeling human again.

Along with women, he decided he was swearing off Scotch.

Trace hadn’t believed Mac when the wizard had told him this morning that he’d actually asked Fiona for his condom back, and he was pretty sure he still didn’t believe him. He’d said and done enough stupid things in his life to realize that he might have made an ass of himself last night; but really, asking a woman to return a condom?
Really?