Oracle's Moon (36 page)

“Got it,” Ismat said. “Good hunting.”

It took Khalil longer to find Brandon Miller’s house than it had for him to find Therese’s. He called his Djinn associate with the facility for information gathering on the Internet, and he did something he rarely did any more—he bargained away a favor for information.

His contact got back to him quickly. Brandon didn’t live in the city. He owned a twenty-five-acre property about a half hour’s car drive south of the Louisville International Airport. As soon as Khalil had the details, he took off.

It took some effort to locate the property. While he searched, Khalil’s sense of unease deepened. Grace had said that Olivia thought the other witches from Saturday had known each other very well. If Olivia was correct, what did that mean? Why would they all wish to work on Grace’s property together?

Why would they wish for other witches to stay away while they did so?

Why did Brandon want to know if Isalynn LeFevre had contacted Grace?

Even though Brandon’s property wasn’t marked with so much as a mailbox, Khalil finally located it. A long gravel drive led back through a tangle of old-growth forest. The day had turned into a bright afternoon, and a fierce humid heat lay heavily across the land like a dense fog. He traveled through the forest carefully, all his senses wide open for sparks of Power that could be traps.

He found plenty of them. The land was layered with traps overlaid on traps. There were so many magical and physical traps, he stopped trying to gain information by slipping through the forest. Instead he soared over the land until he spotted a small cluster of buildings well away from the road. A large vegetable garden bordered the buildings, along with a chicken coop.

He drifted down as gently as a snowflake, spreading his presence so thin, almost nobody would have been able to sense him. Nobody except for his extraordinary Grace.

There were three older, rusted vehicles near the buildings, but none of them looked like they were in drivable condition. The main building was the house. He slipped close and listened, but he didn’t hear anyone stirring. It appeared Brandon was not at home. As he circled the house, he glanced in the windows at a cluttered interior. One room had several brightly colored signs stacked against the wall and piles of posters and buttons on a table, all with the American flag rippling in the background. Some signs had the slogan: THE HUMANIST PARTY. Others read: JAYDON GUTHRIE FOR HEAD OF THE WITCHES.

A couple of large dogs napped on a covered porch. He took care not to disturb them, in case someone was actually in the house where he could not see them. Some dogs and certain other animals were very sensitive to a Djinn’s presence.

He slipped away and scouted out the other buildings. One was an unused barn with a roof that was falling in. Another was a toolshed filled with a variety of implements and machines, and an aluminum ladder lying on the ground against one outside wall. Even that building had wards glowing on it. Brandon cared for his possessions. The only building that didn’t have wards or other sparks of Power was the rotting barn.

Khalil twisted in a circle, his attention sharpening. The barn really was the only building without sparks of Power glowing on it somewhere. Was there nothing in the building that Brandon wanted to protect?

Khalil really had no reason to go looking in the barn except for his terminal case of Djinn curiosity. He slid inside through a gap in the wooden wall. The interior was deeply shadowed. Cobwebs floated in the air. The bones of yet another vehicle sat inside. The metal lines of its body were heavy and rounded. It had no engine, wheels or seats. Thick dust coated the vehicle and the barn’s pitted floor, along with mice droppings.

A wooden ladder with broken rungs led to a loft. He floated up, intending to exit the barn through the hole in one corner of the roof.

That was when he discovered the loft wasn’t dusty or empty.

He whipped toward it. The repairs to the loft floor had not been visible from below. Fresh planks of wood covered the old floor in places. A new workbench was pushed against one wall made of wood planks as raw as the repairs to the floor. There was also a stool and battery-operated lantern, but that was as close as it came to any resemblance to Therese’s work area.

This workbench was littered with a variety of hand-tools, a blowtorch, wires and other bits of knobby, oddly shaped metal. Nothing felt magical. Khalil materialized in front of the bench. Frowning, he picked up a length of thin, flexible pipe and turned it over in his hands.

How did the human get into the loft in the first place? He saw no point of entry for an embodied creature unless it had wings. To one side of the loft, there was an opening in the wall, covered with a large wooden flap, but that looked as dilapidated and unused as most of the rest of the barn. The only other point of entry was a filth-streaked window.

He walked over to look closer and discovered fresh scratch marks on the sill. Looking out the smudged pane, he could see one end of the nearby toolshed. A corner of the aluminum ladder was just visible.

He returned to the bench. To say that he was not mechanically minded would probably be one of the biggest understatements anyone could make in a year.

Something had been constructed. Or perhaps something was going to be constructed. But what? He didn’t have a clue.

And why go to all this trouble to hide it?

W
hen Khalil disappeared, Grace wobbled her way to the upstairs bathroom. She felt like a drunken sailor.

Gods, what he had done to her.

Every private place on her body felt hypersensitive, and her inner thigh muscles quivered. She touched a dusky area on the side of her breast. It was a suck bruise. She thought of him working her everywhere, and intense arousal pulsed through her. It was followed immediately by a forceful wave of emotion. She covered her eyes.

I did not know I needed grace until I met you
, he had said.

I’m turning into some weird hybrid creature, she thought, like that crazy homicidal chick from
Species.
And Khalil Bane of My Existence told me that he needed me. Today’s forecast calls for free steaks and flying pigs.

Probably all it means is that Djinn males can get caught up in the moment just like human males do. I shouldn’t make too much of it. But I did learn that he likes sex. He likes it a whole lot. We haven’t enjoyed it in a leisurely fashion yet, but he did devote all of his attention to it.

And I already crave it and him.

She tried to lasso the part of her brain that had decided gibbering was a good thing to do before coffee on a Sunday morning. She didn’t have much luck, as she slid into the bathtub, washed her hair and soaped herself all over.

Everything
was so sensitive, her body well used and pleasured hard. Even in the middle of their frenzy, he had been so careful with her knee. It hadn’t been strained in the slightest. She still thought she’d better wear the brace for a while, until the rest of her got used to standing upright again.

All of her casual summer clothes were now downstairs. She wrapped herself in a towel and went down to the office and dressed in a tank top and another pair of soft, unstructured shorts. Then she turned on the air-conditioning unit that was fixed into one of the living room windows, and she walked through the house, closing all the open windows. One larger unit was downstairs, and two smaller units were upstairs. With all three running the big, old house should be comfortably cool for the first time that summer. Yee-haw.

As she turned away from closing the window over the kitchen sink, she felt the Djinn enter the kitchen.

Her hackles raised as Phaedra formed in the middle of the room.

Oh damn.

Even though Khalil insisted she call him, every reason she had for not calling him the first time Phaedra showed up was still valid. But she had promised.

He didn’t actually say
when
she should call him. That was splitting hairs, and frankly, it would be a toss-up whether his Djinn sensibilities could accept that reasoning or if he was going to be royally pissed.

Who was she kidding, he was going to be royally pissed.

But she was still going to protect him, and he would just have to forgive her. She readied the expulsion spell as she said, “Hello, Freaky Bitch.”

Phaedra stared at her, black eyes burning. “Who is it? Who is the ghost?”

Grace studied her, mouth level. “Okay,” she said. “But just so you know—if you ever come uninvited into my house again, or if you come anywhere near my kids without my permission, I pinky swear I will knock the living shit out of you.” Damn, it felt good to have an offensive spell, or at least one that worked on Freaky Bitch.

Phaedra looked as if she hated Grace.
“Just show me who it is.”

Grace touched the Power lightly and it flooded her. It really was like drowning, she thought, as the dark sea filled her to the brim and overflowed. She no longer tried to hold herself back from it, because that would be like trying to hold back from herself.

Come on
, she whispered into the sea.
Show yourself again.

The ghost heard and arrowed toward her. Grace held out a hand, and the ghost took it, eyes shining like the brightest of stars. Somehow she lifted the ghost out of the sea or pulled it into the present, for she was a doorway. She thought she would act as a channel, but instead, with a grateful look, the ghost stepped through her and into the kitchen.

Then Phaedra from a far distant past came face-to-face with the Phaedra she had become. The present Phaedra stared, her expression stricken.

The ghost of who she had been stared back wonderingly. Their forms were identical. They both had regal ivory features and bloodred hair, but they were far different from each other. The Phaedra from the past was transparent, but even so she had a brightness of spirit, a light in her face. She felt straight and strong and beautiful, and Grace knew this was who Phaedra had been before Lethe had imprisoned her, before she had become the dark.

In contrast, the present Phaedra’s razored edges and black center felt especially wrong. There was nothing wrong with the dark, Grace thought, as she considered the living sea inside of her. Darkness can be a beautiful thing, and the night had a velvet embrace that the day could never hope to match. But darkness was an entirely different thing from this brokenness.

The present Phaedra’s face contorted. She screamed, and the sound was so full of rage and pain, so full of shattered glass and catastrophic ruination, that it almost doubled Grace over.

She was horrified at what she had initiated. I’m so sorry, she wanted to say. But before she could find her way to the words, the ghost sprang, faster than thought, and wrapped around the present Phaedra.

Who screamed and screamed, beyond anything a human could produce. The strength of anguish behind it finally had Grace clapping her hands over her ears as tears streamed down her face. How could anybody survive with something like that inside of her? It was intolerable. No creature should reach a place of such pain that caused a scream like that.

Underneath the screaming, Grace began to hear something else.

Choose me. Choose me.
All but inaudible, heard only in the mind, the ghost said it over and over,
Choose me.

The screaming stopped. What it left behind was a pounding silence.

The ghost sank into Phaedra, whose body shuddered and rippled. Grace felt Phaedra flex convulsively. Then with a concussion that rattled the house, her presence
snapped
into a different alignment.

Oh, please let that be a good thing.

Grace wiped her eyes. When she could see again, Phaedra’s form was barely visible. The Djinn’s presence felt fragile and fundamentally changed. Grace said, “Tell me what I can do to help you.”

I must rest.
Then Phaedra said slowly,
Call on me when you have need, and I will come.
I owe you a favor.

Grace felt something settle into place as the Djinn’s presence faded. It was a tiny, barely perceptible thing.

A thread of connection.

She turned, braced her elbows on the counter and leaned there for a while until her racing heart slowed. She couldn’t wait to tell Khalil what happened. Either that, or she dreaded it. Maybe both.

Phaedra had felt so paper-thin and delicate before she disappeared, hardly capable of surviving.

But there was a connection.

Grace wanted to pack it in cotton and wrap it in a bow. She could stare at it all day, hovering and fretting, except she had things to do.

The Oracle’s moon was a nexus, as the veil between times and worlds thinned and possibilities converged. It could be unpredictable and dramatic as hell.

So that was done and over with, right? Because she was calling a moratorium on unpredictable drama for at least a couple of weeks. Well, as long as she was calling a moratorium, she might as well make it a decade. She would insist on no more unpredictable drama until both the kids hit eighteen, but Chloe was going to reach puberty well before then, and Grace just hoped she had benefits at that point because she thought she was going to need a therapist to get through those years.