Daddy Warlock (7 page)

“You don't have to apologize.” As they entered the parking structure, Tara waited for the car to unlock itself.

“I haven't seen my great-aunt Cynda in a long time.” Both front doors popped open. “She only lives a mile
from here and it occurred to me that we ought to stop and see her. That's why I picked the flowers. I hope you don't mind a side trip.”

Mentally, Tara checked off the time and the fact that her son would be in bed by now and probably asleep. “There's no hurry.”

“You'll get a kick out of her.” Chance slid behind the wheel and handed her the flowers. “Hold the heads down. They'll stay fresher that way.”

A few blocks away lay major thoroughfares, but they took residential streets. The cottagelike homes and neat lawns might have belonged in a small town.

Chance's audacity in plucking the flowers amused Tara. There'd been a childlike spontaneity to his actions, and besides, he'd probably paid for the planting himself.

She hoped they wouldn't be imposing on his greataunt. It was only eight o'clock, but perhaps the lady changed into her nightclothes early.

A few blocks later, they stopped in front of a threestory building made of beige brick. It might date to the 1930s or 1940s, Tara guessed.

They took the stairs to the top floor. “Aunt Cynda?” Chance knocked on the closest door. “It's me.”

“What took you so long?” rapped a firm voice from inside. “I sent you a message an hour ago.”

Tara wondered what his aunt meant about a message. Chance hadn't mentioned a phone call.

He opened the door and they stepped into a sprawling front room. She couldn't gauge its size because of the crush of furnishings.

A huge Chinese vase had been crammed next to a Regency love seat with no apparent thought to style or period. A Tiffany lamp cast its amber glow across a Danish modern shelf holding worn volumes with gold-embossed
titles. It was hard to make out the color of the carpet for the clutter of tables and curio cabinets.

From a winged armchair arose a fragile-looking woman with black eyes. A crisp pantsuit indicated that the disorder in her decorating did not extend to her wardrobe.

“Well?” said the woman, and Chance strode forward, bending to bestow a dry kiss on her cheek.

“I should have come a long time ago, Aunt Cynda,” he murmured. “You didn't have to summon me.”

“I had good reason!” The peppery old lady gave her great-nephew a glimmer of a smile. “My, you do keep getting handsomer. Thank goodness you haven't lost the touch. I was afraid you didn't get my message.”

“Message?” Tara asked.

“Mental telepathy!” Aunt Cynda turned her attention to the newcomer. “Don't tell me you're a nonbeliever!”

Tara didn't know how to respond, and Chance saved her the necessity by making introductions. As she thanked them for the flowers, his great-aunt continued to scrutinize Tara. Finally she said, “The girl doesn't know, does she?”

“Know what?” Tara asked.

“Aunt Cynda.” A warning note darkened Chance's voice.

“Ah, well.” After putting the snapdragons in a vase, the lady gestured them into two chairs that formed a semicircle with her own. In the center, on a small round table, sat a crystal ball. “I have a couple of items to discuss with you. Have you seen your father recently?”

“I dropped by at Christmas,” Chance said. “The house was full of guests, so we didn't talk much.”

“Well, he's up to something.” Cynda turned to Tara.
“My nephew was always the sly one. Now he's got Lois working for him.”

“I'm sorry,” she said, “but I don't know who these people are.”

“My father is Raymond Powers, owner of Screen Magic Technologies,” Chance explained. “Lois is Aunt Cynda's granddaughter. She's twenty-two, just graduated last year from the University of Southern California.”

His great-aunt went on, expressing her mistrust of her nephew and her dislike of having Lois work for him. “The girl doesn't know what ethics are. She's not a bad child, but she's confused. Like a lot of people, she wants to be a big success without reckoning the costs.”

With scarcely a pause to breathe, the woman continued. “Now her mother, Freya, she's mixed-up and she knows it. Everybody knows it. I should never have named her after the Norse goddess of love. She's been married four times and can't even remember which husband was Lois's father. We'd have to check the dates on the marriage licenses, if she still has them.”

“So you'd like me to find out what Lois is doing?” Chance asked.

“You don't have to do any snooping,” the woman muttered. “Just get in touch with her and keep your eyes open. And other faculties, the ones we're not supposed to discuss.” She gave Tara a meaningful look. “You don't believe in the hidden powers of the mind, do you, child? Well, you should. Everyone has such powers to a degree. You must read this.”

From a side table, Aunt Cynda lifted a leather-bound volume that was open partway. To her surprise, Tara saw that the pages had been written by hand, in black ink.

“I am, informally, the family historian,” explained their hostess, shutting the book. “Recently I began getting
strange images in my ball.” She indicated the crystal ball, and Tara wondered if this might be some kind of monitor hooked up to the Internet

“Regarding my father and Lois?” Chance asked.

“No, no!” His great-aunt waved impatiently. “About you, of course. You and this young lady, in fact”.

“Me?”

“Do you see any other young ladies present?” rasped the elderly woman. “Really, Chance, you should tell her about your family.” To Tara, she said, “I don't suppose you know anything about past lives?”

“Reincarnation?” From the moment she'd entered the room, Tara had felt off center, as if the floor weren't solid, but she'd attributed that to the dim light and claustrophobic decor. Now her chair seemed to be sinking into a marsh, and yet it hadn't moved.

“The two of you should not have met this time around,” Aunt Cynda went on. “Really, you've stirred up the most awful mess. You had a past life together, you see. I found it in this book. I could see your images laid over the page, both of you.”

“My image?” Tara wished she could make sense of the woman's ramblings. “But you didn't know what I looked like until a moment ago.”

“Not the details, perhaps, especially not that mop of hair—you should change the style, it's unbecoming—but your essence, indeed I did.” Aunt Cynda thrust the book into Chance's hands. “Read the part I marked. Take it home with you.”

Tara wasn't sure what to make of Chance's great-aunt. Topics poured out of the woman in a bewildering torrent, past lives and crystal balls all jumbled together. The woman's mind was like her apartment

Accepting the book, Chance thanked his great-aunt. “I promise to give it my closest attention.”

“Yes, well, I don't know how you're going to straighten this mess out!” Cynda said. “It all started when your father tried to stack the deck. Marrying his cousin just to concentrate the powers! Do read this and tell me what you think. And if you see Lois, tell me what you think of her, too. It's all this self-esteem nonsense they teach children in school. She thinks she's wonderful, but what's she wonderful at, tell me that!”

“I'll keep in touch,” Chance said. “Let me know if there's anything you need.”

“Nothing, nothing.” The woman turned her attention back to Tara. “Sorry if I've made a bad impression. Freya tells me I have a motor mouth, but at least I don't keep going through the revolving door in a Las Vegas wedding chapel. I wonder the woman doesn't pick men with the same first name so she won't have to worry which one she calls out in her sleep.”

“Good night, dear.” Chance brushed another kiss across her cheek.

“It's been a pleasure meeting you.” Tara meant it, even though she hadn't followed half of what had been said.

They emerged into the clear night. Above, stars laced the heavens, and Tara felt a surge of gratitude when her queasiness evaporated.

She turned to Chance, and felt her chest squeeze. Overlying his familiar sculpted face, she saw the image of another man, dark and exotic and tender and alarmed, and painfully familiar.

The dismay in Tara's expression alerted Chance that Aunt Cynda's comments must have disturbed her. As the car door opened automatically, he helped her into the seat. “Take a deep breath, then tell me what's wrong.”

She blinked, her face close to his. “I thought I saw someone—like a double image—laid over you. I thought I knew him, but…” She shook her head.

Had she been remembering him as the Magician, or actually seen his image from a shared past life? Chance believed that people were, in a way, like computers. Under certain circumstances, they could plug into a universal consciousness, a sort of metaphysical Internet that could show them the past or future.

Tara wasn't ready to go this far this fast. She didn't even believe her son could zap a spoon in midair.

“It might have been the incense that made you dizzy,” he said. “Did you notice it?”

Tara pressed her lips together before speaking. “No, I didn't”.

Neither had Chance, but he needed an excuse that would calm her. “It can be disorienting.”

“I'm sure I'll be fine after a night's sleep.” Sinking into her seat, she stared out the windshield as if fascinated
by the stars. They
were
brighter than usual tonight, Chance mused as he went around and started the engine.

He drove slowly, taking side roads to avoid the blare of lights and noise on the thoroughfares. Tara needed peace to restore her equilibrium.

“Why are we poking along?” complained the car in its edgy soprano. “There's no report of a traffic jam. There's no construction zones on my map.”

He flipped a switch and the voice stopped. Once again, Chance wondered what masochistic impulse had made him create a computer personality that nagged. It must have seemed funny at the time.

At least the diversion served to rouse Tara. “I've been thinking about your aunt,” she said. “How wonderful to have a family historian. How far back do your records go?”

“Orally, for close to a thousand years, but they've only been written down for about a century.” Chance turned onto a major cross street. There didn't seem to be any further point in dawdling, now that Tara had regained her composure. “Since we came to this country.”

“From where?”

“Eastern Europe,” he said. “Possibly Romania. Bringing a full load of family legends, most of which I suspect are wildly exaggerated.”

She straightened in her seat. “Family legends? That sounds exciting. I hardly know anything about my ancestors.”

“Do you know where they came from?”

“Ireland and Scotland, on my father's side,” Tara said. “My mother died when I was twelve, but she did mention being part French. And there was some Native American but I don't even know what tribe.”

Streetlights and illuminated signs cast fleeting shadows
across her face. The contributions of many ancient peoples showed in her pronounced cheekbones and olive eyes.

Had he met her before, in another body and another time? Did he feel such a strong link to her because of a previous relationship, or was that wishful thinking?

Whatever the cause, he had felt from the moment they met that their souls were intertwined. In a subliminal way, he had been part of Tara's life, and she of his, since birth.

Sneaking sidelong glances as he drove, he tried to puzzle out what it was about the lady that drew him so strongly. Certainly she was attractive, but he'd met other women more conventionally beautiful. There was something else, a primal attraction that defied explanation.

Maybe Aunt Cynda was right and they'd shared a past life together. Or was he trying to elevate a normal emotional response into something supernatural?

When they arrived home, the house lay quiet. Floodlights bathed the yard as soon as they drove in.

“Rajeev and Vareena and the boy are home,” the house advised when Chance logged in today's password. “What do you think of Windsor Castle?”

“As a name for you? Too fancy.”

“I suppose Mount Vernon is out, too,” grumbled the house.

“Something warmer,” Tara suggested. “More welcoming.”

“Pooh Corner?” said the house. “Oh, spare me.”

They entered the living room. Normally, Chance would have headed for his bedroom, which lay to the right, and allowed Tara to turn left, toward hers.

Tonight, however, he felt an overwhelming urge to protect her. Although Rajeev and Vareena's quarters lay
along the way to Tara's, he felt an old-fashioned need to escort her.

She didn't object when he set his aunt's book on a coffee table and walked with her into the hall. Only a faint electrical whir underlay the stillness of the house.

At the end of the hall, they entered Tara's den. It was the front room of a second master suite, a twin to Chance's, that had been mostly unused until her arrival.

A light flicked on automatically, casting a golden circle across the couch. Scattered on the cushions were a couple of video-game magazines, obviously belonging to Harry.

Inside the smaller of the two bedrooms, a tiny figure curled beneath a quilt on the bed. Harry had fallen asleep while reading a book about tornadoes, which his mother gently moved aside.

Through the window, moonlight played across the small figure, revealing his tousled hair and the thick lashes curved against his soft cheek. Tenderness rushed through Chance and he yearned to scoop the boy into his arms.

In the past few days, he had watched Harry segue through his moods, from boisterous to cranky, merry to exhausted, bold to apprehensive. Now he saw another side—the vulnerability of babyhood.

Chance's heart twisted as he pictured Tara, alone, determinedly meeting the boy's needs and standing guard over him all these years. He wished he could have been there. But at least he was here now.

Tara signaled, and they tiptoed out She, too, looked sleepy and defenseless, and he felt a touch of guilt for keeping her out It was after ten o'clock, not terribly late, but she had put in a long day.

Without thinking, he slipped one arm around her waist, and she leaned against him. The movement felt so natural
that they might have done the same thing many times before.

Drawing her close, he brushed his lips across her hair. An unbecoming mop, his aunt had called it, but he liked the waiflike air it gave her.

Tara's slender, slightly angular body came to the perfect height to nestle against his. Her face met the curve of his shoulder and her hip fit within the shelter of his thigh.

Unbidden, his heart rate speeded up. He heard her breath come more quickly, too.

Was she as keenly aware of him as he was of her? He could feel the points of her breasts harden, and the heat surge through her veins. In a moment her lips would part and her head tilt back—yes, she was doing it now—and then his mouth came down on hers.

His tongue probed, at first tentatively, then with more command. They melted into each other, the air silvering around them. As he felt himself tightening with desire, Chance experienced her awakening hunger, as well.

It was as if their minds as well as their bodies had become entangled. They were entering each other the way they had on that night long ago.

Chance needed to know more about what lay between them before he risked making love to Tara again. Merging with her at this point might even cause her harm, and he couldn't bear that

Reluctantly he pulled back. She blinked up at him, confused.

“I'm sorry,” he murmured. “I was taking advantage of your exhaustion.”

She didn't protest as he steered her toward the larger bedroom, then let her go in alone. She turned to watch him with hooded eyes, and Chance experienced a longing
so intense, he could barely restrain himself from sweeping her onto the bed. Instead, he spun and marched out of the suite.

T
ARARA STOOD
in the bedroom, her heart thundering. What had just happened between her and Chance?

Embarrassment heated her cheeks. She couldn't even remember which of them had initiated the embrace, but certainly she should have called a halt

They were employer and employee, with the awkward additional circumstance that they lived in the same house. Both of them should know better than to risk any physical involvement.

Blood was still racing through her arteries, and she could feel the tautness in her breasts. She wanted him so much that, despite her better judgment, she half wished he had acted on his instinct to sweep her onto the bed.

Yet how did she know what his instincts were? Tara blinked, forcing herself to examine her thoughts. Oddly, she had the conviction that she had entered his mind while they were embracing.

She had felt his masculine need and seen her feminine warmth through his eyes. Could this be some lingering effect of Aunt Cynda's incense? What was in that stuff, anyway?

The most disturbing part was that Tara could have sworn she'd had this experience before. Once, she had entered a man's mind and seen herself from his point of view. But when could that have been?

For one flicker of an instant, she thought she had it A magician—a mask—a cape. Then the image vanished into that part of the brain reserved for dreams.

She was just tired. That had to be the explanation. She
wasn't even sure whether she and Chance had embraced just now or whether she had imagined it.

T
HE BOOK CAUGHT
Chance's eye as he passed through the living room on the way to his suite. He collected it with the intention of reading it tomorrow.

But when he reached his rooms, he couldn't find a place to put it. It might slide off the small table and suffer damage; on the couch, he might sit on it by accident, and the shelves were already crammed with too many books and CDs.

Without making a conscious decision, he walked into the courtyard. Once he'd gone that far, it made sense to climb the staircase to the tower.

The round room smelled stale from disuse. He ordered the computer to unlock a window, and open it to the night.

Cool air blew in, flavored with springtime. Unlike the rest of the house, this chamber didn't automatically light itself when he entered, and the darkness lay upon him like a balm.

He had intended to store the volume in a hidden bookcase, but sleep seemed far away. As long as he was here, Chance might as well read the passage his aunt had marked.

“Desk!” he said. Partitions slid aside in the wall and a desk, chair and reading lamp rotated out.

Settling onto the carved chair, he told the computer to turn on the lamp, laid the heavy volume on the desk and opened it to the place marked by a worn velvet ribbon attached to the binding.

The handwritten words swam before Chance's eyes, and he wondered if it were too late at night for reading. He closed his eyelids to rest them, and immediately a
picture of Tara formed. Her face was soft, near sleep, yet he could feel desire pulsating beneath the surface.

She had begun to yield to him tonight exactly the way she had seven years ago, almost as if hypnotized. Was he unintentionally exerting power over her?

He must find out why they were so susceptible to each other, and what sort of things Cynda believed they were stirring up. Leaning forward, he forced the handwriting into focus.

”…Rudolf fathered Otemar and Magda, who was the mother of Luther, who was wed with Ilona of Moldavia. Ilona bore Luther four dead infants and one who lived but whose name is lost, only that he was the father of Valdemar and grandfather of Halden, the bastard, possessor of the far vision….”

Chance decided to check the previous page to find out when and precisely where these ancestors had lived When he tried, however, he found it impossible because the book gave such dates as “in the fourth year of the reign of Prince Stefan” and such locations as “near the battleground of Seldonia.”

With a sigh, he returned to the marked pages to find out more about Halden the illegitimate, who was born with the gift of seeing the future. But it was not, he soon saw, the story of Halden himself but of his parents that filled these pages.

Extracting the facts from the archaic language, Chance learned that Valdemar had fallen in love with a lady named Ardath, a fair woman who came from far away. But she was married to a cruel man, the Count of Fredaria, who had kidnapped her from her homeland.

While the count was away at war, Ardath and Valdemar ran off and hid themselves in a forest. After she bore
a s on' they determined to kill the count upon his return so they could marry.

“They did mingle their spirits, and went together to the count's castle to sicken him so that he would die.” That was vague enough that it could mean almost anything, Chance grumped to himself. Mingle their spirits how? Sicken him with what? And what had they done, walked up to the front door and announced themselves?

“The count fell to the floor of his dining chamber, weakened but not killed, and a candle was overturned. A flame sprang up, consuming the lovers. The count ordered their son slain, but he was taken to a cottage by his kin and raised in secret.”

Through the spare words, Chance felt the pain and terror of that moment. Before he could grasp what was happening, he lost all awareness of the tower, as if he had suddenly become someone else, or himself in another existence.

He stood in a long, dank room. Icy droplets seeped from the stone walls and foul-smelling mold crept along the woven hangings. Near the head of a great table, a candelabra cast elongated shadows across a coarse man with a ragged beard.

Reaching for his silver goblet, the count quaffed wine that glowed ruby red. He did not see Chance and Tara lingering in the shadows, for their minds were joined in suppressing his thoughts. He did not taste the tang of the poison as he sipped it.

Chance realized they had been controlling the count's mind, drawing strength from a love so forceful it linked his soul to Tara's. Driven by desperation, the two of them had formed a psychic link that gave them formidable power.