Magick Rising (52 page)

“Who is it?” she called.

“Duncan Gray, Ian Gray’s brother.”

Beth sighed heavily. She didn’t really want to do this, especially when

Ian had been so vague about what he wanted her to help his brother with,

but the doctor had been so helpful . . .

She unlocked the door and opened it. “You’re early . . .” The words

trailed away in her astonishment.

His large, dark presence filled her doorway, dead leaves swirling around

his feet in a small furious gust of wind. Tall and broad, built like a

lumberjack, he was dressed like one, too, in boots, jeans, and a faded flannel

shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up strong forearms. Damn, he was big.

Bigger even than his brother.

“Sorry,” he said. “Ian told me to come tomorrow, but if we’re going to

help each other, I thought it was best to come as soon as possible.”

She hesitated, searching his face. Shaggy dark hair surrounded a

strong-hewn face covered with a stubbled beard, though it was his eyes that

caught her attention. They were an unusual silver gray, mesmerizing in the

directness of his gaze, yet oddly feral. Even more strange, she found him

compelling at a deep level that defied explanation.

That surprised her. It had been a very long time since she felt drawn

toward anyone, let alone a complete stranger. But how could she possibly

help him when she couldn’t even help herself?

DUNCAN STARED curiously down at the slight woman. “Are you going

to let me in or not?”

He knew he intimidated people, but she wasn’t the frail, vulnerable

creature he’d been led to expect. True, she looked the part, with her slender

figure and delicate features framed by a straight fall of long blond hair, but

the challenge and self-confidence in her gaze showed she was no pushover.

After staring at him measuringly for a few moments, she said, “All

right,” and stepped aside. “Come in, and we’ll talk about it.”

He entered the warmth and hominess of her cabin, feeling a pang of

longing. Lord, what he wouldn’t give to come home to a place like this every

night. A cheery fire cast flickering shadows on the walls, illuminating a rustic

living room decorated with log furniture covered in plump cushions.

Scattered rugs lay on the wooden floor, and homemade quilts and crafts

covered the walls. A stray whiff of apple cider left a lingering flavor on his

tongue, and the air was fragrant with a smorgasbord of too many intriguing

scents to identify.

He inhaled appreciatively. It smelled like home.

She waved him to a chair that looked as if it had been rough-hewn from

local pines, and he seated himself, trying to look harmless. Suddenly, he

wanted to stay for a while. A long while.

She sat across from him and leaned forward to give him a penetrating

look. “Your brother wasn’t really clear on why you’re here. Why did he send

you to me?”

“He said you were skilled in alternate healing methods, that you had

some remarkable success with homeopathic remedies that might . . . work

for me.”

“I see,” she said, and he could almost smell the tension in her. “What

else did he say about me?”

What did she fear? Well, he would set her mind at ease. “That you are

Wiccan,” he admitted in a carefully nonjudgmental tone. “Shouldn’t he have

told me that?” It didn’t bother him, and he couldn’t imagine why it would

bother her. From the pagan symbols that subtly decorated her rustic home,

the six-pointed star woven out of aspen twigs on the wall, and the

old-fashioned round broom propped in the corner, it didn’t look as if she

kept her beliefs hidden.

Her tension didn’t dissipate after his statement, and he realized she was

waiting for more.

“That’s all,” he said truthfully. “He told me that doctor-patient

confidentiality didn’t allow him to reveal any more.”

She visibly relaxed. “You’re in need of healing, my kind of healing,

then?”

He considered the question carefully, wondering how much to reveal.

“Yes, but I doubt you can help me. There’s no known cure for my

condition.” Though that hadn’t stopped him from searching ceaselessly for

one.

Her expression turned doubtful. “You look healthy enough.”

“Yes, that’s one of the hallmarks of the disease.” It was a mean, selfish

malady, keeping him free of other ailments so it could rampage through his

body at will, unimpeded by any obstructions.

And it did so with vicious force, three nights a month, leaving him

helpless as he lost control of his body and his mind to become a savage

killer.

“Then . . . what disease do you have?” she asked in a tentative tone, as if

she were trying not to offend him.

Smart woman. Mustn’t do anything to provoke the big bad wolf.

He grimaced, hesitating. Even if he told her his secret, she wouldn’t

believe him. A yearning ache swept through him once more. This place and

this woman were all too comfortable, all too alluring. But he couldn’t let his

desire for normality seduce him into making a mistake. Hedging, he asked,

“What’s your story?”

“Mine?” Her blue eyes widened, startled.

“Yes. If Ian thought we could help each other, there must be something

he thought I could do for you.”

Her mouth twisted in a rueful smile. “There’s nothing anyone can do to

help me. I—I have Huntington’s Disease.”

She peered at him as though she expected him to jump up and run out

the door.

“I’m sorry, I’m not familiar with it.”

“It’s a hereditary genetic disorder—the child of someone with

Huntington’s has a fifty-fifty chance of developing symptoms if one of their

parents has the disease. My mother did.”

“Did?” Past tense?

She nodded, grief slipping across her face. “She died a couple of years

ago. Each generation, the symptoms come earlier and earlier. I started

developing them just before she passed.” She shook her head, and her

mouth twisted wryly. “It attacks brain cells, destroys them. Think of it as a

horrible combination of Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s.” She paused, then

added softly, “It’s incurable.”

The wolf flared up inside him, wanting to protect this frail woman

against the danger that threatened her. But there was nothing he could do.

She stiffened, and her eyes widened. Had she sensed the wolf rising

within him?

He froze, not wanting to frighten her, not wanting her to see the beast

in his eyes. When he got his emotions under control, he said, “So, you need

someone to take care of you?” Was that what Ian had in mind? How the hell

was he supposed to do that? Especially when he wasn’t even sure he’d be

alive in a month or two.

She shook her head. “No, when it gets too difficult to manage, I’ll go to

a nursing home. Until then, I plan to stay in my house as long as possible.”

She sounded fierce and obviously loved her home. He couldn’t blame

her. “Then maybe you need some work done on your house? I’m in

construction.” It was what allowed him to continue traveling, to keep

moving from place to place as he searched for a cure.

“That’s probably it,” she said with relief. “I could use some help with

repairs around here.” She gave him a rueful smile. “But I don’t know how I

can help
you
unless you tell me what your problem is.”

She’d shared her secret—he guessed he could share his, especially since

Ian thought she could be trusted. After all, he had nothing to lose, and a

Wiccan would be more likely to be open-minded.

He sat slowly back in the chair and wondered how to phrase this so she

didn’t think he was insane. “Okay, but I’d like you to promise you won’t tell

anyone what I’m about to reveal.”

“Of course.”

He paused for a moment, afraid to speak his secret aloud. It had been

so long since he had told anyone, so long since he had given a name to his

private terror.

She must have sensed his reluctance, for she said in an encouraging

tone, “It’s all right. You can tell me. What is your disease?”

The only way to do it was to blurt it right out, get it over with. Tensing,

he said, “Lycanthropy.”

Startled, she repeated, “Lycan—You mean . . . ?”

He nodded. “I’m a werewolf.”

BETH COULDN’T BELIEVE her ears. “A werewolf,” she repeated.

Ignoring the prickling at the back of her neck, she said, “Look, if this is your

idea of a joke—”

“No, it’s not,” he said wearily. Then, more intensely, he added,

“Turning into a wolf three nights a month is no joke.”

If Ian thought Beth could help his brother, he was sadly mistaken. She

knew nothing of working with the mentally ill. “I don’t think I can help

you,” she said carefully.

He raised an eyebrow and said in a flat tone, “You don’t believe me.”

She kept silent, not knowing what to say that wouldn’t spook him into

doing something strange. Or hazardous to her health.

“I’m as sane as you. Call my brother, and he’ll tell you.”

“I don’t have his home telephone number.”

“I do.” He queued up a number on his cell and offered it to her. “Here’s

his number, call him.”

What would that prove? It would just make him more upset when his

brother confirmed that he was a mental patient. “I really—”

“Call him,” Duncan ordered. “I’m not leaving until you do.”

Well, if it would get rid of him, she was willing to do what it took. “Cells

don’t work here,” she explained and went to the other side of the room to

pick up the land line.

She dialed the number, and a man answered. “Dr. Ian?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Recognizing his voice, Beth relaxed a little. But what should she say

now? “Your brother showed up tonight, early.”

“I’m sorry—”

“That’s okay. Uh . . . he says he’s a werewolf.”

He sighed. “I wondered if he’d tell you.”

“You mean it’s true?” It couldn’t be.

“Look, I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true. I didn’t believe it either

until I ran my own tests and saw the changes in his blood. He has a

condition, a disease—I don’t know what to call it. Lycanthropy is a very rare

disorder that transforms its victims into wolves. It goes against everything I

learned in medical school, and I didn’t want to believe it, but I had to.

Duncan has it.”

The practical Dr. Ian Gray was actually telling her his brother was some

mythical beast. She didn’t know what to do, what to think. She sank slowly

into a chair. “You . . . you believe this?”

“I know it. I’ve seen it happen. I’ve seen him . . . change.” There was a

lot of pain in that simple statement. “Nothing I can do, nothing I’ve found,

can cure him.” He paused then added, “I hoped you might be able to help.”

“How?” If the doctor had failed, how could she possibly help his

brother with his little problem?

Good grief, what was she thinking? She couldn’t help. Werewolves

didn’t exist.

“You’ve been successful in combining homeopathy with medical

treatment—” Ian began.

“Not with something like
this
.” It was so absurd, so ridiculous. What

could she possibly do?

“Maybe not, but I thought you could teach him meditation, help him

learn to control the wolf as it rises throughout the month. And . . . maybe

talk to one of your pantheon to get some help?”

Beth grimaced. “They haven’t been able to help
me.
What makes you

think they’ll agree to help him?”

“Please, can’t you try? He might be able to help you, too, if he’s

willing.”

“Yes, he said he’d do some repairs around the house.”

“No, that’s not what I meant. He might be able to help with your

disease.”

Beth sighed. Dr. Ian would probably say anything to convince her to

help his brother. She couldn’t blame him, but she also couldn’t expect a

strong, virile man like Duncan to take care of her once she was no longer

able to care for herself. “That’s not necessary,” she told him. Dr. Ian had

done so much for her, she owed him the courtesy of trying. “I’ll see what I

can do.”

Ian heaved an audible sigh. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” she lied. She hung up the phone and turned to face the

man who thought he was a werewolf.

“Do you believe me now?” Duncan asked.

Beth hesitated for a moment, considering what to say. “I believe that

you and your brother believe it.” But Ian was so level-headed, so straitlaced,

she would have never harbored any suspicion that he was a wacko.

“What would make you believe me?” Duncan asked, radiating intensity.

“Well, you know what they say. Seeing is believing.” If he couldn’t

prove it, he’d have to leave.

He grimaced. “Trust me, you don’t want to see
this
. Besides, I can’t

change at will. Don’t want to.”

“Then how—”

“It happens involuntarily, three nights a month. And my next change