Sorcerer's Legacy (2 page)

She shook herself out of her stupor when he cocked an eyebrow.

I’m staring.
Again.

Suppressing the desire to fan her heated face, she nodded.
I’m an idiot. A blithering idiot.

After easily hoisting her bag over his shoulder, he waited wordlessly for her to join the line.

Why didn’t I smile and introduce myself? That would have been polite. He’s just being polite, and I probably won’t see him during the week we’re here. And I am talking to myself instead of conversing with another human being.

Only not so courteous as to introduce himself. Or ask to help her. He’d offered more as a foregone conclusion. Dressed in a brown tweed blazer over russet tailored slacks, he exuded a certain upper class confidence she lacked.

Perhaps unearthing her past would help her discover who she really was and illuminate a path for the future. Give her a foundation to build her own self-esteem.

The crowd of them, thirteen she counted, meandered off the boat in a crooked line to follow the winding path to Wiccan Haus.

Like cattle.

Nervous laughter bubbled out and she quickly slammed her hand over her mouth to stifle it.

“Hmm,” said the handsome man with the deep voice. “Share, if you wouldn’t mind. I could use some humor.”

She didn’t dare look at him. She’d just imagine his words coming out as moos. “I was thinking we resembled cattle being taken to market.”

He snorted and chuckled. “I suppose we do.”

Embarrassed, she refrained from further comment and hurried behind her fellow bovines. She always said what she thought and, when she said nothing, it was because her thoughts wouldn’t be appreciated or appropriate. Her imagination worked overtime and her mouth continually got her in trouble.

Even now, the Tudor house before her rose from the ground three stories like Jack’s beanstalk. The huge edifice seemed out of place on this mysterious island in the middle of the mist. In her whimsical mind’s eye, a shimmering circle of witches dropped a gold seed on the ground, repeated a spell three times, and the imposing edifice rose fully built from the soil. Silliness, her grandmother would have said—had said—on many occasions at her wild imagination.

She’d learned to keep her thoughts inside. Books were her friends and, at times, her salvation. Adventure, love, and danger waited in every story and, when she needed one, a happy ending.

She hoped to find her happy ending here in this magical place.

“Chairman.”

Sage Rowan’s mellifluous voice alerted him to her presence. He sighed. Normally his own empathic abilities, while self-dampened, allowed him a sort of proximity sensor. Right now, his uncontrolled abilities left him vulnerable.

The youngest Rowan sibling’s serene beauty disguised a steely inner strength. Small in stature, slim and waiflike, Sage’s sweet nature radiated despite the family’s tragic history. He’d been the council member to push for granting the island to Cyrus Rowan in appreciation and compensation for his service to the Syndicate.

The gift would never repay the murder of three of his six siblings for that service.

Cyrus had needed a secure location to avoid the assassins looking to cash in on the bounty rebels had posted for his head. This magically protected fortress-cum-spa provided it.

Cyrus and Rekkus, their head of security, prowled—an accurate description for the way the two huge men moved—toward the front desk. Both men, tall, dark, and deadly, strode with the lethal grace of stalking panthers. In Rekkus’s case, a tiger.

He acknowledged them with a slight tilt of the head as Sage glided to him and clasped his hand in hers. Her perpetual clean scent of the herbs she nurtured engulfed him. Her other brother, Cemil, who matched her in pale coloring and calm temperament, stood relaxed at her side.

She’s like an angel.

A knowing smile played at Cemil’s lips.

I must be transparent.

The island’s only absent major player was Sarka. He’d consulted with the eldest Rowan—a powerful alchemist—when dealing with cases relating to her specific craft and endured the lash of her acid tongue. She’d virtually made him beg to grant his last-minute request. Fine with him if she never appeared for the next week.

Myron, the Romani with a light-blue streak through her dark brown hair, worked the front desk, flipping her ever-present cards. Every time he’d visited, she’d been behind that desk. Did the woman never sleep? She arched a perfect black brow and tilted her head toward the card.

The queen of hearts
.
A trustworthy lover or mate. Can’t be for me.

He glanced at Myron, wearing a “Trixie” nametag, who rewarded him with a bland look that revealed nothing.

Ian arched an eyebrow at Sage. “Sage—”

“Of course, Chairman. Myron,” she said, her voice like a chime on a breeze, “the chairman’s key, please.”

The youngest Rowan oozed sweetness. He almost wished he were young enough to pursue her. Almost. It had been a very long time since he’d had much of a sex drive. She would be a diverting companion, not a lover. His latest clumsy attempt at acquiring an appropriate mate had proved him too old for the game. He should have known just because a woman fit the part, such as his son’s teacher who already loved his child, didn’t mean she wanted a marriage of convenience.

His gaze flicked to the redhead from the boat with the enchanting eyes and charming blush. She stood with a staff member by the third elevator. The one reserved for humans. He shoved away the surprisingly strong urge to follow her.

A holiday tryst wouldn’t solve issues. Even if she were the first to stir his libido—like a tornado—he didn’t need the distraction from this trip’s purpose. He’d come here for one reason only. Regain his center and life. Get his control back. He dragged his attention back to the Rowans.

“Thank you. And please, don’t call me Chairman this week. I’m just Ian Branson.”

Cemil, eyebrow raised, seemed to understand his request to separate from his position for his time here. “Absolutely, Mr. Branson.”

He snorted softly as he took the offered key from “Trixie.” Grabbing his suitcase before anyone could accompany him to his room, he turned on his heel to make his escape. The sooner he started his relaxation and rehabilitation, the better.

Ignoring the glares of the humans herded by spa personnel into a loose line by the left elevator, he pushed the button for the middle lift. Each elevator only accessed one floor, keeping the paras and humans separate, with the right shaft reserved for Rowan siblings only.

He had the second elevator to himself. The portal for the paranormals did not open until the humans settled in for herb-induced naps. Sage prepared potpourri and candles specifically for each guest’s needs and placed them in their rooms prior to arrival. He could wander the grounds undisturbed or relax in his room.

Alone.

His heart ached for Allan. He missed his little boy terribly. Coming home to his six-year-old son after a frustrating day dealing with the hidden world of the paranormal kept him sane. When Allan’s arms wrapped around his neck and his head rested on his shoulder he understood why he had to serve the paranormal world. Protecting innocent lives, para and human, was his life’s work. Centuries ago his ancestor Myrddin walked the razor’s edge between the human and magical worlds. Ian must bear the same mantle of responsibility as his birthright and his curse. Until he had his steely control back, he was no good to anyone.

He fit the old-fashioned key into the lock and let himself into his room. No magnetic locks or electronic security at Wiccan Haus. Comfortable and spacious, the accommodations suited his needs. Naturally one of the resort’s few cabins would have been preferable, but unavailable given his last-minute reservation.

He kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the fluffy down duvet. All he needed right now was a soft bed and solitude.

The stress and strain of the last months dragged his eyelids shut. Sage’s herbs or his age catching up with him? Undeniable weariness pulled at his soul and instead of fighting the steady slumberous slide into darkness, for once he released the iron grip on his control and slept.

***

“You must safeguard our legacy.”

Ian waded through waist-deep fog to the boulder where Myrddin stood. “I am doing my best, Grandfather.”

The old man in long black robes shrugged his shoulder and jerked his hand to the side in dismissal. “You do nothing.” Myrddin stroked his long white beard, spearing him with an intense stare. “You must find—”

Loud pounding reverberated, jarring him awake. Jerked from the dream, he rose and ran a hand impatiently through his hair as he strode to the door. Yanking it open, he faced a stone-faced Rekkus.

“Mr. Branson, it is time for dinner.” From the curl of the big man’s lip, apparently he didn’t relish the responsibility of retrieving him.

Ian swallowed the frustration at the loss of Myrddin’s message in the dream so he could force a courteous response. “Thank you, Rekkus. I appreciate you taking the time to personally come to my door.”

Again, the man’s lip curled as he imagined it did in his weretiger form.

“We go door-to-door waking the humans. I didn’t imagine we’d have to wake you, too.” Perhaps an insinuation he was old or weak like a human?

Ian choked back his outrage and said through gritted teeth, “Thank you all the same.” He shut the door without another word.

Questions raced through his head. What did Myrddin expect him to do? He protected the family legacy—both humans and paras—as the great wizard’s descendants had always done. What more could he do?

After shaving as quickly as he dared with a safety razor, he changed his clothes and headed down to dinner. He hoped to avoid dining with anyone this first evening. Without absolute control, he’d never make it through a meal at a tableful of vamps.

***

“Excuse me.” Becca spoke softly, hating to bother the woman at the front desk.

The pretty gypsy woman looked up from the cards she shuffled. She laid down five cards in a row before replying.

“Yes, Becca. How may I help you?”

Becca blinked, surprised. Was the woman psychic? She chuckled, not bold enough to ask her burning questions. Yet. “Would you please tell me how to get to the library?”

With an enigmatic smile that rivaled the Mona Lisa’s, the woman pointed. “Opposite the dining room; follow the hallway to the end. You should be in the dining room. Guests are expected to take evening meals there, you know.”

“Oh, yes. I stepped out to powder my nose and thought I’d scope out the library while I was at it. I’m a librarian.” Becca squinted at her nametag then raised her eyebrow. At check-in she had been Trixie. Now her nametag read “Bryce.”

“Oh. Sorry, Becca. I’m Myron.” The woman smiled at Becca.

Becca grinned and relaxed. “Nice to meet you, Myron. And thanks.”

More at ease, she followed Myron’s directions.

On the way, she peeked into the dining room to see if the handsome gentleman from the ferry had arrived for dinner yet. At a table on the side opposite where she had been seated was the man who’d inspired her fanciful heart to wonder at the possibilities. With him sat a perfect but very pale couple.

She cringed at the utter boredom on his face.

He glanced up, catching her staring again.

She quickly darted away, determined to find the library before he started to think she was stalking him, before the staff herded her back to the dining room.

Down a pale-yellow hallway, a set of imposing double wood doors guarded a room beyond. Her pulse fluttered. Such grand doors must protect a wondrous collection.

Like entering a sacred place, she slowly pushed one of the doors to slip inside. Libraries were her temples. Knowledge equaled power—the power to inform, inspire, persuade. Books had the ability to transport her to another place and time. Characters were as real as the people who walked the solid earth around her. In awe, she gazed at the vaulted ceilings, covered in gilded planking. She pushed the door closed, wanting to savor the moment in privacy.

The scent of rich leather and aging parchment drew her toward the books on the shelves. Wonder mingled with awe as she craned her neck to see the upper bookshelves, giggling with anticipation at climbing to the top on the built-in sliding ladder.

Almost giddy with excitement at the treasure of knowledge locked in the books, she traced her fingers over the bindings.

Where to start? This library’s size made a quick search impossible. There were only a few minutes before the yoga class began. She quickly dismissed the classics and tomes of philosophy. Many she’d read. Wonderful first editions abounded but didn’t assist her.

“Help me, Mother,” she whispered and rubbed the cameo at her neck gently.

Her fingers tingled as she touched one book and she leaned closer to read the title.
Black Book of Carmarthen
. The cracked leather binding on the manuscript showed repeated use. This volume had been someone’s well-loved possession at some point.

“Go ahead, take a look.”

She jerked and squealed as she spun on her heel.

A tall, dark man leaned in the open doorway. With a formidable presence on his expressionless face and his squinting, assessing gaze, he intimidated her. He pushed off the doorframe and strolled to her. As he walked, he slowly stripped off the glove from his right hand. His gaze kept her frozen in place. What would he do? Should she run? Would anyone hear her if she screamed?

The stranger stopped a few feet from her and his mouth lifted at one corner in a slight lopsided smile.

She released the breath she wasn’t aware she’d been holding.

“I hope I didn’t scare you.” He offered his right hand. “I’m Cyrus Rowan. One of the owners.”

She clasped his hand, shaking it with false confidence and smiling back at him. “I’m Becca Jones. Librarian.”

He held her hand for a moment longer, staring at her. He cocked his head as if she were a puzzle then released her.