American-accented voice as clear and guileless as the rest of her. “I’m Leticia McDaniel.”
Then she’d grinned, almost like a child being presented with an unexpected treat, and he’d found it impossible not to smile in return. Making certain all his shields were in place, he’d clasped her hand lightly, made a simple bow. “Cormac,” he’d said and promptly returned his hand to his side.
“Yes. I know,” she’d replied with a little laugh before surprising him again, this time with a graceful curtsy. “It is an honor. Truly.”
He recalled now that he’d nearly said the same. Thankfully, he’d stopped his tongue before it could do anything so foolish. Instead, because it amused him and he couldn’t see any harm, he’d shifted into his raven form, taking to the air right before her eyes. Her cry of delight had stayed with him long after he’d flown into the countryside. Long after Leticia would have discovered he’d beaten her to the illuminated manuscript she’d been sent to retrieve. Her laughter and his triumph. He hadn’t been sure which had pleased him more.
Still wasn’t, though it didn’t warrant much thought.
Their chance meeting had seemed of little import at the time, but in the scheme of things had become akin to the handshake before a chess match—one whose games were to be played over many decades and, more often than not, at a substantial distance. Since Lancashire, they’d not met face to face. Not until, of course, four days ago. He felt a pang of something best not considered and set down the photos.
Several phones rang in tandem, one on the desk and, more faintly, several on the lower floors. He set his hand on the receiver, listened to people scramble throughout the house, their excited voices asking what to do. From the sound of it, they were gathering in the front entryway where the tinny sound of a recorded greeting played. No digital messaging service for Leticia, apparently. Her voice went on, uninterrupted long after the footsteps quieted, and Cormac entertained himself by imagining the Brigantium’s people staring anxiously at some technologically ancient machine. Maybe even one with a cassette tape—something so outdated and uncommon that the youngest might think it magical. A beep sounded. When he heard the caller begin to speak, he picked up.
“It’s me, Thia,” the woman said, and his interest was pricked. Her voice was tight. Nervous. And, somehow—the register, perhaps, or the accent—reminiscent of Leticia.
“I had some…questions,” the woman was saying, clearly rattled. “I don’t understand what you…what it is I should do. About the—about things.”
Beyond her verbal struggle, her distress was palpable, like a cold mist settling on his skin. She was hiding something, that much was obvious, and all of his instincts were screaming. Despite the risk of alerting the people below, he reached out with his senses—something that had been much easier to do before the age of fiber optics and computers, when phone lines had provided an actual, physical bridge.
In the span of a heartbeat, surprising him by the speed of connection, he got a fuzzy, muted sense of the woman. Alone in a small, cramped space. Surrounded by…magic. Different types, different strengths. Objects, he realized, making up a much larger area around her. People moved among them, separated from her but close. Music played softly in the background, accompanied by the sharp rat-a-tat of…a printer? No. A cash register.
A store.
Phone cradled on his shoulder, he spread out the photos, searched for the one he’d seen with—
There. A young woman, tall and slim with untamed, russet hair grinned up at him in a way very like the Leticia in Lancashire—so like, he’d mistaken her on his first look-through. Behind her was a shop window filled with exactly the sort of things he’d sensed. The name “Eclectica” was neatly painted on the glass. Leticia’s store. He turned the image over. Blank. She’d revealed her first name—Thia—but Thia what? She was clearly related to Leticia, but how closely? Just how involved might she be?
It was all he could do to keep from speaking, from doing more than his tentative sensory exploration, as the need to make contact built, threatening to overcome reason. He forced himself to pull back entirely.
There was a drawn-out silence, one so weighted that he grew concerned. Was she sensitive, aware of the connection made, then roughly broken? Could she use the Sight?
“Please be all right,” she begged, her voice suddenly hushed and thick with emotion. Cormac felt the sting of something which, if he hadn’t known better, he might’ve mistaken for a conscience. Leticia, as he knew and Thia clearly did not, was as far from all right as one could get.
He could tell her she was wasting her time and energy on worrying. He could save her the pain of that—and only give greater pain. He was being ridiculous. The Brigantium could tell her as easily as he. More, really, since they were in the house legally. He’d make himself a target with the first syllable he uttered. What did he care about her, whether she knew or—
“I love you,” she said, soft in his ear.
He jerked, shocked, and the phone dropped from his shoulder. He bobbled the catch, shoved it awkwardly onto its cradle, ending the call. Only when it was too late did he curse himself for a fool.
Those words had not been meant for him.
In the quiet, he took a slow, steadying breath. Thia’s photo stared up at him from the desk. A narrow, oval face with delicate features. On the pretty side, but not inherently beautiful. It was her expression which gave that impression. Hazel eyes, bright and inviting. A Cupid’s-bow mouth curved into a familiar grin. Leticia’s grin. Yet Leticia had never gotten to him like that. Never left him feeling so unsteady.
He smothered a derisive laugh. She hadn’t even known he’d been on the line.
Or had she? Had she been playing some sort of game, trying to…to what?
Footsteps sounded downstairs—people spreading out to investigate the call’s abrupt end, if not the noise of the receiver hitting the cradle. He needed to leave. Immediately.
He’d ruined his chance to explore the rest of the house tonight, but thanks to the charmed glass ball he’d stashed in the attic, he could return whenever he wished. After he dealt with the woman.
The woman who said not enough and far too much.
The Brigantium might already know her identity, might be able to trace her location through phone records. He needed to get to her first.
Thia.
Wood creaked at the end of the hall. Photo tucked in his jacket pocket, he sent himself from the house.
Granite Springs, Oregon
Thia blinked, looked at the phone in her hand as if it held the answer to what had just happened. Beneath skin gone strangely hot, her pulse raced.
If someone had been on the line—and who would it have been if not Lettie—then he or she would have said something.
No one had been listening, no one had hung up on her. When her message had gone on for too long, the machine had cut off, that’s all. She sat back in the chair, took a deep breath.
And just because Lettie didn’t answer, there was no reason to jump to conclusions. Lettie was fine. She was just out, that’s all.
Thia checked the time, did a quick calculation. It would be after midnight in London, but she had no idea what sort of hours her great-aunt kept there. Lettie could be out with friends—or on the road, visiting local markets. Despite what the note said, there was nothing to worry about.
She managed to believe that for all of six rings, after which it became clear Lettie wasn’t going to pick up a call to her cell phone, either.