Historical truth had never interfered overmuch with their quests.
It had taken a long list of rules and an Act of Dad, the day after their fifth birthday, to gain permission to visit the beach alone.
For the next three months, he and Evan had practically lived there, two small boys dizzy with freedom and a world that stretched further than their eyes could see.
And then Marcus had woken one night and found himself standing on the beach, screaming Evan’s name and hurling magic at a force he couldn’t see.
His brother’s body had still been back in his bed, tucked in with a life-sized bear and an illicit baseball. His soul-gone. Vanished into the mists.
At first, coming back to the beach had been an act of fractured, anguished hope. Marcus had stared over the waters, willing Evan back out of the evil green fog.
He’d never come. Time and tears had eventually eroded the hope, but Marcus still made regular pilgrimages to the beach. Some days, he got no further than the rock promontory before pain chased him back to safer ground.
Not today.
Marcus stepped off the rock point, making his way down the narrow, winding path to the sand. He cursed as pebbles slid under his feet. Damn old-man shoes.
He’d come with intentions, and they didn’t involve landing in an ignominious pile. A few more steps and he reached the relatively easier footing of sand and seaweed. Small birds feasting on beach detritus skittered out of the way as he advanced, then closed ranks behind him again. Survival stopped for no man.
He headed straight for the midpoint of the beach. There was a nexus there-a point of balance between land and sea, east and west. The place his magic would be strongest.
Power surged as he arrived, water and air responding to his call. He was a witch at the peak of his powers-and it was time to use them.
He turned to the sea, arms stretched to the sky.
“I call on water, toss and turn,
I call on air, meld and burn,
Build a storm, loud and free,
As I will, so mote it be.”
He kept it short-the storm was already well underway. With deft hands, he twisted currents of air, bending them double and tossing them into frothing water. Lightning flashed, long crackling columns running flat out to sea. East.
The lightning was a new trick. Marcus smiled grimly. He’d learned a thing or two from Sierra Brighton.
For the first time in forty-three years, he wanted the mists to hear him. Faster now, he slammed energies together, fueling a fog of magic and rage. Evan! Crackling magic amplified his call. EVAN!
He didn’t listen for an answer. There wouldn’t be one, and Marcus Buchanan had long since stopped begging his brother to talk.
Today, he only wanted him to hear. Hands fisted, Marcus faced the mists-with a message. It was short, sweet, and he flung it with every ounce of power he possessed.
You can’t have her.
His magic died, the spluttering halt of a witch out of gas.
The witch was done. The man had barely begun. He had wards. A warming spell. A castle, a team. And a reason to fight.
He wasn’t living scared anymore.
Chapter 18
Sophie looked out the window of the inn, trying to identify the source of the commotion-and saw Marcus standing in the street, surrounded by clamoring children, Morgan strapped in her familiar position on his chest.
His gaudy, purple-paisley chest. Perfectly matched to the gaudy purple baby carrier.
She didn’t say a word. She couldn’t. Giggling helplessly, she motioned Elorie and Aunt Moira to the window.
“Oh. Oh, dear.” Moira managed a few words around convulsive laughter. “Did wee Lizzie help him shop, then?”
That seemed like an unfair commentary on their youngest healer’s fashion sense.
Elorie, the artist of the group, just looked pained. “Maybe he’s color blind.”
“Perhaps-” Moira’s laughter hiccupped to a stop. “Perhaps it’s a hopeful sign. Coming out of his shell, so to speak.”
Sophie grinned. “It’s a pretty purple. Kind of matches Morgan’s eyes.”
Aaron rolled into the room, a tray of berries and scones in his hands. “What’s up?”
“Uncle Marcus got new shirts,” said his wife, with a more-or-less straight face.
“Great.” Aaron laid his tray on the table. “He said Morgan had puked on all his old ones, so I sent him to that website you shop on for all of my stuff.”
“I think-” Elorie spluttered to a stop, gasping for air. “I think he took a wrong turn into the retro Hawaiian beachwear section.”
Aaron stared a moment at his wife, dissolved onto the couch in a pile of giggles. And then walked over to look out the window. Sophie watched as he manfully swallowed. Several times. “Well, it’s not black.”
“Indeed it’s not,” said Moira staunchly, lips quirking. “I think I’ll just go put on one of my sunniest skirts. We could use a little more color around here.”
Lizzie burst in the door of the Inn. “Sophie! Gran! I need something purple to wear. Uncle Marcus said it’s Purple People Eater Day and anyone who isn’t wearing purple might end up getting eaten by the one-eyed monster.” She didn’t look at all upset by this possibility. “He’s gonna teach us the song and everything.”
Marcus knew the Purple People Eater song? Sophie looked over at Aaron. “This is still Fisher’s Cove, right?”
He just shrugged his shoulders, eyes twinkling. “No idea, but I’ll go bake more scones. Pretty sure we’re about to get overrun by witches.”
Absolutely. Marcus gone crazy was bound to be a tourist attraction. Sophie grinned and grabbed Lizzie’s hand. “Come on. I’m pretty sure I have purple glitter glue tucked away in one of my healer kits.” It fixed any number of minor ailments, but she was willing to sacrifice for a good cause.
Lizzie danced a quick jig. “I bet Gran will let us pick some of her purple flowers, too.”
Also likely.
They were about to have a party. Instigated by Marcus Buchanan, a shopping disaster, and a bright-eyed girl with purple eyes.
Sophie shook her head. Wonders would never cease.
Moira slipped into her garden, a pair of shears in her hand, and discovered Sophie already there. “Standing guard, are you?”
“I promised Lizzie the last of the purple flowers.” She looked behind her ruefully. “Good thing Ginia’s bringing some backup-I think we’re down to a couple of fairly sad specimens.”
Young Ginia’s garden was bold, creative, and festooned with purple. “I was just hoping for a wee gardenia for my hair.”
Sophie grinned. “How do you feel about white or yellow?”
Moira looked down at her bright floral dress and purple hand-knit scarf. She looked a bit like a garden explosion already. “Either of those ought to do nicely.” She smiled, mentally running through her list. “And a bit of mint for the lemonade, and let’s see if we have any beets we can speed up a little, shall we? I’ve a mind to make some purple soup.”
“Aaron’s making blueberry squish muffins.” Sophie leaned into the herb patch, snipping competently. “And last I heard, Sean and Kevin were trying to turn some poor, unsuspecting corn-on-the-cob purple.”
She’d eaten stranger things. “Uncle Billy’s bringing us in a nice load of lobster.” The spring ones always tasted the nicest, and if the pinging of her phone was any indication, there was quite the crowd coming.
Once upon a time, she’d owned nary a device that pinged.
Sophie held out a basket brimful with purple mint. “Enough?”
“Barring a full-scale invasion.” Moira took the basket, enjoying the lively aroma of mint and flower cuttings. “Has my nephew gone into hiding yet?” The last she’d heard, Lizzie had been trying to convince him to run purple streamers down from the church steeple.