She finally pulled away then turned back to the mirror without comment and began working at her hair again. Her darkened mood was obvious from the vicious strokes she was making with the comb.
“Aye, I’m still going to do this, you know,” she eventually announced.
“Yeah,” I answered softly, placing my hand on her shoulder and giving it a light squeeze. “Yeah, I know you are.”
There are certain inalienable truths.
We’re born. We grow old. We die. And, somewhere within that span we live our lives. If we’re lucky, we find someone to live that life with. If we’re very lucky, we find that particular someone who makes us whole.
That was one of my personal truths.
In Felicity, I had found just exactly that person who made me whole. I suppose that would explain why I was so adamant about protecting her from those horrors I had already experienced-and would surely experience many more times before reaching that final truth.
At this particular moment, however, the biggest conflict in my mind was the fact that she was, for the most part, correct.
I was the one who talked to the dead.
It was me who had this preternatural connection with the Otherworld that brought unimaginable agonies to my life, both mental and physical. Felicity had only been dragged into the fray because she was desperately trying to protect me, even if it meant sacrificing herself. After repeatedly watching me go through ethereal visions so intense that bloody stigmata mimicking a victim’s wounds had appeared on my own body, she had seen more than enough. From her side of the fence, it had been a wholly different kind of torture, and when the tables were turned and I witnessed her going through the same things over Kimberly Forest, I gained a healthy respect for her feelings. I guess I couldn’t blame her. She was only doing exactly what I would do.
Still, I was just as stubborn as she, and when it came to being the protector, I felt it my place to assume that role. It was the very meaning behind the name Rowan, after all.
I plunged the tip of a shovel down into the soft earth and used my foot to shove it deeper still. Pulling back on the wooden handle, I levered a sizeable chunk of dirt upward and plopped it off to the side then repeated the process as I continued mulling over the events of the morning thus far.
We had reached an impasse. Felicity had it in her head that she was going to add herself to the list of freelance crime scene photographers used by the local police departments. As a matter of fact, at this very moment she was literally on her way to fill out the necessary paperwork.
The plain truth was that I was most likely worrying myself over nothing. Ben had told us that the local departments rarely used the freelancers. They were primarily there for the specialized photos just as Felicity had said. The only reason she’d had to go through the crime scene technician certification courses was to meet the requirements set forth by the city police department. What it really came down to was that the freelance program was really nothing more than a contingency plan born of an anal retentive bureaucracy.
So, as it stood, the likelihood of needing them was minimal, much less Felicity having her name drawn from the pool. Still, anyone can tell you that Murphy’s law will invoke itself without warning, and I just had a bad feeling that if her name was on the list, she was going to end up in the middle of something. What’s more, I feared that since she had been fully across the veil once, it would only take a single, highly charged experience to drag her under in an ethereal riptide. That was how it happened with me, so I had to figure it could happen with her-unless of course, I had any say in the matter.
And, that was the very reason why I was standing in our back yard on a chilly November morning, digging a hole in the rock garden.
It was cold enough to cause my breath to condense in rapidly dissipating clouds of steam yet still far enough above the freezing mark that the somewhat soggy ground was soft and easy to penetrate. My most laborious task so far had been moving the small boulder from the spot where I wanted to dig.
I had waited until I was certain Felicity was well on her way so that I would have ample time to complete my project. It was a task that was a long time coming. Something I’d started better than two years ago and now felt compelled to finish without delay.
I struck the point of the shovel into the hole with a repeated chopping motion, widening the small excavation to suit my purpose. I only stopped for a brief moment when my heart skipped a beat upon hearing our English setter and Australian cattle dog yelping at the gate. But, I immediately breathed a sigh of relief when I caught a glimpse of someone walking past the house on the sidewalk out front. For a frightening instant, I feared Felicity had returned too soon.
I finished squaring up the hole, which now looked to be better than a foot deep, then set the shovel aside. Kneeling next to it, I opened a small, metal toolbox I had set off to the side before starting the manual labor portion of this job. Inside the shallow container, pristine as when I had placed it there, was what would at first glance be considered a toy. It was a fashion doll to be exact, complete with long red hair and a smooth, ivory-tinted complexion. If ever there was a perfect representation of my ethnically stereotypical wife, this was it. The doll was wrapped securely in clear cellophane and trussed with a criss-crossed purple ribbon. It was a piece of SpellCraft commonly known as a binding. A powerful act of magick with, in this case, one purpose-to keep Felicity safe from harm. It was something I had worked immediately following my wife’s experience with Kimberly Forest’s kidnapping and eventual death.
Unfortunately, the day I had set about casting the spell, she had come home unexpectedly, and I’d had to hide the box before I could bury it. Soon after that, everything in our lives had calmed. It had been so quiet for the past two plus years that I had never seen the need to fully complete the spell. Still, I had kept the old metal box in the back of my desk’s file drawer all this time, hidden but not forgotten. I knew, as it sat now, in some sense it was working its intended magick. However, placing the poppet into the earth would bring the spell completely to fruition beyond any doubt-as long as Felicity didn’t know about it.
And, right now, something was telling me that it was imperative for the spell to be finished. I tried not to dismiss those “somethings” when they talked to me. Because, even though they usually got me in trouble, ignoring them just made the trouble that much worse.
I finally realized I was staring blankly at the doll and broke myself out of the shallow trance. I closed the lid and snapped the latch shut then nestled the box snugly at the bottom of the hole. I stood and with almost mechanical repetition, scooped the loose dirt in on top of it then tamped it down with the back of the shovel. After rolling the decorative boulder back into place-as well as muscling it around to make sure it looked close as possible to its original position-I scattered some of the fallen leaves around it in an attempt to hide any evidence that it had been disturbed.
I stood there staring at the rock for a long while, leaning on the shovel handle as I pondered the magnitude of what I had just done. A spell was supposed to be cast in perfect love and perfect trust. I could easily claim perfect love, but the issue of perfect trust was another story entirely. I was inflicting my will upon my wife without her knowledge, much less her blessing, and I knew for that I would eventually pay. Even so, if it kept her safe, the debt was one upon which I would gladly make good.
Finally, even though there was no one there to hear the words but me, I simply said, “Not on my watch, Felicity Caitlin O’Brien. Not on my watch.”
A few minutes later, I stowed the tools back in the shed then went inside to clean up and get down to work. I had a client with a system crash and two more with remote updates scheduled for installation this afternoon.