“Ah, damn it, Ellen, like things aren’t difficult enough around here,” Oliver said, removing his arm, and after reassuring himself I wouldn’t flop over, he stood. “Come on, I’ll put on some coffee.”
He walked over to Ellen and grasped her arm. She shook it off. “I don’t want coffee.”
“Sorry, sis, but right now I don’t give a donkey’s damn what you want.” He got a stronger grip on her and spun her around. He escorted her from the room, and Iris went to the door and stared after them. I heard Ellen protesting as Oliver ushered her down the stairs.
“I’d like to clean myself up now,” I said, then realized I didn’t want to use my regular bath in the hall, knowing very soon that hall would be swarming with witches. Iris’s bathroom was en suite, and that meant I could have two closed doors between me and the rest of the world. The doors wouldn’t provide much of a barrier against intrusion and offered none against magic, but in this moment the psychological separation they promised seemed precious.
“Aunt Iris?” I asked, and she turned to me.
“Yes?”
“May I use your shower?”
She nodded. “Of course, sweetheart.”
TWELVE
I stood under the hot water for what seemed like forever, watching the pink of Teague’s sticky blood rinse down the drain. Even after the water ran clear, and I knew my skin was clean, I washed myself again, wondering if I could ever forget the sensation of his life jetting out on me.
I stepped from the shower and dried my body, taking a moment to place my hand on my stomach and send loving, calming thoughts to my little one. I wrapped the bath sheet around myself, and borrowed Iris’s blow dryer. I liked the way the whine of its fan helped to drown out the sound of the argument that had broken out downstairs. The second I turned it off, the voices rose.
I was grateful to see Iris had gone to my room and found clothes for me to wear. A teal-and-white sundress with a matching cyan sweater. My modest maternity underwear. I dressed to the accompaniment of shouts and tearful recriminations. The shouts came from Oliver, the tears from his sisters. I heard the door, and another angry voice joined in. This one belonged to Adam. That Sam’s voice didn’t rise to Iris’s defense led me to surmise she’d sent Sam away while we handled the witch stuff.
Iris either hadn’t remembered to provide me with socks or shoes or had begun to take the barefoot and pregnant idea a tad too much to heart. My comfortable trainers had been covered in Teague’s blood. I’d never wear them again. I considered trying to stuff my feet into a pair of Iris’s diminutive shoes, but I would probably only end up with blisters. I steeled my nerves and went down the hall barefoot to my own room.
Teague’s body had been moved. I could only surmise the families had moved quickly to claim his remains, although they delegated the rest of the cleanup to us. We would have to burn the rug. My favorite quilt. The clothes Maisie and I had been wearing. Everything that had been splattered with Teague’s blood. That was the only way to know for sure the magic that still resided in his blood couldn’t be used to power spells that ought not be cast. Even though the room would be thoroughly and magically scoured, I couldn’t bear the thought of sleeping here. Eventually, we might return to the room I’d grown up in, but for tonight at least, I’d ask to move my and Peter’s essentials to Uncle Oliver’s deserted room.
I heard a movement in the hall and turned to find Peter standing in the doorway. His normally ruddy complexion turned ashen, and he grasped the doorframe to steady himself. “I thought you’d be safe in this house,” he said, shaking his head as he took the scene in. I didn’t have to ask how he knew to come. I knew our child had called him, just as he had when Ryder had attacked at Magh Meall and when Emily had trapped me at the Tillandsia house. Peter released the frame and took a step into the room, his eyes fixed on the bloodstained rug. He drew nearer. “I’m glad she killed him,” Peter annou
nced. “I am.”
I couldn’t bear to hear his words. I began to turn away, but his calloused hand caught my arm. His mismatched blue and green eyes burned with an anger that was seasoned by fear. “It saved me the trouble.”
I couldn’t look at Peter. It broke my heart to hear his words. “Don’t talk that way.” I grasped his hand in mine, pulling it down to my protruding stomach. “You know he hears you. He understands more than you think. I don’t want him thinking his father is a killer. That isn’t you.”
He leaned forward and placed a kiss near where our hands rested. “I know he hears me.” Peter looked up at me, his sweet smile returning to his lips. “He talks to me too, you know. Not in words. In feelings. In pictures.” I knew Colin could call his father in moments of crisis, but I would have never guessed the two were so linked.
Peter’s smiled faded. “He’s felt fear. Real fear, and I will not have that. I want him to know I would do anything to protect him. To protect both of you. If killing is what it takes to keep you safe—”
“Please don’t say it. Please don’t.”
He stopped talking, but his expression, the set of his honest eyes, the way his right eyebrow arched a bit higher than its mate, the tilt of his head, these things finished his thought wordlessly. “He tried to hurt you and the baby.” His words forced me to be honest with myself. It wasn’t that Teague didn’t need killing. I just didn’t want blood on my husband’s hands, or my sister’s for that matter.
“Let’s not talk about it anymore,” I said. “Let’s go join the others and see where things stand.” I pulled away and went to the closet. An old pair of canvas sneakers sat on the top shelf. I went up on my toes, but Peter reached over me and pulled them down for me. I skirted the bloodstains on the floor and rug and fished a pair of socks from a drawer. I slid the chair away from my smashed makeup mirror, far away, and finished dressing. Peter remained within an arm’s length of me the entire time, then shepherded me downstairs with his arm around my waist. He held on to me like he was afraid someone might snatch me away, and I let him.
“I thought she’d be safe here.” The sound of Adam’s frustration met us in the hall. “I thought y’all had magic-proofed this place after you found out Jilo had enjoyed her run of the house.” It surprised me to hear their voices were coming from the library rather than the kitchen, our regular meeting place during times of crisis.
“We’ve tried,” I heard Iris say, “many times over the years. General, all-encompassing protection spells are weaker than ones a witch might create to deal with a particular threat. A strong will combined with the right amount of magic can blow right past them. The ones aimed at fending off particular types of attacks are stronger, sometimes much stronger, but only good for dealing with that particular threat. Besides, even perfectly adequate charms age and weaken, and magic is always evolving. What worked last year might prove worthless today.”
“Ginny always kept our protections in place,” Ellen said, her words still a little slurred. “I’m not making excuses”—a fire rose in her tone, probably in response to Adam’s unspoken challenge—“but the truth is, none of us have her skill.”
“None of us have Ginny’s ability to focus,” Oliver said. “The old biddy had security well under control.”
“What my family is not saying,” I whispered to Peter, “is the responsibility for ensuring our security really lies with me, but I haven’t a clue how to handle it. Those who could teach me how, the other anchors, treat me like a pariah. They don’t want me to know the best ways to protect myself and my family . . .”
Peter put his finger to my lips. “To hell with them all.” He lowered his hand and kissed me. “Tell me, where would you feel safe?”
At this point I wasn’t sure I could feel safe anywhere, but I knew what he wanted me to say. “Take me to Magh Meall,” I said. “I want to see your parents.”