Page 67 of Wicche Hunt

“How do you keep track of which books are in back?” This collection was incredible.

He gave a barely perceptible shrug. “I remember.”

I paused, worried I’d overstepped. “Is it okay that I’m looking around?”

He thought about it. “Yes. I normally don’t like people in my space, but you don’t seem to be setting off any alarms in my head.”

There was a small galley kitchen that gleamed.

“Go ahead,” he encouraged.

The bathroom was perfectly appointed with a decent-sized shower. At the far end of the RV, in what was probably intended to be a bedroom, was a study. Bookshelves continued, wrapping around the room. There was a sofa in the same green leather and a dark wood desk.

Turning in a circle, I grinned. “It’s beautiful and perfect.” There were benches under the windows on either side of the room. I sat and pointed at the couch. “Is that where you sleep?”

He nodded.

“I do that too. I’m a horrible sleeper.”

He made a sound of agreement in the back of his throat.

“I understand why you don’t do guest rooms. This is much better.” I’d never thought of myself as an RV person, but being able to travel with your home was amazing.

“I tried to visit your grandmother once, but the sigils on her door and floor were overwhelming.” He scratched his head, walked around the desk, and sat.

“The ward was?”

“Hmm? Oh, no. The sigils themselves. They were just enough off to make my neck itch. I need uniformity and pattern. The sizes were different. Some were straight lines and right angles. Others were loopy. I could have kept my back to the entry, but the pergola on the patio is settling. The left side is now about six degrees lower than the right. I tried to look out the window at the ocean but my eyes were drawn to the edge of the pergola visible on the left-hand side of her picture window.”

I nodded. “I’ve noticed that too.”

He opened a drawer, touched his perfectly organized pens and uniformly sharp pencils, and then closed it again. “The difference is that you can notice and let go. I cannot. And yes, I’m aware that this”—he gestured all around him—“is just making my world smaller and smaller.” His eyes found mine. “I fear I’ll soon be condemned to a single room for life because I can’t handle the world.”

Recognizing the naked truth of that statement, I shared my own truth. “I’m afraid the visions and nightmares will drive me insane, just like all the other Cassandras. I feel like I’m already on borrowed time. Most of us don’t live long enough to make it to double digits.”

He suddenly smiled, and it lit up his face, making him look twenty years younger. “Quite a pair, aren’t we?

Grinning back, I said, “We are.” I glanced around again. “Do you have anything of your son’s?”

“Yes.” The bookcases in this room had solid door cabinets at the bottom. He went to the one closest to his desk, unlocked it, and pulled out a pristine baby giraffe. He placed it on the bench beside me and then went back to his desk.

“Okay. Was your wife a wicche as well?”

He nodded. “She’s a Booth.”

They were another old, respected line of wicches. They didn’t pack the power of a Corey, but neither did they have our propensity to produce black wicches and sorcerers. Which reminded me…

“Do you know why Gran—when she first mentioned you—told me you weren’t a Corey?”

Confusion gave way to affront. He shook his head. “My sister believes in loyalty and duty above all else. I tried to live up to the expectations, but it was too much. I walked away and apparently in her mind that meant I was walking away from the family.” He stared at his desk. “Her responsibilities haven’t been easy, but neither does she make allowances for another’s”—he shrugged—“capacities.”

True. I loved her but true.

“Sometimes, when I’m reading family, it can get muddled,” I said. “Hopefully, the Booth side is strong enough for me to see him as an adult.” I slipped off a glove and picked up the toy.

“What is the matter with you? You said you were happy about the baby. I have to do this all myself and I’m exhausted! Do you hear me? I can’t think straight. He’s colicky and it’s always me around the clock I’m on duty for feeding and changing and rocking. I need help!”

The poor woman is dressed in a stained t-shirt and sweats, her hair tied up, dark circles under her eyes, red blotches on her cheeks, as she paces with a crying baby and his giraffe.

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