Page 34 of Charmed

"Tell me the counter-spell worked." He scrubbed a hand down his face and looked at Ceara. "Please tell me at least that was successful." He was scared to death whatever his uncle had done would be permanent. Color him batshit, but he wanted the old Fiona back more than he wanted oxygen.

"Yes, it did." Ceara bit her lip and hedged. "Her powers aren't at full capacity, though. It's like something's blocking her. But the spell has been reversed."

Kaida placed her napkin on the table. "It might be psychosomatic." She shrugged at the inquisitive expressions. "Let's face it. Fiona is a badass. She took a blow out of nowhere and it screwed with her sense of order. For the first time in her life, she's doubting herself."

Mercy. That was worse than any conclusion he could conjure. "Suggestions?" Because they were down to just under three weeks to figure stuff out.

"I think you should go over there and not leave her alone like you've been doing." Kaida smiled at him as if to cease the erratic shift her words had caused to his heartbeat. "I also think you should start breathing before you pass out."

"Why me?"

"She'll fight you."

He dug his thumb and forefinger into his eye sockets. "The ocean has fish in it and the sky's blue. What's your point?"

"She'll fight if you're around. Hound her." She flipped a lock of blonde hair over her shoulder and laced her fingers with Brady's. "If anyone can snap her out of her funk, it's you."

Ceara nodded. "Kaida's right. I don't know what else to do. I’ve tried everything but smacking her."

Tristan suddenly stared at his plate like the shrimp stir-fry had the answers to all life's questions. He cleared his throat. "You've done everything you can, mo chroí."

Riley narrowed his eyes and slid his gaze to Brady. Catching on, his younger brother nodded in understanding. This was the second time they'd witnessed Tristan inadvertently use that term with Ceara. Riley didn't speak Gaelic, so he had no clue what the phrase meant.

Brady pulled out his cell and held it low in his lap so the table hid the screen. His thumbs went to work. After a pause, his brows disappeared in his hairline. He turned the phone and covertly showed Riley.

Google Translate filled the screen. Mo chroí = My heart.

Huh. Okay. Tristan had some explaining to do.

He'd mentioned once that he and Ceara had been friendly as teens. Uncle Greg had found out and forced Tristan to betray her in some way. To protect her, he'd done just that. But no one, including Ceara, knew the particulars, nor had Brady or Riley pushed for details. Maybe it was time they did.

Ceara ducked her head to get Riley's attention across the table, seemingly unaffected by Tristan’s phrase. "Will you go over there? I don't care what you do, but piss her off if you have to."

"Yeah," Riley grated. "It's what I do best." He slammed the rest of his wine and rose. "Just remember this was your idea if she wipes out the island."

Minutes later, he was behind the wheel in Fiona's circular driveway, staring at the yellow Victorian. Dusk hovered in pink and gold hues across the horizon while he attempted to formulate a plan.

It had been two of the longest damn days since he'd seen her last, but he couldn't fathom things were as dire as Ceara claimed. Fiona had her magick restored and it was only a matter of time before she was back to normal. Right?

Climbing out, he scanned the yard to err on the side of caution and climbed the porch when he found nothing out of sorts. He knocked once and entered the house. Lamps were on, but silence greeted him.

"Fi?" He strode through the formal living room, past a hallway that led to a nook, and stopped dead in his tracks just inside the den.

From the middle cushion of a well-worn couch, she glanced at him. She wore gray sweats he'd bet his soul she'd never be caught dead in and a white tank top. Her hair was a knotted cluster of strands held on top of her head by chopsticks and she bore no cosmetics. In her lap was a bowl of popcorn the size of a small village. Beside her, a bag of gummy bears spilled onto the blue sofa fabric.

His gut bottomed out, and he almost grabbed the wall to keep upright.

Dark circles shadowed crescents under her eyes. Defeat sagged her shoulders. Her turquoise depths held no trace of fire or taunting or mischief. It was as if someone had cut the power supply to everything that made her tick, leaving a shell in its place. His throat restricted until breathing became a chore.

"What are you doing here?"

Jesus. The listless tone of her voice nearly had him weeping like a baby.

"Uh, I came to check on you." He cleared the rasp from his voice and walked deeper into the room. He flicked a glance at the TV. "You've been unusually quiet and hermit-like."

One of her brows quirked. It was something, at least. "So, you thought you'd pop over to see what I'm not doing and not up to in order to gain insight to my nothingness?"

He rolled that response around, but it seemed even in a depressed state she had mad skills at confusion techniques. "Yes?" He rubbed the back of his neck. "What are you watching?"

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