Chapter 14
Wilder really didn’t like the Guardian, the arrogant fucker.
“Illegitimate daughter,” he bit out. “One only needs to look at them to see the truth.”
Draven’s lips twitched as if fighting a smile, giving the impression he was a master of the nettling game in addition to poker. He drew the coverlet back to assist Wilder.
After he laid Abbie down and attempted to stand, he halted as she refused to release his neck. Suspended in a bent position, he struggled to remove his boot, and then gasped when they disappeared altogether. Had he been expecting the magical help, he wouldn’t have been surprised.
“She wasn’t releasin’ you any time soon, mon ami,” Draven said dryly.
“Yeah. Thanks,” he replied grudgingly. To Abbie, he said, “If you scoot to your right a little, I’ll lie beside you, sweetheart.”
Her hesitation spoke of her battle between trusting a complete stranger and self-preservation. Thankfully, her instincts were good, and trust won out. She shifted, making space with a tentative smile. He beamed his approval, understanding exactly how difficult her fragile faith was.
The second he was settled with his back against the bed frame, she rolled into him and wrapped an arm around his waist. Within seconds, she was asleep, and the strain of her meltdown vanished from her face.
“She knows you,” Roxanne remarked upon returning.
“Oui,” Draven agreed. “Otherwise, she’d have seared the flesh from your bones.”
“I’d like to think so.” Wilder stroked her hair, his heart bleeding for her suffering. “I wish I’d have known she was alive. It kills me to see her this way.”
Castor paused in the entryway.
“I’m always late for the party,” he quipped. His gaze locked on Abbie’s damaged visage. “Someone care to explain what the hell happened to my daughter?”
“Several things,” Jonas answered grimly. He crossed to the bed and stared down at her, and the fondness he displayed wasn’t that of a man in love. It hinted at brotherly affection. “We ran across her two years ago. A Diné Guide had found her and tried to save her from a small band of outlaws.”
“But la dame fell from the cliff they were climbin’ to escape,” Draven added. A muscle ticked in his jaw, proving the memory continued to rattle him.
Jonas nodded. “We arrived in time to prevent further harm, but the damage to her memory had already been done. My Uncle Nate and Aunt Evie helped—”
“Nate?” Castor asked sharply. “Nathanial and Evie Thorne are close by?”
Suspicion replaced the sheriff’s mild-mannered expression. “I’ll be asking why you want to know.”
“Asking or demanding?” Wilder snorted softly.
Tensions were lingering at the upper end of the scale—his among them—and needed to be defused.
When the group shifted its attention to him, he shrugged.
“I didn’t hear a question, and based on your scowl, Jonas, it felt like more of a demand. But if I’m wrong, I apologize.”
“I actually know Nate.” Castor crossed to the dresser, poured water into the basin, and scrubbed his hands. “He fostered my best friend.”
Snagging a small towel from the rack, Jonas crossed to him. “And that friend would be?”
They locked gazes, probably suspicious of deeper motives.
Castor broke first. “Damian Dethridge.”
Other than a twitch of his brow, Jonas didn’t reveal his thoughts.
“I’m assuming you know the Aether if your uncle is Nate,” Castor added, accepting the towel to dry his freshly washed hands. “And if you do, why hasn’t he helped Abbie?”
“What time did you say you’re from, Traveler?”
With a sudden flash of white teeth, he slapped the sheriff on the back. “I didn’t.”
“In our time, we follow rules: the Authority, the Witches’ Council. We may disagree with them, but if the magical community did whatever they wanted, chaos would reign.”
“The Authority.” Castor’s reply was grim AF, and his grimace hinted at a bad taste in his mouth. His gaze flicked to Draven, and his expression tightened further. “They aren’t known for their fair dealings in my century.”
“So your century is different from ours?”
“About a hundred and forty-eight years, if Shadow gave us the correct date,” he replied with a sweeping glance around.
“Why didn’t you come for Mary—” Jonas began.
“Abigail.”
“All right. Why didn’t you come for Abigail sooner?”
“Want to take this one, boyo?” Castor tossed to Wilder.
“He wasn’t aware he was a father before I told him. And I didn’t know Abbie was alive until a ghostly presence told me she saw her in the ether.”
Draven and Jonas seemed to share a silent communication, perhaps attempting to determine if he was mad or serious.
“Ghostly presence?” Roxanne asked from her perch on the windowsill.
Having forgotten she was present, Wilder jerked, triggering a sleepy protest from Abbie.
“Yes. It’s too long a story, but suffice it to say, my brother has a connection to the spirit world.”
“Similar to Stands-in-Shadow,” Jonas said, nodding as if Wilder’s explanation cleared things up.
“Your Native American friend talks to the dead?” Castor asked.
“Yes, but he’d prefer that be kept quiet. Only his tribe honors his gifts. White men tend to frown on anything they can’t explain.”
“Okay, back to the subject at hand—Abbie,” Wilder reminded them. “What’s been done to heal her mind?”
“Très peu,” Draven replied. “We met résistance from the patient.”
For a brief instant, humor crinkled Castor’s eyes. “Your French roots are more obvious here, Masters. And there you made everyone believe you’re Cajun. I’ll be sure to give you hell about it when I return home.”
The Guardian frowned. “I am both and neither. We’re friends?”
“Colleagues fighting for the same cause, but it’s not a stretch to call us friends.”
“And Thorne?”
“Which one?” Castor quipped. “They’re coming out of the woodwork.”
Wilder shook his head. The Traveler was adroit at conversational maneuvers, and watching him was a masterclass on how to avoid answering probing questions.
They all knew Draven was referring to Jonas, but rather than reveal the truth—he was long since dead in their time—Castor chose to keep the conversation light.
Switching gears, Wilder asked, “The outlaws, where are they now?”
“Two are dead, and one flipped sides,” Jonas replied.
“Which one did this to my daughter?” Castor’s expression became icy in a blink, leaving little doubt he’d put the man six feet under.
“The dead ones. You have these fellas to thank,” Roxanne supplied. She rose from her perch, glided to Castor, and squeezed his upper arm. “I’ll go air your room. My girls at the Ember need immediate supervision, but should you require company tonight—”
“Hell, no!”
They all swiveled their heads to gape at Jonas, who until that very moment had been mild-mannered.
Her seductive laughter rang out, bringing their heads back around like a tennis match. “Oh, darling, I wasn’t offering myself. I’ve a job of it, keeping you worn out.”
She winked, causing his boyish blush, then sailed out the door.
“My apologies. I, er, she…” He blew out a breath with a shake of his head. “I was taken aback for a moment, but thankfully cooler heads prevailed.”
“Think nothing of it.” Castor’s devilish expression was a clear indicator he’d have pushed the issue with Alastair or Damian.
“I need to show my face in town for the rowdy crowd, but Draven can tell you what we’ve tried for Mar—er, Abbie until now.” So saying, Jonas strode out.
“And then there were three,” Castor quipped, shooting the Guardian a droll look. Sobering, he asked, “What have you tried, and why wasn’t Damian called?”
“Everythin’, and he was, mon ami. But he wouldn’t defy the Authority.”
“That doesn’t sound like the man I know.” Castor met Wilder’s gaze. “We’ll need to find another way.”
“Do you believe Isis would come if we summon her?” Wilder asked, instinctively hugging Abbie tighter.
“I couldn’t say one way or the other. I might have better luck with Athena, since we share blood.”
Draven straightened from his slouched position. “You’re a demigod?”
“No. Just divine-blooded, thanks to Zeus’s penchant for mortal women.” When the Guardian frowned, Castor continued. “I’m generations removed from my demigod ancestor and from Zeus himself. But it gifted me the Traveler gene.”
“Ah.” Draven relaxed, assuming Roxanne’s previous perch on the windowsill. “Will you be able to heal, Marie?”
“Abigail,” Castor replied sharply. “And no. Not unless a miracle happens.”
“I don’t understand.”
The tension building in Castor was visible in his squared shoulders and the muscle ticking in his jaw.
With an effort to defuse the emotional bomb about to go off, Wilder said, “The journey through the portal has temporarily suspended our abilities. We suspect it’s because we don’t technically exist in this timeline. ”
“This changes things, no?”
“Indeed, it does,” Castor replied heavily. “We need more Thornes and a goddess or two.”