The Source (Witching Savannah #2) 7

“That isn’t fair,” he said. His lips tightened, and he surveyed the room. I watched as he looked around the bar, examining every face, trying to decide how each would react to the gossip.

“No, I guess I’m not being fair. I don’t really understand what you’ve done to get to where you are. I don’t understand what you might have to face or what you might lose. But I do understand one thing.”

“And what is that?” He stopped scanning the crowd and fixed me in his gaze. The tempo of the music fell off a bit. A twin-fiddle waltz brought even some of the shyer folk in the room to their feet, pairing off two by two. It surprised me to see that Iris was still in the arms of her handsome stranger, and by the look on his face, he had no intention of letting go. Oliver had gone behind the bar to take over for Peter, and he was helping Colin fill pints and distribute shots of Jameson.

“That no matter how much he protests to the contrary, Oliver will spend the rest of his life waiting for you unless you do something about it.”

“So what do you propose I do?”

“Make up your mind. Either he’s worth the risk you’ll have to take or he isn’t. If he isn’t, tell him that, and make it clear so that he’ll finally move on. For real.”

“And if he is?”

“I think you can figure that out on your own.”

“That I can,” he said, and then drained the rest of his beer. “You’ll excuse me.”

“Of course.” I watched him as he weaved his way through the dancers and approached the bar. Oliver reached out to take Adam’s glass, but the detective shook his head and took Oliver’s hand. I had never seen my uncle look so completely shocked. His face went white and then flushed red, the goofiest smile possible growing on his face as Adam led him around the bar and took him into his arms. A hush descended on the guests as Adam started to move, but the music grew in enthusiasm if not pace as the two began waltzing.

From behind me I heard a loud snort, and then, “Well would you look at that.” Phil Jones, one of the hard-assed guys from the dock, started laughing so hard that he spilled his beer. I turned, ready to pounce and claw his eyes out. “Looks like Cook finally grew a pair,” he said, shaking the spilled beer off his hand.

“About time,” his buddy answered. “Listen, I got an early morning tomorrow. Do me a favor and say good-bye to Colin and Claire for me, okay?”

“Sure thing,” the other dockworker said. “Take it easy.” Noticing that I was watching them, he smiled and gave a quick wave before tottering off to replace his spilled drink.

Just goes to show, you never know, I thought, kicking off my shoes and wishing that Peter would put down his guitar and ask me to dance. As I watched him play, I did my best to will it to happen, without actually “willing” it to happen—I did have to take care with my newfound powers. That was when I felt someone’s stare on the nape of my neck. It settled there, burning me with its intensity. I turned to face Emmet, his dark glare pinning me, cutting me off from the rest of the crowd.

Without changing his expression, he approached me and held out his hand. “I’ve actually never danced before, but one of my makers teaches ballroom. Will you join me?”

“No,” I said, a tinge of regret coloring my refusal. I wanted to dance, but not with Emmet. It would be unfair to him, and without a doubt, Peter would see it as a betrayal. Besides, I knew Claire would not be happy to see him here, considering how close she’d come to punching him the last time he visited the bar. The waltz ended, and both the pace and the volume of the music jumped way up as the older folk returned to their seats or the bar.

“May I get you something to drink, then?”

“Listen, Emmet,” I shouted over the music, “it’s really nice of you to offer, and very sweet that you would come out tonight, but . . .”

“A little water, then?” He tilted his head and smiled. Any other woman in the place would have gladly been his in exchange for that smile.

A little flame lit up in me. I could use the water. “All right. Yes, thank you.”

Emmet managed to get himself served quickly, probably because he stood head and shoulders over the other patrons. I looked away and focused on the bandstand, on Peter, but from the corner of my eye, I saw Claire heading straight for Emmet from the kitchen. I couldn’t make out what she said to him over the din, but it didn’t take any magic powers to sense her agitation. She knocked the glass from his grip with the back of her hand, but he quickly reached out and caught it, snapping it up with the speed of a cat. I sighed. It looked like I’d have to put my shoes back on.

By the time I’d managed the task, Claire had guided Emmet to the door, following him out of the bar. I forced my way through the crush. “Pardon. Excuse me,” I called, bumping into people, knowing the band was playing too loudly for them to hear my apologies, but making them all the same. I opened the door, surprised to see that Claire had already led Emmet nearly a block away, the two of them too caught up in their conversation to notice my presence.

It had gone dark while we were inside the bar, and I trod carefully as I wobbled my way toward them. Even though Claire was whispering, her words became steadily clearer. “I am warning you.” Claire punctuated each word with a fisted blow to Emmet’s chest. “You stay away. I know who you are. I know what you are.” Emmet’s face remained inscrutable, even though Claire had cornered him under a streetlight. “When I gave my son over to the care of your people, I was promised that he’d have a good, long, healthy life. That I’d get to see him again before I died. And you sent him back a dried-up husk. You murdered him.” Her words came out in a hiss. “But you had better listen up, ’cause I will not tell you again. You aren’t getting Peter, and you sure as hell are not laying a hand on my grandbaby. I will see you and all your kind in hell first.” Emmet stayed silent, undoubtedly as much out of his laconic nature as his apparent confusion. He clearly had no idea what Claire was talking about. His silence infuriated her. She reached up and brought her nails to his cheek, clawing out five angry red gouges.

“Claire,” I said, coming up and pulling her hand away before she could strike him again. “What are you doing?”

“Stay where you are, Mercy. You don’t understand what’s going on here. You don’t know what this . . .” She hesitated and then settled on the word: “?‘Man’ is capable of.”

“I assure you, I’d never harm you or your family,” Emmet said, his hand touching his bloodied cheek. “I’d certainly never hurt Mercy.” He drew back his hand, looking at the blood on it like it was a curiosity. Pain, I realized, was a novel experience to him. He was a babe in the woods. In that moment, I felt responsible for him.

“Shut your mouth, you dark devil,” Claire sneered.

“Let me take you back to the bar,” I said, pulling her quivering body to me.

“Stay away from him, Mercy,” she said, her expression akin to that of a cornered and wounded animal.

“All right,” I said. My eyes met Emmet’s. He shook his head to indicate that he had no idea what was wrong with Claire, and I gave him a pointed nod. He understood the meaning: Make yourself scarce. “He’s leaving, and we should go back inside. We’ll get Colin and Peter, and we can talk all about—”