Chapter Nine

“Dad?”

Greyson turned his head to Lachlyn as they all crunched through the snow to the spot from which they teleported. Something in his daughter’s voice caught his attention more than normal. “Yes?”

“Some kids at school were talking—”

“Lachlyn,” Chloe hissed. “Don’t.”

Uh-oh.

“I want to know,” Lachlyn snapped at Chloe. She turned back to him. “They said our mother was killed by a warlock. Is it true?”

Aw, hell. He had known this conversation would come along someday, but he was hoping for a little more time. Greyson stopped walking. “On the way to school is not a good time to talk about this.”

“But—”

He held up a hand, halting Atleigh’s protest. “I’ll tell you, but tonight when I have time to answer any questions you might have. Okay?”

“So it’s true?” The warble in Chloe’s voice twisted his gut.

He pulled all three into his arms and kissed the tops of their heads. “Don’t worry about it until we talk tonight. Okay?”

He was afraid they’d push it, but all three looked at one another, silently communicating in the way they had, and nodded.

The rest of the morning went as usual as he teleported them to school and returned home. He had eight hours to figure out how much and what to tell his daughters about how their mother had died.

After letting himself into the house, he walked through to the kitchen without really thinking about his direction. There he found Rowan hovering over a pot at the stove. Dressed in jeans and a black sweater, she had the apron he wore when he grilled wrapped around her frame, the material swamping her slim form. Barefooted, she danced and hummed along to the radio, which was tuned to a fifties station.

As he came in, she glanced over her shoulder and smiled like she did each night when he showed up for his cup of tea, though a distance lingered in her eyes that hadn’t been there until the colossal mistake of kissing her the other night.

“What are you cooking?” he asked. I should just go to my office and leave her alone.

“Sauce for lasagna. My mother’s recipe.”

“You’re not afraid of burning it again?”

She chuckled. “I’m onto your tricks now, mister.” She tossed a wink over her shoulder, then turned back to the stovetop, her back to him. “Something bothering you?”

Greyson startled. How had she guessed? Usually people found him hard to read. Leaning a hip against the island counter, he crossed his arms. “What makes you ask?”

She didn’t turn around. “You usually go straight into your office when you get home.”

Yup. He should’ve listened to his instincts. The problem was, his instincts were telling him to ask her for help. He never asked for help. “So?”

She lifted a shoulder. “My mother always said I had an intuition for when people needed help. So…?”

Well, hell. Telling her about the girls’ middle-of-the-night wanderings had eased a burden for him. Like sharing the weight of the problem. More than he’d expected. Suddenly he wasn’t alone in dealing with it, in worrying about it, and, even though the mystery loomed large, he’d felt…lighter…ever since.

Maybe she could do the same for his daughters now? Greyson pulled out one of the stools and plopped down onto it. “This morning the girls asked about how their mother died.”

Rowan stopped stirring. “I thought your wife died in childbirth?”

“That’s only part of the story, and, apparently, some parents have been talking, because kids at school tipped off the girls.”

Rowan was quiet for a long moment, but, with her back to him, he couldn’t see her reaction. Finally, she put the spoon down, turned off the burner, and turned to face him. “Kids can be cruel sometimes,” she murmured.

“So can adults.” He wouldn’t mind hunting down the adults who’d helped spread this information. However, the truth had come out broadly among his kind last year. He’d just been waiting for the chain of gossip to reach his family.

“What did you tell them?”

Greyson ran a hand through his hair and blew out a breath. “That I’d talk to them about it tonight. But I have no idea what to say.”

To his surprise, Rowan circled the counter and pulled out the stool beside him. Her hair brushed his cheek as she sat, and her wildflower scent drifted around him. Then she leveled those silvery gray eyes on him. “Tell me first.”

Greyson blinked, distracted by her proximity, and had to retrace their conversation. “What will that achieve?”

She gave him a patient look. “Consider it a dress rehearsal. And I can tell you if something would be too much for a twelve-year-old girl to handle.”

Something tight in his chest eased a little. Maybe this wouldn’t hurt to try.

“Right. Okay.” He tapped a finger on the counter, thinking of where to start.

She laid her hand over his, calming his nervous movements with her warmth. He froze, then glanced at her.

“The best place to start is usually at the beginning.” She gave his hand a gentle squeeze, then sat back, that wall going right up between them. A brick at a time, but solid.

He tried not to miss the contact, the connection. Instead, he focused on telling her the story.

“My wife and I were both low-level hunters with the Syndicate. In fact, that’s how we met. We worked a particularly difficult abuse-of-magic case together, and our supervisor decided we should be partners. We worked together for a year before I got the bright idea of kissing her over dinner one late night.”

Greyson smiled at the memory. “I haven’t thought of that maybe since Maddie’s death.”

Rowan gave him a soft smile but said nothing. A good listener. He knew that already from their late-night cups of tea.

“We married a year after that, and she was pregnant a few months later. During that time, we were assigned a case where a warlock was using magic for various illegal ends—theft mostly, some cases of assault, and he was escalating.”

Now the hard part.

“What we didn’t know was he was tracking us. The night Maddie went into labor, he showed up at the house, almost as though he were a Seer and knew the time had come, although, as far as I know, he didn’t have that ability.”

Greyson could still see every nightmare moment of that night if he closed his eyes. “He chose the right time to strike, with Maddie incapacitated by her pain.”

A glance down revealed he’d unconsciously fisted his hands, his knuckles white. With a deep breath, he forced his hands to unclench. “He attacked us in the field as I was teleporting her to the hospital. I defended her, of course, and, eventually, got both of us away. But a stray spell struck her as we fought.”

“And she died in childbirth?” she guessed.

Greyson jerked his head in a nod. “Her heart gave out in the end.”

Again, Rowan reached across to take his hand. “I’m so sorry, Grey.”

Warmth, not the wanting that usually happened when he touched her, but comfort and the sudden sense that he wasn’t alone, just like when he’d shared the girls’ unknown power with her, flowed from her touch through his skin. He squeezed back in a silent thank-you.

“What happened to the warlock?”

“He disappeared. Officially, they assigned the case to a different hunter. Said I was too emotionally involved.”

“He was never found?”

Grey straightened in his seat. “Not for years. But then, last year, he showed up, again using magic to harm others—a nymph and a demigod. The Syndicate gave orders to bring him in.”

She must’ve read the hard satisfaction in his expression, because she let go of his hand, eyes going wide and wary. “You killed him?”

“I did.” He searched her face for any sign of her reaction—revulsion, understanding, anything. But she looked down, hiding her thoughts from him.

After a second, she cleared her throat. “I think you tell the girls that.”

Rowan stood and circled the counter, lifting her pot off the stove.

Feeling suddenly untethered, as if he were a balloon she’d released to float away into the sky, Greyson stood. “All of it? You think they’re ready?”

“I think they’re old enough to understand how she died. I think they also need to know that the man who did it will never hurt them or their family again.”

She was right.

He watched her fiddling with the sauce for a long moment but couldn’t just walk out. Instead, he moved to stand beside her.

“Thank you.”

She flicked a glance his way. “Any time. Now I’d better get this done.”

Still oddly reluctant to leave, Greyson forced himself to nod and walk away.

“Grey—”

He turned back at her call.

“I’m…glad you killed him.”