Smudging, while effective, can be stinky. Mungo and I used stalks of white sage, the stems tied together with twine. But Heinrich Dawes had unsettled me, and I felt compelled to double-smudge, if you will. So after walking the perimeter of each room with the smoking bundle of sage, I did the same with juniper berry incense. The combination of scents was acrid and heady—and quite frankly a little hard to take. All for the good, though. At least the carriage house was small.
After opening the French doors wide, I went to throw open the windows facing the street to encourage more airflow. It would be just my luck for Margie to pop over unannounced. She did that with remarkable frequency, always when I was up to something witchy. Luckily, most of the time my workings looked like cooking or gardening to my neighbor, and since she avoided doing both she rarely paid attention. Also, for magical rituals that looked odd—or smelled odd—I usually worked late at night, either inside with my windows thoroughly covered or outside where I could draw on the power of the moon. Even so, Margie had interrupted me a few times when she’d sneaked out to her backyard to eat Twinkies and Ding Dongs like a smoker steals an illicit puff.
As I pushed the front windows open, a familiar black Land Rover pulled up right where Heinrich Dawes’ driver had parked by the curb. Steve got out and hurried up to the door, not noticing that I was looking out the window. The sound of his fist pounding on the wood made me jump.
“Katie! Let me in! Katie—” His face showed brief surprise when I yanked the door open.
“Stop yelling and get in here,” I hissed and stepped back so he could enter. “Do you want the whole neighborhood to hear?”
Sure enough, over his shoulder I saw Margie out by her mailbox. I smiled and waved. After a few seconds Margie waved back, but she still looked concerned.
Steve sniffed the air as I shut the door behind him. I flapped my hands, a futile gesture that did nothing to dissipate the smell of smoke. Before I could say anything, he held up his palms.
“I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. I had no idea Father would come over here like that. Did he frighten you?”
More than his apology, the way he said the word “Father” gave me pause, made me wonder what their relationship might be like. After all, Steve hadn’t told me anything about his father; in fact, he’d dodged my questions about his family the few times I’d asked. I’d assumed it was because of the tragic death of his younger brother and backed off.
“He didn’t frighten me as much as make me angry.”
He sniffed the air again. “Yeah, Father elicits that reaction, too. You seem to have removed any lingering effects, though.”
I looked down at Mungo. “We did our best.”
Steve leaned down and offered the back of his hand for the dog to sniff. Mungo did, then walked over to the French doors and lay across the threshold. Over a period of several months he’d come to accept Steve, but if enthusiastic greetings counted as votes, then Declan had already won the election.
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go out back and let the air clear in here.” I thought about offering him something to eat, but decided against it. If he wanted to walk out of the restaurant before finishing his lunch, that was his problem. Instead, I poured two glasses of plain iced tea and topped them with sprigs of spearmint. No more wine for me. I had a feeling I’d need to be on my toes for the conversation Steve and I were about to have.
He followed me out to the gazebo, Mungo right behind him. It was my sacred garden circle, but it was also a great place to sit and chat. At least Steve was a witch. Or something like a witch. I was about to get some serious clarification on a few things. I set the sweating glasses on the table and we settled into mismatched wooden chairs I’d chosen more for comfort than style. Steve pointed at the floor.
“Subtle.”
I looked down at the star I’d painted in the center. It was purple, outlined in white, and about ten inches in diameter. Shrugging, I said, “It’s not an obvious pentagram.” Noticing white granules on the floor, I hopped up, grabbed the straw broom leaning against the wall, and swept the salt left behind from the last circle I’d cast in the gazebo out of the structure. “Guess I could be a bit tidier about cleaning up after I work in here, though.”
The scents of roses and mint mingled in the air. I flipped a switch on the wall and the ceiling fan began to stir the warm mugginess. A phalanx of dragonflies drifted in to take up station around the gazebo. The sound of a lawn mower droned from a few doors down.
Steve took a long swallow of tea as I returned to my seat. “I never intended to put you in Father’s sights when I spoke with him,” he said. “But I couldn’t tell you anything about that tattoo until I’d checked with him. It’s simply not my secret to tell. Do you understand?” He sounded almost like he was pleading.
I’d never seen him so discombobulated. “Of course.”
“So…what did he say to you?”
Now I took a drink of tea, thinking. “Oh, you know. All that stuff about the Dragoh Society.”
Steve’s jaw dropped.
“How long they’ve been around, what they’re all about.” I kept my tone light.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. ’Course the word druid never came up directly, but there was enough wink, wink, nudge, nudge in our conversation for Heinrich’s meaning to be crystal clear.” I pasted a knowing smile on my face.
His eyes narrowed. “That doesn’t sound like Father.”
“Really? Because we got along famously. After all, you’d already told him I’m a witch.”
“Um…”
“So there was no reason for secrets. He certainly is powerful, isn’t he?”
Steve’s eyes narrowed even more as he picked up on my sarcasm.
“I mean, I could feel it,” I went on. “And it went both ways. Your dear father even complimented me on my ‘tangible’ power.”
“Really.” His tone was flat.
The smile dropped from my face. “For a woman, of course.”
He winced.
I relented. He couldn’t help it if his dad was a jerk. “So you’re a hereditary, too, then.”
He nodded.
“But not a witch, as I believed,” I said.
“Magic is magic. But yes, technically, I’m a druid.”
“Why do I think your father might disagree? That he might be insulted if he knew I’d thought you were a witch?”
Steve took a deep breath. “The Dragoh Society is a bit different from the druids of old.”
“How so?”
“Well, for one thing, they’re a bit misogynistic.”
“I’ll say.”
He held up his hand. “It’s a problem. Not all of them are as bad as Father, but they do tend to hold rather outdated chauvinistic views. It’s one of the many reasons I’m less than enthusiastic about my magical inheritance.”
“I don’t understand.”
He looked into the distance for a moment, then met my eyes. “Membership in the Dragoh Society is quite exclusive. All six members have inherited their position through the decades—centuries, really. Most have passed on from father to son, though if necessary, membership can pass to a grandson, or even a nephew may inherit. But the six bloodlines have remained the same since they first banded together during the Revolutionary War.”
I took a careful sip of tea as these new bits of information ping-ponged through my brain. Six members. Yet Heinrich had said he didn’t know all the members. Liar, liar, pants on fire.
Steve, apparently taking my silence for disapproval, spoke defensively. “I know I should be honored, but I’ve always had my qualms about the Dragohs. I believe they’re outdated, out of touch, and after all this time continue to cling to a wartime mentality.” He paused as if deciding how much to say. “The lack of feminine energy in their magic creates imbalance. It has allowed them to occasionally justify…questionable…practices.”
Well, that didn’t sound good. “Does your father know you feel this way?”
He sighed. “Yes. Having met him, however briefly, you can imagine how he reacted when I expressed my reservations. Considered it an abdication, as if I were refusing some kind of royal mantle that he was passing on. Which, in a way, I guess he was. It caused a deep rift between us. He didn’t speak to me for several years.” He paused. Licking his lips, he gave a little nod, as if to himself, and met my eyes again. His gaze seemed to go straight to my toes, and after a few beats I realized I’d stopped breathing.
“Luckily, my brother was willing to join the society in my place,” he said. “Despite how much Father disapproved of his becoming a firefighter, once Arnold agreed to inherit the membership, he became the preferred son. In some ways, the only son. Father didn’t formally disown me, mind you. Mother, who knows nothing of the society, wouldn’t allow that. But he might as well have.”
The sadness in his voice twisted around my heart.
“Then Arnie died.” He held up his hand. “I know you’ve heard the story before, at least from Declan’s point of view. But there are two sides to every story, at least two, and we’ll never hear Arnie’s side. All I know is, as his partner and his best friend, Declan McCarthy should have saved him.”
“But the rules—”
“Rules be damned.”
Poor Steve. From what Uncle Ben had told me, if Declan had broken the rules that governed firefighting the only result would have been two dead men instead of just one. But this man sitting next to me couldn’t hear that right now. For the first time I felt like I understood why he despised Declan so much for being involved in the accident that had taken away Arnie—his younger brother, but also his chance to avoid becoming a member of his father’s archaic magical club.
I put my hand on his arm. He turned, sliding away from my touch. “Old news. But it also means I’ll have to try to change the Dragohs from the inside, whether I like it or not. At least the relationship with my father is mending.”
Because you’re doing what he wants, not what you want. What kind of a father is that? Then I thought of my relationship with my own parents since I’d learned that they’d hidden my magical heritage from me. Perhaps it would be better not to judge.
I was seeing Steve in a new light. I’d always thought of him as arrogant and pushy…and hot. But now he’d revealed a new facet of himself. What else didn’t I know about this guy?
“Perhaps a whole new generation of Dragohs will help you make the changes you envision,” I said.
He looked worried. “Unless the group falls apart completely. There have been other membership issues, and now with Eastmore dead there’s going to be another one.”
My ears perked up, but I kept my voice calm. “Eastmore?”
“Lawrence—” Steve’s eyes widened. “Father didn’t tell you?”
“He said he would tell Peter Quinn about the tattoo to help identify the man I found. He also said he didn’t know all the members of the society. Made it sound like there was a huge roster.”
Steve looked disgusted. “You said he told you all about the Dragohs.”
“Yeah, well, I was being a tad facetious.”
“Now you definitely know more than you should. That’s not good.”
I ignored that. “Your dad’s not going to the police, is he?”
“Nope.”
“I guess I’ll just have to, then.”
“You can’t!”
Mungo barked. I looked up to see Margie looking over at us from her back porch. The JJs continued to play, oblivious.
“Will you keep your voice down?” I said. “Of course I can.”
He leaned forward and spoke intensely. “No. You can’t. What would you say? How could you know what you know about the tattoo? Besides, if Lawrence’s death is related to the Dragohs, bringing the police into the loop would be useless. No one will talk to the authorities. You really think you can convince Detective Quinn that the Dragohs even exist? And wouldn’t you rather he didn’t find out about your little spellbook club?”
I glared at him. Little spellbook club indeed.
He caught my meaning, and looked down. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. But you see my point, don’t you?”
“What if magic had nothing to do with that poor man’s death?”
“Then Quinn will find the killer without any help from us.”
“But—”
“No. Please, Katie. You can’t.”
We sat for a long moment, eyes locked. “I don’t like it,” I said.
“I understand. I don’t like it, either. But I need to talk to Father again. Perhaps he knows something else by now.” He stood abruptly and stalked out of the gazebo. Turning his back to the house—and to Margie—he stood for a long moment with his hands on his hips, breathing hard.
Slowly, I got up and walked to his side.
He gestured at the gardens. “You’re doing a great job here.”
“Thanks.”
The sound of running water from the stream mingled with the scent of someone starting up their charcoal grill.
“Do you know how much I care about you?” he asked in a quiet voice.
I tried a nod, suddenly terrified of where he might be going.
He let out a short laugh, and I looked at his face. “Relax, Katie-girl. I know you’re still getting your bearings in Savannah. In magic. I’ve never met anyone like you. We’re connected. I know you feel it, too. We have a destiny. But in the meantime, you need to know I’m trying to keep you safe when I warn you away from the Dragoh Society.”
I nodded again, curiously unable to speak.
“I have to go now,” he said.
“Okay,” I managed to croak.
Together we walked around to the front of the house.
Stopping by the Land Rover, I put my hand on his arm again, gratified that he didn’t pull away like he had in the gazebo. “Steve? Who are the other Dragohs?”
He closed his eyes and sighed
I leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. His eyes flew open and he looked at me with surprise. “I’m still not going to tell you,” he said.
“Okay,” I said. I turned and went up my front walk. Behind me the Land Rover’s engine started. On the porch I paused and looked back, sketched a quick wave.
As he returned it I could see the skepticism on his face.
Good. I liked that I could keep that one guessing.
Or so I told myself.