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“But, as I said, I don’t think Olivia is Morgana. What the hell happened between you two earlier? I walked in, and the tension… A knife couldn’t have cut that. Why did you insult her and storm out.”
“Temporary insanity. I will fix the situation.” If I want to end my curse, then I have no choice. “In case she is Morgana, I need some means of neutralizing her. I cannot risk her hexing me again. As much as I abhor immortality, spending the rest of eternity as a toad or something equally loathsome appeals even less.”
Watching the traffic intently, Bram taps the steering wheel with his thumb in time to another head-banging alternative tune. “My grandfather left a few trinkets in my possession, one in particular he designed just for her. Something with a laggagh stone. You can make use of it.”
Sometimes, magickind may as well speak Latin. “What mean you?”
“I’m not as good with the old language as I should be. Short attention span for dull subjects.” He sighs. “According to Merlin’s notes, the laggagh stone will weaken her. The minute it touches her, the gem will block her magic and slowly absorb her energy. But there are side effects.”
“Unpleasant for her?” I hope.
“Decidedly.”
“I want it.” Why should I care if I cause Morgana pain after the fifteen centuries of hell she has wreaked upon me?
Bram slants me a harsh stare. “Be careful. If I’m wrong and Olivia is, in fact, Morgana, even with the bracelet she will be a dangerous adversary. And since she cursed you with the diary, I have no doubt you’ll refuse to hand it over until you’ve exhausted all hope of ending her charming little hex.”
“I never said I have the book.”
Bram shoots me a tight smile and shoves something into my hand. “Pretend you don’t, then. If you change your mind or realize—smartly, I might add—that you need my help, toss this in the air and call my name.”
I stare at the object in my palm. “This is a rock. Are you mad?”
“Don’t wait long,” he warns. “We’re running out of time.”
Chapter Nine
Olivia
Cursing, I struggle with the keys that lock A Touch of Magic’s front door. My whole day—hell, my whole life—feels like one tribulation after another.
I jam my cell phone against my ear. “I’m fine, Bram. Just tired. I woke up at four this morning and couldn’t go back to sleep.” Thanks to my unexplained erotic dream of Marrok.
That’s still freaking me out.
Exhaustion and a weird ache plague me, too. I’ve been dragging ass since Marrok slammed out of my shop.
What’s wrong with me? Anxiety? Let down? Damn it, I need sleep, caffeine—something.
“Still worried about your father?”
“Yeah. It’s like he disappeared into thin air.”
My whole life, my mother swore he was killed in a car crash before I was born. Then, a handful of weeks after my college graduation, Barbara Gray committed suicide. No goodbye. No note. Nothing. Suddenly, I was not only trying to figure out life, but I was completely alone. Even if Mom and I weren’t close, losing my only family was terrifying.
Before our landlord shoved me out, I sorted through Mom’s personal effects. Among her belongings, I found a letter my father sent, postmarked from London nearly twenty years ago—well after I was born. It was still unopened. Mom apparently hadn’t cared what Richard Gray wrote. Not surprising. If there had been a way to isolate me, she never hesitated to take it.
You have a roof over your head, young lady, because I do my duty. Do yours. Stop trying to make friends, and start making better grades. Clean your room. Don’t touch me.
By contrast, my father begged us to come to London because he wanted to be a family. He wanted to know me. Me! To him, I wasn’t a burden. Or an obligation. He wanted to love me, and he vowed to protect me.
He never said from what.
After reading that letter, I was so angry at my mom—for lying, for leaving without a word, for never loving me. Worse, I can’t vent to her. To anyone. I can’t even ask why.
After I settled Mom’s affairs, I began looking for my father. Online searches only turned up distant maternal cousins. Since nothing held me to the States, I used the last of Mom’s money to move to London so I could find my dad. Maybe that will fill the constant, gnawing void inside me.
But even armed with my father’s name and last known address—not to mention my detective’s skills—I’ve found no clue to my dad’s whereabouts.
