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He didn’t answer. He didn’t know how.
* * *
Echo was beyond annoyed. Every resident of Cloughban above the age of fifteen was packed into the Drunken Stone, but she wasn’t welcome.
She’d enjoyed her afternoon walk with Duncan. It had been easy, relaxing. Afterward they’d returned to the pub. She felt as if something had happened between them, but she couldn’t put her finger on what exactly. He hadn’t kissed her again, and he hadn’t held her hand on their walk back to the pub. Right before they reached the pub’s rear entrance he’d told her—rather abruptly, she thought—that he’d see her tomorrow. Normally she’d be thrilled with an unexpected night to herself, but this time, today, she didn’t want the night off. She wanted to know what the residents of Cloughban talked about at a town meeting.
Why did she think it might be her?
She had the house to herself. Her landlady and the only other resident were both down the street at the meeting. It was not her imagination that Maisy had smirked at Echo as she’d walked out the door. As a nonresident, she was not welcome at their town meeting. What the hell could they have to hide? What sort of politics might go on here that would require secrecy? Was banning an observer from their town meeting even legal?
Echo, whose entire life could be classified as weird, decided Cloughban had to be the weirdest place on earth. Almost impossible to find, no cell service, no Wi-Fi, Children of the Corn...though come to think of it, the kids she’d actually seen around town seemed pretty normal. Some of their parents, not so much.
She hadn’t seen Cassidy since that day she’d run across the tumbled stones of what had once been a castle. And a fairy fort. To be honest she only rarely thought about the child, as if their two meetings had been no more than a dream. Their first meeting had been the day Duncan had changed his mind about taking her on as a student. Echo had been desperate, panicked, had suffered a horrible vision. It had been such a long day and such a strange encounter, she could almost believe the child was a figment of her imagination. Or maybe a ghost like the ones Gideon saw. She’d seemed so real at the time.
When they’d met at the castle...her mind had been drifting. She’d been vulnerable.
If she had dormant empathic powers and maybe even a way to affect the weather with her moods, could there be another unexplained ability? Like manifesting a dream out of thin air? Dammit, she’d come here looking for less magic in her life, not more!
Having the house to herself should’ve led to going to bed early, or watching TV, or raiding the kitchen. Instead of indulging in any of those things, Echo found herself nervously rummaging around the parlor, scanning the bookshelves for something to read.
While there were a few fairly new—as in less than twenty years old—mysteries on the shelf, most of the books were ancient. Leather bound and clothbound, spines cracked and fading, pages yellowing but surprisingly sturdy. Echo removed a couple of history books, leafed through carefully, then returned the books to their proper places. As she leafed through she noted dates and names that meant nothing to her, political references and legal opinions. Yawn. Nothing caught her fancy.
Until she deciphered a faded, almost-illegible title on the spine of an old, thin book. The History of Cloughban. She squinted at the author’s name. Alsaindar Duncan.
That answered, in part, her question about why Duncan—her Duncan—lived here. It was home. His ancestors came from Cloughban. There was a blood connection. Roots.
She very carefully removed the book from the shelf. It was heavier than she’d expe
cted. With easy fingers, she opened the book to the title page.
The History of Cloughban by Alsaindar Duncan. Beneath the title was a drawing of a big, standing rock, a stone that pointed toward the sky. She touched the page, readied to turn it wondering what she’d find. For some reason this book excited her. Her mouth went dry, her stomach flipped and her heart rate increased. Silly of her to react this way. It was just a book. She started to flip that first page...
The door flew open and a child—perhaps twelve years old or so—came rushing into the room. His reddish brown hair was shaggy and mussed, and his face was flushed. He’d been running. Slick as could be, he reached up and snagged the book from her hand.
“You’ll not be needing this now, miss,” he said breathlessly.
And then he was gone, the front door slamming behind him.
What the...?
She felt a bit ill, as if she’d eaten something bad, but she recognized the sensation as...wrong. Unnatural. Magical. She could see the book in her head, could see that title page. And then it started to fade away and she knew that in a moment the memory would be gone.
Her heart pounded with a new and disturbing realization. This had happened before. Recently. In the town square. No, in the pharmacy. Someone was messing with her memories. Or at least they were trying to.
Control. Duncan had done his best to teach her to harness that control. She did so now. Echo closed her eyes and concentrated, as he had taught her. All this time she’d thought the lessons had been wasted, that she was getting no stronger, but as she reached for control she realized that was not true.
She would not forget the book or the boy. She pictured them both as if they were still in the room; she fought to hold on to what had just happened. Her knees wobbled and her mind spun with the effort it took to keep that memory...and then the threat was gone, and the memory remained hers.
She did not bother to try to control the cold wind as she left the house and walked toward the Drunken Stone. They couldn’t keep her out. They couldn’t mess with her memories. Someone would, by God, explain to her what was going on!
Echo expected that her entrance would cause a commotion, but she was wrong. Every solemn face in the room was turned to the door before she opened it. They’d been waiting for her. Not a word was spoken until Nevan, the gnome, spoke from his usual seat at the corner table.
“Told you so!”
* * *
There was a hush on the heels of Nevan’s statement, but it didn’t last long. Voices rose, some angry, others merely confused. Rye demanded calm. He called for everyone to settle down, but his voice was not loud enough. A few men moved closer to Echo. They were not a threat, not yet, but like it or not a threat was coming. Rye left his post behind the bar—no one was drinking tonight—and jumped onto the small stage. This time when he demanded quiet, the crowd obeyed.
