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We strained against each other, neither yielding.
“Go to hell.” I jerked my hand free, nearly falling on my ass in the process.
“I will.”
My wrist felt as if it had been burned. “You know nothing about me.” My tone was haughty, as befits a Fairchild. “Despite the fact that Madam Munro sent me, at your mother’s request, you dismissed me from the moment our boat made the shore. From where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve got enough power to go against any number of devils, but you don’t have the sense God gave a chipmunk.” I exhaled hard.Chipmunk? Where had that come from?“You don’t need power, but you clearly need help. Perhaps Madam sent me because she knew I could save you from yourself.”
Rafe’s lips thinned, his hands clenched. Power swirled around him. Still holding my burning wrist, I turned toward the house.
Because turning my back on an angry witch was the height of wisdom.
Fortunately, I nearly ran into Mrs. Gallagher. “You’re right,” she said. “Listen to him, Rafe. Madam Munro wouldn’t have sent him if he didn’t have something to offer.”
“Certainly, Mother. Let’s tell him everything since you think he’s so special.”
“Rafe.” Her voice carried an edge and a breeze tossed her wild curls. Wind, or power. She might not exceed her son, but she held her own.
Giving his mother a long look, he strode off in the direction of the trees. I watched him go, wondering what had just happened.
Because call me a stubborn fool, but I took his scorn as a challenge. I wouldn’t be leaving on the next delivery boat. I’d be staying on this little bird’s beak of land until we’d locked Martin Gallagher away for good.
Chapter Six
Mrs. Gallagher peeled my fingers away from my injured wrist. “Not many woulda tried to take him on.”
I should have pulled away, but I found myself surprisingly meek under her touch. Rafe’s grip had left a red mark on my skin, with small blisters forming along one edge. She brushed the blisters with a fingertip. “Fool.”
“Me, or him?”
“Both, I think.” She glanced at me and for the first time I noted the clear blue of her eyes, the way they sparkled with humor. She had a heart-shaped face, the kind that showed a streak of kindness no matter what the circumstances. “Come into the kitchen. I’ve got some salve that’ll cool this off.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
I followed her lead. Margaret stood poised in the doorway, as if she still couldn’t decide whether or not to run. Her fists were clenched, and though she yielded a step so we could enter, she didn’t relax. She helped me out of my coat and hat. With a little shove, she sent me in the direction of the kitchen.
Mrs. Gallagher rooted through one of the cupboards and came up with a brown glass jar. She opened it and motioned me closer. The salve smelled of herbs, lavender most notably, and she scooped some up with two fingers.
“We’ll cover this with a bit of cotton,” she said, painting it on my wrist. “Rafe didn’t mean to hurt you. He doesn’t have the best control.”
I couldn’t help but laugh, both at Rafe’s control and the relief brought by his mother’s touch.
“That’s like saying a shotgun didn’t mean to go off when he pulled the trigger.” Margaret’s tart comment made me laugh harder.
“Your son is an interesting man,” I said.
Mrs. Gallagher gave me a weary smile. “He is, at that. Now wait here while I find something to wrap this with.”
As soon as we were alone, Margaret turned on me. “What in the world did you think you were about? You were just supposed to ask him about the man on the boat, not start a war.”
The salve seemed to be affecting more than just the burn. A heaviness came over me and I dropped into one of the dining chairs. “He told me the man’s name, Oliver Stevenson, and said that if Seattle had a Witches’ council, Stevenson would be the one to run it.”
“That seems harmless enough.”
I had to fight to keep my eyes open. “Well, then I asked why Seattle didn’t have a council already and things went downhill faster than a cable car on Powell Street.”
“I’ve never been on Powell Street, but still, I thought you were going to come to blows.”
Raising my injured wrist as evidence, I said, “Fisticuffs is usually my last resort, but a man who can’t see won’t be impressed when I change my pocket watch into a cudgel.”
