Raintree: Oracle

Chapter 5

Echo walked through the front door of the pub, ready to get to work. Already the place felt a little like home to her. The warm atmosphere, the smell of ale and wood polish, gave a kind of comfortable aura. Ryder Duncan stood behind the bar in his usual place, and he did not look happy. He glanced up, shot some seriously dark eye daggers her way, then shook his head.

The Drunken Stone was a lot busier than it had been yesterday. The same three old men were in what was probably their usual spot, but today four other tables were occupied. At this time of day there was more food and tea being served than cider and beer. It truly was a village gathering place. Every town needed a place like this one.

She dropped her sweater and purse in the back room, then headed toward a grumpy Duncan. “What’s up?”

“You’re twenty-three minutes late,” he said in a sharp voice.

“That’s specific.” She looked around and saw no clock. He wasn’t wearing a watch. One of his things, she imagined.

“What happened to ‘I’ll be on time, boss’?”

“I wanted to look around town, and it’s not like you do a lot of lunch business.”

Duncan swept his hand out to indicate the customers.

“Well, how was I supposed to know?”

“Table four’s order is up,” he snapped as Doyle walked out of the kitchen.

Echo got to work without delay. Thank goodness the customers were a lot friendlier than her boss. They were a little distant—they didn’t treat her as if she were one of their own—but they weren’t outwardly rude the way Brigid had been when Echo had mentioned her name.

A couple of them called her love, and she did not chastise them. Their intent seemed to be cordial enough. Duncan hadn’t called her love since she’d told him not to. If he called her anything at all it was Raintree. On his lips, her surname sounded like a curse.

The early lunch crowd was all male, but just after noon three women came in together. It was obvious that they were here to see her. One of the three was Brigid, the woman who’d sold Echo her green sweater before getting all snippy. The way the women glared at her, with interest and more than a touch of antagonism...apparently they didn’t get a lot of new people in Cloughban. Apparently they didn’t want new people.

It didn’t take any special abilities to tell that these ladies didn’t like her. Gideon kept insisting she was a powerful empath, but Echo had fought that curse tooth and nail. Endure the feelings of those around her as well as her own? Experience their hate, love, heartbreak and fear as if it was her own? No, thanks. Whenever she felt that ability drift to the surface, she did her best to beat it down.

As she was cleaning up a recently vacated booth, she heard one woman say to Brigid, “I asked Rye about hiring Shay a few months back, and he said he wasn’t busy enough to take on a waitress. Apparently this Echo has special skills that my Shay doesn’t possess.”

The innuendo was so blatant it couldn’t even be called innuendo. It was an out-and-out insult. Echo considered setting the woman straight, but Duncan insisted that she learn discipline. She supposed letting something like that slide was the height of discipline. She’d show him.

While the women waited for their food to be prepared, Echo managed to stay busy elsewhere. She chatted with a couple of customers, and cleaned tables that didn’t really need to be cleaned. When it was ready, she delivered thick vegetable soup and ham and cheese sandwiches to the table. She managed to keep a smile on her face, a smile that was not returned. She even nodded to Brigid, an acknowledgment that they had met. Echo was no fool. The tight T-shirt had been intended to appeal to Duncan’s male customers. It only seemed to piss the women off.

It was odd. Yesterday, right after she’d arrived, everything in town had seemed so bright. The flowers, the shop windows, the people. Brigid wore a nice outfit she’d surely gotten at her own shop, but it was a drab gray green. The other two were dressed plainly; they wore little or no makeup, and but for plain wedding rings they wore no jewelry, either. If there were Children of the Corn nearby, she was looking at their mothers.

The wind picked up. Echo heard it howling around the building, rattling the door, as she placed a fresh pitcher of water on the table. The wind whistled, danced and howled. The wooden sign that read Drunken Stone, a sign that hung outside near the entrance, clanked loudly against the side of the building. One of the women jumped. The other two ignored the howl and whistle of the wind. Maybe it was normal, for Cloughban. She hadn’t been here long enough to know.

They ate, but did not linger afterward. The woman who had mentioned “her Shay” gave Echo one last glare as she walked out the door and into the wind, which caught her dark hair and made it stand straight up for one weird moment.

When the last of the lunchtime customers had left, Echo sat at the bar and faced Duncan. Again.

“Sorry I was late,” she said with sincerity. “It won’t happen again.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it.”

She couldn’t very well argue with him. She had been late.

There was so much she wanted to know about the man before her. The questions that filled her head as she looked at him were all personal. Are you married, boss? Got a girlfriend? I didn’t see a gym on my way into town, so how do you keep those muscles? I see Romany in you and I know the Irish are not fans of tinkers, so how did you get here?

None of those were wise questions, so she said simply, “Tell me about Cloughban.”

His response was immediate and rather cool. “Why?”

“I know it’s home for you, but to me Cloughban is entirely different from anywhere I’ve ever lived. It’s so far off the beaten path I had a hard time finding it. I kept getting turned around.” She couldn’t keep looking into his eyes, which were so dark and deep and angry they made her shiver. “I know there are farms nearby—I saw a ton of sheep on the way in—but...why does anyone live here? Why live so far away from everything?”

“You don’t see the charm?” Again, his sarcasm.

“Don’t get me wrong. It’s nice enough, in a ‘I want to remove myself from society’ kind of way, but where’s the nightlife? What do the people of Cloughban do for fun?”

“Fun?” he asked, as if the concept were a foreign one.

“Music, theater, sports. Good heavens, Duncan, I haven’t even found a hint of Wi-Fi anywhere in town.” She’d walked around town all morning with her cell phone set to Wi-Fi and held high above her head as she watched for a flicker of a connection. Nada.

“Ah, the internet. I’ve heard of that.”

She gasped, shocked, then almost instantly realized he was pulling her leg. So he did have a sense of humor in there. Somewhere.

“I pretty much figured there would be no cell service here.” If she’d planned this trip more carefully, she would’ve invested in a satellite phone. But she hadn’t so she was off the grid, so to speak. “And as I said, no Wi-Fi.”

He leaned against the bar, casual but still wound tight. “You live in a world of electronics. We don’t. Instead of playing computer games, we play cards or board games. Instead of chatting with people online, we chat with actual living, breathing people. Face-to-face. For escapist entertainment we have books, and storytellers.”

“Storytellers?”

“They tell the tales of fairies and leprechauns, of dark magic and light. Nevan is a quite talented seanachai. Why do we have need of Wi-Fi?”

“In this day and age it’s barbaric to be without it,” she said softly.

Duncan smiled. He did have a nice smile. Among other attributes. Her heart did a little extraexcited pitter-pat. Wait, no, that was not just her heart.

Damn, this was bad. Why couldn’t he be an old white-haired man with stooped shoulders and yellow teeth? Why couldn’t Nevan be the local wizard? She’d never be tempted to just sit and look at him.

“What about music?” she asked.

“There’s music in church on Sunday morning, and on occasion the schoolchildren will put on a show.”

She’d seen the quaint two-room schoolhouse as she’d driven into town. Judging by the size of the building and the number of people she’d seen out and about, there probably wouldn’t be much more than a dozen children in that school. How good could they be?

Music was essential to life. It was a way to express joy and sorrow. The right song at the right time had the power to lift her spirits even on the worst day. She couldn’t live without it, and didn’t want to try. Whether listening or singing herself, she needed music.

Gathering her courage, she said, “I sing.”

Duncan was not impressed. “Many people do. Crazy old Tully sings all the time. He can’t carry a tune, though, so don’t encourage him.”

He wasn’t going to make this easy for her. Why had she expected that he would? Everything about Duncan was difficult. “That’s not what I mean,” she said. “Is there a guitar in this town?”

“Of course there is.”

There was no “of course” about it. She could take nothing for granted here.

Echo felt as if she was definitely experiencing some of the worst days of her life. A difficult and reluctant teacher. An imaginary little girl. No Wi-Fi! She needed music. It was the one thing she was good at that was normal, that required no magic. When she sang she had nothing to hide from the world.

“Tonight, instead of just waiting tables, how about you let me sing for your customers?”

For the first time since she’d met him, Duncan looked genuinely surprised. “Why?”

She leaned slightly over the bar, excited in a way she hadn’t been in quite a while. “Trust me, boss.”

He leaned toward her. Holy crappola, he smelled like fresh-cut grass and spring rain and man. Why did he have to smell good? Why couldn’t he stink?

His voice was emotionless as he asked, “When you have a job that includes singing, do you show up on time?”

“Always.”

“Then we have a deal.” He offered his hand for a shake, and she took it. They shook once, then quickly released. Echo’s hand continued to tingle long after he’d let it go. She could still feel his touch as she stepped outside. Must be a wizard thing, she decided as she headed back toward her rented room, a couple of fresh Drunken Stone T-shirts clutched in her hand.

She was almost there when she realized that the wind had died down. It was actually quite a lovely day. Cool, but sunny and clear. She’d teased Duncan about living here, and she did feel as if she’d lost a limb without her phone, but there were moments when she very clearly saw the appeal. It was almost like stepping back in time to the fifties or the sixties. She didn’t have to worry about email or phone messages, and she hadn’t even turned on the small television in her room.

There was one problem, though. Her cousins would have a fit if she just disappeared without a word. The last thing she needed was Gideon, Mercy, and Dante searching for her. They were busy with their own families, their own hectic lives, but eventually they would miss her. She’d be easy enough to follow to a certain point, through the plane ticket and car rental, and she had no doubt that they could find her here if they tried.

She did not want her cousins and Duncan to come face-to-face with her in the middle. No way. Not ever. Her family could and would find her if they put their minds to it. She’d told them she wanted to be on her own for a while, so there was no reason for them to search for her right away, but still...maybe she should make sure.

Echo decided she’d change clothes and then head into town for a few postcards and stamps. She didn’t need to say much. A simple “I’m fine, need some time alone” should do the trick.

* * *

Rye sat in the rear booth Nevan and his pals usually occupied for a good part of the day, his legs thrust beneath the table. Even they were gone. Echo and Doyle wouldn’t be back for a couple of hours; he had the place to himself.

He grasped the small, warm stone in his hand and closed his eyes, and there she was. Echo, a picture in his mind. A picture as clear as if she truly stood before him. She’d changed clothes. She wore jeans still, but now she wore boots and a loose-fitting long-sleeved purple shirt instead of a Drunken Stone T-shirt and comfortable tennis shoes. She smiled at the young man who sold her three postcards. He was smitten. She had no idea.

The smile was real, even though the pain of her gift tormented her. He’d seen her suffer; he knew she was tormented by the visions. Visions that commanded her, when it should be the other way around. Waking nightmares that tore at her very soul. He should not want to help her, should not care. But he did.

He’d tried to help Sybil, hadn’t he? He’d seen her suffering and had done everything he could to save her. That attempt to help had ended so very badly... No, he could not let his mind go there, could not relive failures of the past. This time would be different. There would be no personal involvement.

If he failed, if she died, he would be able to move on without feeling as if the entire world had been ripped apart beneath his feet.

So why was he watching her? Why did he sit in a dark corner and use his abilities to spy on her as she engaged in perfectly ordinary activities? She sat at an empty table outside the coffee shop, took a pen from her purse and began to write on the postcards. Three short notes.

Her activities were ordinary—there was nothing for him to be alarmed about—but he did not stop watching, did not release the stone and clear his mind of her even though he knew he should. Echo was nothing like Sybil, not in looks or in temperament. She wasn’t like his last student, either, an eager young man who’d wanted much more than he’d initially revealed.

Echo was an open book; she hid nothing from him.

Everyone in Cloughban knew what he was; they knew what he could do. Some of it, anyway. No one knew all, though he was certain a few suspected. Most of them were not entirely normal themselves, though no others had earned the designation wizard. Touched with magic, they had been drawn here as his ancestors had been. Some stayed for a year or two and moved on. Others were lifelong residents. A few came just for a few weeks, curious or needing a short refuge.

Echo asked why anyone would live here, and he had not been able to give her a truthful answer. Here, I am with my kind. Here, I am safe from prying eyes. And most importantly, Here, I feed on the power of the stones.

He never should’ve agreed to help her, never should’ve allowed himself to get caught up in her troubles. It was not too late to remedy that mistake, no matter what Cassidy had told her. Very little in this life was written in stone. He was in charge. He could and would change what was, perhaps, meant to be.

All he had to do was tell Echo he’d changed his mind about helping and send her away. All he had to do was look her in the eye and say, “No.” Sounded simple enough, but as he watched her from a distance, he wondered if it would be that easy.

Chapter 6

Postcards mailed, Echo walked back toward the Quinlan house. She wondered if she had time for a nap. No, if she overslept and was late for work again, Duncan would kill her!

The white clapboard bed-and-breakfast was as charming as everything else in Cloughban, outside and in. It was well maintained, in spite of its obvious age. The porch, the lace curtains in the downstairs windows, the plain furnishings—everything was spotless. The kitchen was small but functional, as was the dining room. Mrs. Quinlan—there was never any mention of a Mr. Quinlan and Echo didn’t feel she knew her landlady well enough to ask—slept in the single downstairs bedroom, while upstairs there were three bedrooms and a shared bath for her paying customers. At the moment, only two of those rooms were occupied. Since Echo and Maisy kept very different hours, they didn’t see each other often. Just as well. As far as Echo could see, Maisy had preferred having the second floor to herself.

Maybe she disliked sharing a bathroom.

Maybe she was like those women who’d come into the pub simply to glare at the new woman in town. Maisy was very pretty, tall and dark-haired and definitely a D-cup, so Echo didn’t see how she could see one more female in the mix as a threat, but...they were definitely not becoming friends.

There were several shelves of books in the downstairs parlor. As she passed by, Echo thought that maybe she’d grab one of those and read awhile. Then again, maybe she’d turn on the television in her room and see if it picked up more than one or two stations.

But, oh, a nap sounded so good. She still hadn’t adjusted to the time change.

Echo passed on the book, deciding to check first to see if there was anything on the television. She ran up the stairs, more energetic than she should be, all things considered, and threw open the door to her room. It wasn’t locked. What did she have to safeguard?

The first thing she noticed was that her bed had been neatly made. The next thing she saw was a manila envelope propped on her pillow. Maybe Maeve had dropped off the recipe for her scones, which Echo had praised that very morning.

She snatched the envelope off the bed, plopped down in the faded blue wing chair by the window and removed the contents.

Her heart nearly stopped. The single sheet in the envelope was not a recipe.

It was a recent photograph of her parents.

Echo had accepted a long time ago—somewhere around the age of nine—that her mother and father were useless in a crisis. They were not great parents and never had been. A child had never been in their plans. They liked to travel, to party at any opportunity. Her father’s gifts had never been very strong. He could read minds, when he worked at it. Her mother had been a stray—an independent, Duncan called them—who had the occasional bit of insight into what was to come.

Maybe it wasn’t fair to say they were useless. They did love her. Difficult as they were, she’d never doubted that. But they had never really known what to do with a daughter who had nightmares about disasters, a daughter who woke screaming in the night. A daughter who was much more powerful than they had ever been or could ever hope to be.

She knew the photo was recent because her mother’s haircut—shared in an email a few weeks back—was new. It looked as if they were in Paris. Yes, that was definitely Paris.

In the photo, the eyes of both her parents had been crossed out, messily and completely, with a ballpoint pen.

Her hands began to shake, her breath would not come. This was a blatant threat to their lives, she understood that much, but why here and why now? Who even knew she was here?

She’d just sent postcards to her cousins insisting that all was well. Postcards they wouldn’t receive for days. Maybe weeks, considering where they’d been mailed from. Now this.

For a few long seconds she sat there, horrifying picture grasped in her hands, heart beating so hard she could feel it pounding against her chest as if it wanted to escape. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know who to turn to. One word came to mind, as she began to recover from the shock.

Duncan.

* * *

Not only was Echo not late, she was more than an hour early. And she was not dressed for work. She was dressed as she had been that afternoon as she’d wandered about town with that easy smile on her face. For a moment Rye thought she’d shown up early to demand that they begin their lessons. That would be the time to tell her that he’d changed his mind.

No, that wasn’t why she was here. Something was wrong. Her face was oddly pale; her hands shook. He wondered if she’d had another vision—or was about to—and then she shook a manila envelope in his direction and said, “I don’t know what to do.”

She sat in the nearest chair, her legs giving out from under her, and held the envelope up for him to take.

Rye walked slowly toward her. He’d spent the past hour trying to decide how to tell her that he’d made a mistake and she had to go. Now. Tonight. He couldn’t afford to care about her troubles, and he sure as hell didn’t want to be her knight in shining armor. He was the last man in the world to fill those shoes.

He grabbed the envelope and removed the single sheet inside. It was easy enough to tell that the attractive older woman in the picture was Echo’s mother. They favored quite a bit.

“It was on my bed,” she said. “Just...sitting there. I thought it was a recipe.” She took a couple of deep, too-fast breaths. He worried she was on the verge of hyperventilating. “It’s a threat to my parents, right? My cell phone is worthless here. I dug it out of my bag instinctively, then just stared at it for a moment. I can’t call anyone, can’t send an email or...or...” Her eyes widened. “Police. Are there police here? A constable? A...an inspector?”