The Good Kind of Crazy. Tanya Michaels
“Your old job?”
She grimaced. “I was keeper of the Raintree Sanctuary.”
In his experience, she did not have the discipline to be the keeper of anything. She was a roamer, a butterfly. A princess, not a queen. “You were replaced?”
She wrinkled her nose. “I quit last year and left a few months ago. Dante was very unhappy, but others have filled in since then. My parents can be next in line.”
She relaxed; she smiled. “They won’t like it, but they’ll be safe there.” He could almost see her body unwinding. “Everyone else I care about can more than take care of themselves.”
Of course they could. Raintree.
On occasion Rye had to remind himself that Echo was no normal woman. No lost and mildly gifted stray looking for others like herself, no independent in need of his assistance.
Doyle arrived early tonight, too. He sauntered through the front door, squinted as his eyes adjusted to the dimness of the pub, smiled when he saw Echo. His shoulders squared. Holy God, the woman was trouble. Doyle had been a perfectly steady and reliable employee since coming to town eight months ago. The man was nearing thirty, as Echo was. He was handsome enough to have caught the interest of a handful of women in town, ordinary enough not to cause a stir. Like most of the others in Cloughban, Doyle was different. Telekinesis was his gift. Rye had caught him moving pots about the kitchen a time or two, but he didn’t like anyone to watch. Once, when Rye had walked in and caught Doyle playing—or practicing—several pots had wobbled in the air and then hit the floor at once. The stones fed Doyle’s gifts, as they fed those of the other independents—strays—in town.
Echo nodded in Doyle’s direction. “I have a couple of phone calls to make, but when I’m done can I get a bowl of soup and some brown bread? I think I’m getting addicted to your brown bread.”
Doyle beamed. “Aye, lass. I’ll get to it.”
“Thanks.”
Again, she looked up at Rye. “What are you scowling at, boss?”
“I’m not scowling. This way to the phone.” He gestured with one hand and she stood. For a moment, a second or two, she stood too close. He could feel her body heat, smell her shampoo, sense the tremendous energy that rolled off her very fine body. She held her breath, and so did he.
Powers he’d tamped down for years shimmered. They danced. A part of himself that he’d buried deep—for good reason—took a breath as it tried to come to life. It took all his control to push it back down again.
He could not afford to allow the wizard he had once been to return. The stones that fed his power, that made Cloughban such a special place, also allowed him to control what he was. What he had once been.
Echo would not like what he had once been.
Walking behind her he pushed down the urge to brush her soft blond hair aside and kiss her neck. For comfort. For her and for himself. Just because he damned well wanted to know what that tempting neck tasted like.
He had no prophetic gifts; he did not know what the future held. But he knew that, like it or not, he wasn’t going to get rid of her anytime soon.
* * *
In years past Echo had played for smaller crowds, but not often. She’d admit that in the early days her all-girl band had been, well, a little rough when it came to hitting all the right notes. That had changed with time, but in those first few months they hadn’t been able to draw much of a crowd beyond drunk guys who thought it would be hot to hook up with a bass player or a drummer. The band had gotten better and had eventually built a following, but it had taken time.
She’d never performed alone, not until now.
Tonight less than a dozen warm bodies were scattered about the pub. The size of the crowd was a little disappointing. Of course, it was a weeknight. Maybe weekends were livelier.
At least those who were present seemed to like what they were hearing. She didn’t have to call on her weak and unwanted empathic abilities to see that. Several customers in the room smiled, a few tapped their feet or patted fingers on a table in time to the music. They all faced the stage and listened.
For tonight Echo sang ballads, love songs, a couple of sappy songs she’d written herself. To really rock out she needed a band behind her. Drums, a bass guitar, an electric piano and amplifiers. At least two big amplifiers. One woman and one acoustic guitar made for a quieter, gentler form of entertainment.
What would happen if she had an episode while she was on the postage-stamp-size stage in the Drunken Stone? She hadn’t had to worry about that before, when the visions had only come in her dreams. She hadn’t dared to sing in public since her powers had shifted and she never knew when she might be affected. Driving was risk enough, though she’d always told herself she could sense a vision coming on in time to pull to the side of the road. Maybe.
Now, however, she did worry. A little. How was she supposed to live her life if Duncan couldn’t help her manage this? Not for the first time, she wondered why his method of ridding her of the ability was so dangerous.
Sometimes she liked to imagine the life she would live without the visions. The people she could meet, the things she could do. No more worry about others finding out who she was and what she could do. No more hiding. It would be worth any risk to live that life.
Echo loved to play the guitar; she loved to sing. The fact that her fingers had already begun to hurt were a clear indication that it had been too long. She’d lost her calluses.
Tonight there were no visions. There was just music and laughter and applause. Even Duncan seemed to enjoy her performance. Doyle came out of the kitchen a time or two to wait tables and lean against the bar to listen to her. He liked her a little, she knew, but he wasn’t her type. He was a nice guy. She’d never really gone for nice guys.
That was going to have to change. If she could manage a normal life without visions, without being called a prophet ever again, she’d eventually need a nice guy. The normal package—marriage, commitment, the whole wonderfully humdrum deal—didn’t work with the kind of bad boy she was usually attracted to.
Her mind went to her current family. Gideon was in charge of getting her parents to Sanctuary, and she had no doubt about his abilities to do so. The phone call had been tense, to say the least. He’d asked too many questions she couldn’t answer.
He’d been pissed to find out where she was; at least he didn’t know why she was here.
Halfway through her set, Maisy—the librarian the landlady had been so sure would be a great friend—came in with her good friend Shay. They were both pretty girls. Maisy had very dark brown hair; Shay’s was thick and a rich auburn. Dressed in their best—tight sweaters and short skirts and boots—they drew a lot of attention as they walked in.
It took no special powers to realize that neither of these women would ever be a friend to Echo. She got a sharp glance from both girls, then they gave their full piranha-like attention to the bar and the two men there.
Shay had her sights set firmly on Duncan; Maisy smiled coyly at Doyle. The poor guys didn’t stand a chance...
Outside the pub, the wind howled with a sudden burst. A few heads turned toward the rattling door. Echo continued to play without a hitch; this was a song she knew well.
Shay leaned over the counter, all but thrusting her breasts at Duncan. Hers were not as impressive as Maisy’s, but she didn’t have a boyish figure, either. Echo couldn’t care less, but really, did the woman have no shame?
The wind picked up and the old building creaked. The wind howled so loudly it drowned out a couple of words of her song. Everyone looked up and back; the door rattled as if an invisible hand was shaking it, trying desperately to get in.
This was a weird town, and Echo had to wonder if someone in the pub, or outside it, was