“Mystery and danger abound in Darker than Midnight, a fast-paced, chilling thrill read that will keep readers turning the pages long after bedtime… Suspense, mystery, danger and passion—no one does them better than Maggie Shayne.”

—Romance Reviews Today on Darker than Midnight [winner of a Perfect 10 award]

“Maggie Shayne is better than chocolate. She satisfies every wicked craving.”

—New York Times bestselling author Suzanne Forster

“Shayne’s haunting tale is intricately woven… A moving mix of high suspense and romance, this haunting Halloween thriller will propel readers to bolt their doors at night.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Gingerbread Man

“[A] gripping story of small-town secrets. The suspense will keep you guessing. The characters will steal your heart.”

—New York Times bestselling author Lisa Gardner on The Gingerbread Man

Kiss of the Shadow Man is a “crackerjack novel of romantic suspense”.

—RT Book Reviews

Also by Maggie Shayne

The Portal

MARK OF THE WITCH

Secrets of Shadow Falls

KISS ME, KILL ME

KILL ME AGAIN

KILLING ME SOFTLY

BLOODLINE

ANGEL’S PAIN

LOVER’S BITE

DEMON’S KISS

Wings in the Night

BLUE TWILIGHT

BEFORE BLUE TWILIGHT

EDGE OF TWILIGHT

RUN FROM TWILIGHT

EMBRACE THE TWILIGHT

TWILIGHT HUNGER

TWILIGHT VOWS

BORN IN TWILIGHT

BEYOND TWILIGHT

TWILIGHT ILLUSIONS

TWILIGHT MEMORIES

TWILIGHT PHANTASIES

DARKER THAN MIDNIGHT

COLDER THAN ICE

THICKER THAN WATER

Look for Maggie Shayne’s next novel

BLOOD OF THE SORCERESS

available April 2013

Daughter of the
Spellcaster
Maggie Shayne

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Michele, Gayle, Chris, Laurie, Ginny and Theresa. Whoever said that writing is a solitary profession never attended one of our loud, laughter-filled, munchy-fest plotting sessions! What fun would this stuff be if we had to do it alone?

Love you all!

Prologue

In her tiny hand she held the vial of mugwort over her steaming cauldron and carefully let three drops escape. No more, no less. Then she looked up at her mom and smiled.

Mamma nodded her approval but didn’t let little Magdalena bask in it for very long. “Now the eyebright. Just a pinch.”

Lena set the vial aside and picked up the old brown crockery jar with the dried herb inside. She plucked out a pinch and dropped it into the squat iron pot.

A little more, said Lilia. You have tiny fingers, after all.

She didn’t say it out loud, of course. She spoke from inside Lena’s head. Though her mom called Lilia an imaginary friend, to Lena she was a big sister and very real, even though no one—except Lena herself—could see her. No one else ever had. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t real.

Lena grabbed another pinch and popped it into the bubbling brew, eliciting a satisfying hiss from the pot.

Mamma frowned at her. “How did you know to add a little more?”

“Lilia told me to,” Lena explained.

“Ahh. All right, then.”

Mamma didn’t mean it, though. She didn’t believe in Lilia. Magic, yes. Witchcraft, most certainly. But not Lilia. Grown-ups could be so odd sometimes.

Aside from that, her mom was the best grown-up Lena knew. She was beautiful, first off. The prettiest mom in the whole town. And she didn’t wear jeans like the other moms. She wore flowing dresses—she called them captains. No, wait. Kaftans—in bright oranges and yellows and reds, and sometimes deep blues and greens. And big glittery jewelry that she made herself. And she knew all about magic. So much that other witches were always asking her about stuff.

And she loved Lena more than the whole wide world. And Lena loved her back. So with all of that, it wasn’t so bad that she didn’t believe in Lilia. And anyway, she never came right out and said it. Just said she was “keeping an open mind,” whatever that meant.

Lena took the wooden spoon and gave her mixture a stir, leaning over to sniff the steam. She had insisted on a drop of dragon’s blood—not from a real dragon, of course—as she did in almost all her potions. She loved the smell, and it always felt like a kick of extra power to her.

Her mom, who’d been a witch since she’d been in college, which was a long time ago, had taught Lena to trust her instincts.

They let the cauldron simmer for exactly thirteen minutes, then Lena blew out the candle that was heating it from underneath its three long legs and let things cool for thirteen more. Then she dipped a soft cotton ball into the concoction and used it to wash Mamma’s magic mirror.

It was Samhain, the perfect time for divination, and her mom wanted to teach her how to scry. Lilia had said it would be easy and promised to help.

Once the black mirror was all gleaming and wet with the potion, Mamma placed it in a stand, the kind you would use to display a special plate, and turned Lena’s chair so that she could look directly into it.

“Now you probably think you’re supposed to look at the mirror. But you’re not, really,” Mamma said. “Just let your eyes go sort of sleepy. Let them be aimed at the mirror but not really looking at it. It takes time and practice, Lena, but eventually you’ll—”

“Something’s happening!”

Mamma blinked at her in that way she had. Lena didn’t see her do it, but she knew. “What’s happening, Lena?”

“It’s all… foggy.”

“Good. Just relax and see if the fog starts to clear.”

“Oh, look!” Lena pointed at the images that were playing out in the mirror as clearly as a movie on TV.

“I can’t see what you’re seeing, Lena. Tell me about it as it unfolds.”

She thought she heard a little bit of doubt in her mom’s voice. Sometimes, Lena knew, her mom thought she was making things up, or at least stretching them out with what she called her turbo-charged imagination. But she was seeing that stuff in that mirror. Not in her imagination. But for real.

Go on, tell her what you see, Lilia whispered.

“There are three girls, all dressed up like Jasmine from Aladdin. Hey, I think one of them is Lilia. It is! It’s Lilia!”

“Your imaginary friend?” Mamma asked.

“Yes! Oh, my goodness, that one is me. Only… way different. I’m all grown up in there. And my hair isn’t red like now. It’s black.” Lena giggled. “I’ve got boobies.”

“What am I ever going to do with you, witchling?” Lena could hear the smile in her mom’s voice, but she couldn’t look to see it for herself. She just couldn’t take her eyes off of the images in the mirror.

“It’s getting dark, and I’m sneaking out. Gosh, look where I live. It’s like on that show, I Dreamed about Jennie?”

“I Dream of Jeannie.”

“Yeah. You know, how it looks inside Jeannie’s bottle? It’s like that.”

“Makes sense. You said you looked like Jasmine.”

“Oh, and there’s a boy. A man, I mean. A prince! A handsome prince. Just like in one of my books.” She frowned, then blinked hard. “Oh, no.”

“What, baby?”

“I’m crying. He’s going away. But he says he’s coming back for me soon, and that we’ll live happily ever after. Oh, and he’s kissing me like in a grown-up movie!”

“I think that might be enough for now, Lena.”

One more thing, Lilia whispered.

“Wait, Mom. There’s one more thing.” Lena blinked and relaxed back in her chair, because the fog had returned. It cleared again, though, and she leaned forward and stared eagerly, but then she sighed. “It’s just a cup. It’s just a stupid cup. Not a story. Just a cup.”

“What does it look like?” Mamma asked.

“Fancy. Silver, with jewels all over it.”

“Sounds like a chalice.”

“As the chalice is to Alice,” Lena chirped. It was a secret joke just between the two of them. See, there was this thing in witchcraft called the Great Rite. In it, a witch lowered her athame—that was a fancy knife—into a chalice. She was supposed to say “As the rod is to the God, so the chalice is to the Goddess.” It never made much sense to Lena, though her mom said it would when she got older. It was supposed to be a powerful rite, one of the most powerful in the Craft, and it was done right at the beginning of every ritual.

Lena had once commented that “As the rod is to the God” rhymed, so the second line should, too. And then she changed it to “So the chalice is to Alice.”

Some witches got really mad over that, so she wasn’t allowed to say it in front of them anymore. Mom said some witches just had no sense of humor at all, but that she thought the Goddess would find it funny as hell.

That was just the way she said it, too. “Funny as hell.”

“Lena,” Mamma prompted.

Lena was still staring at the cup in the mirror. “It kinda feels like I’ve seen it before, Mom, but I don’t know where.”

Then the fog returned, and in a second the mirror was just a black mirror again. She sighed and lifted her gaze to her mom. “Did I do all right?”

Mamma looked a little worried. “You did great, honey. I’m very surprised. Most people try for weeks and weeks before they can see anything in the mirror. And then it’s usually shapes in the mist, maybe an image or two, but not a major motion picture.”

“It’s ‘cause I’m so young,” Lena explained to her. “Grown-ups have spent too much time forgetting how to believe in magic. I haven’t forgotten yet. That’s what Lilia told me.” She frowned and lowered her eyes, a sad feeling kind of squeezing her heart. “My prince never came back, though. At least, I don’t think so.”

He will, darling. He’ll come back to you, just at the right time. And so will the chalice. You’ll see. And the curse will be broken, and everything will be right again.

“What curse?” Lena asked Lilia very softly.

But Lilia only smiled softly before disappearing.

1

Twenty years later

Magdalena Dunkirk waddled to the front door of her blissful, peaceful home outside Ithaca, New York, with one hand atop her watermelon-sized belly. “I’m coming!” she called. It took her longer to get around these days, and her mother was out running a few errands.

They didn’t get a lot of company. They’d only been living at the abandoned vineyard known as Havenwood, on the southern tip of Cayuga Lake, for a little over six months, and aside from their nearest neighbor, Patrick Cartwright, a kind curmudgeon who was also a retired doctor, and the two middle-aged, strictly in-the-broom-closet witches her mom hung out with, they barely knew anyone. Then again, she and her mother tended to keep to themselves. Lena liked it that way.

She got to the big oak door and opened it to see the last person she would have expected. Okay, the second-to-last person. Waist-length dreadlocks—both hair and beard—a red-and-white sari, and sad brown eyes staring into hers. She met them for only a moment, then looked past the guru for his ever-present companion. But Bahru was alone. Only a black car stood beyond him in the curving, snow-covered drive. “Where’s Ernst?” she asked.

“Your baby’s grandfather has gone beyond the veil, Magdalena.”

Ernst? Dead? It didn’t seem possible. Lena closed her eyes, lowered her head. “How?”

“He died in his sleep last night. I wanted to tell you before you heard it on the news.”

Blinking back tears, she opened the door wider. A wintry breeze blew in, causing the conch shell chimes to clatter and clack. “Come in, Bahru.”

He shook his head slowly. “No time. It’s a long drive back.”

She blinked at him. He was eccentric, yes. Obviously. But… “You drove all the way out here just to tell me Ryan’s father is dead, and now you’re going to turn around and drive all the way back? You could have told me with a phone call, Bahru.”

“Yes. But…” He shrugged a bag from his shoulder. It was olive drab, made of canvas, with a buckle and a flap, which he unfastened and opened. “He wanted you to have this,” he said.

Lena watched, wishing he would come inside and let her shut the door but not wanting to be rude and tell him so. So she stood there, holding it open and letting the heat out into the late January cold, and watching as he pulled an elaborately carved wooden box from the bag.

It caught her eye, because it looked old. And sort of… mystical. It was smaller than a shoe box, heavy and hinged, with a small latch on the front. As she took it from him, he went on. “Of course there will be more. I came to tell you that, too. You must come back to New York City, Lena. You and the child are named in his will.”

She looked up from the box sharply and shook her head. “That’s sweet of him, but I don’t want his money. I never did. I won’t—I can’t take it, you know that, Bahru. It would just convince Ryan that everything he ever thought about me was true.” She clutched the box in her hands, her heart tripping over itself. Maybe because she’d said Ryan’s name twice in the past two minutes after not uttering it once in more than six months. “How is he taking his dad’s death?”

“As if he doesn’t care.”

“He cares. I know he does. He’s angry with his father, has been since his mother died, but he loves him.” God, it was a crying shame he’d never gotten around to telling his father so. She wondered what would happen to the businesses, the empire Ernst had built, since his only son wanted no part of any of it.

Bahru said nothing for a long moment. He just stood there, fingering a crystal prism that hung from a chain around his neck. Lena noticed it because she was into crystals—so was her mom—and because Bahru always wore exactly the same things. Same robes, just with an extra white wrap over top in colder months. Same shoes, the faux leather moccasin-style slippers in winter and the sandals Mom called “Jesus shoes” in the summer. Same green canvas bag over his shoulder everywhere he went. The crystal pendant was new. Different. She’d never seen him wear jewelry before.

“Will you come?” he asked at length.

Lena pushed a long auburn spiral behind her ear. “Ryan still doesn’t know about… about the baby, does he?” she asked, looking down at her belly, which made the tie-dyed hemp maternity dress Mom had made for her look like a dome tent lying on its side. She wore a fringed shawl over it, because the dress was sleeveless and the old house was drafty. And haunted, but you know, being witches, they considered that a plus.

Bahru smiled very slightly. “He does not know. He still has no idea why you left. But he will guess when he sees you. You knew you would have to face that eventually, though.”

She nodded. She didn’t believe in lying and had no intention of keeping Ryan out of their child’s life. She just kept putting off telling him, feeling unready to face him with the truth when she knew what he would think. And now… Well, now it looked as if she had no choice.

“I really wish I’d told him sooner. He doesn’t need this to deal with on top of everything else.”

“Perhaps the distraction will be welcome.”

She lifted her brows. “Well, it’ll distract him, all right. But it’ll be welcome news about the same time pigs fly.”

Bahru frowned.

She didn’t bother explaining. In all the years he’d spent in the States since leaving his native Pakistan, there were still a lot of American expressions that perplexed him.

“Will you come?” he asked again.

Lena knew she had to go. Ernst McNally was her child’s grandfather, after all. “Of course I’ll come. When is the funeral?”

“Tomorrow at one. St. Patrick’s Cathedral, of course.”

“Of course.” Nothing but the best for one of the richest men in the world.

“Good.” He patted the box she was still holding. “Take good care of this. We found it in a Tibetan street vendor’s stand amid piles of worthless trinkets. Ernst believed it was special. He said it had your name written all over it, but I never knew what he meant by that.” He blinked slowly. “He would never let me touch it, never let anyone touch it. Said it was for your hands alone. Very strange. But I’ve respected his wishes and never touched it until it was time to bring it to you.”

“Thank you, Bahru.” She was curious, but too distracted by the thought of seeing Ryan again to open the box just then. “Are you sure you won’t come in? Mom’s out, but I could make some tea—”

“No. But I will see you soon, and perhaps… perhaps more. After.”

It was her turn to frown. What did he mean by that?

Turning, he walked in his fake leather moccasins through the half inch of fresh snow—there had been so little that year that winter had felt more like late fall—to the waiting car. It was a black Lincoln with a driver behind the wheel, cap and all. Probably one of Ernst’s. The billionaire-turned-spiritual-seeker had dozens of them, and whatever he had was at his personal guru’s disposal.

Ryan wasn’t likely to let that continue. He’d always thought the former guru-to-the-stars was a con artist, out to scam his father at his weakest moment, right after the untimely death of Ryan’s mother twenty years ago. But Bahru had been at Ernst’s side ever since, guiding him in a quest for understanding that had taken him to the far corners of the world. His businesses had been left in the hands of their boards of directors. And his son in the hands of boarding schools and nannies.

She wondered if Ernst had ever found what he’d been looking for, then decided he probably had now. Bahru eased his long limbs into the backseat, pulling the tail of the sari in behind him and closing the door. The car rolled away through the snow, and Lena stepped back and closed out the cold at last.

She was going back to Manhattan. She was going to see him again. Ryan McNally. The father of her unborn baby. The man she had once believed to be the handsome prince of her childhood fantasies come to life. Carrying the wooden box with her, she all but sleep-walked to the rattan rocking chair in front of the stacked stone fireplace that was one of her favorite parts of the house, even though it was old and had gaps where the mortar had fallen away. It was comforting, and she loved it. She sank into the chair and started rocking, memories flooding her mind.

She remembered the day she had first set eyes on her long-lost prince—other than in the face of her mother’s magic mirror, and her childhood dreams, and the stories she had created out of them in construction paper and crayons. She’d taken one look at him and the impossible visions of her childhood had all come rushing back.

She had been completely at peace, loved her life, her job at a PR firm in New York City, where she made scads of money, and her pricey Manhattan apartment. Her practice of the Craft had matured. As she’d grown up, she had come to understand that magic was more about creative visualization and positive belief than flashes of light and sparkles. Her imaginary sister-friend Lilia had stopped showing up somewhere around the middle of fourth grade, as near as she could pin it.

It was all good. Or she thought it was. And yeah, she’d probably been skating, pretending there was nothing underneath the ice but more ice, ignoring the stuff she’d pushed down there, the stuff she’d frozen out. The undeniable experience of real magic. Those visions of past lives that had been so vivid and convincing at the time. Lilia, the chalice… the curse. A little girl with a witch for a mom and a huge imagination, that was all it was.

Only it wasn’t.

She’d managed to deny every last bit of it until the night she met Ryan McNally. Her handsome prince, right down to the roots of his hair.

She’d been handed his father’s account—temporarily, of course, while Bennet, Clarkson & Tate’s senior partner, Bill Bennet, was recovering from a triple bypass. Timing was everything. Ernst McNally, billionaire, philanthropist, world traveler and spiritual seeker, had been named Now Magazine’s Man of the Year and would receive the honor officially at a posh reception at the Waldorf Astoria. The other partners were booked, and Ernst was an important client. Lena was tapped to be the firm’s stand-in, and she didn’t kid herself by pretending it wasn’t because, of all the younger associates, she would look best in a halter dress. It went against her grain, but she wasn’t confrontational and she wasn’t an activist. She figured she would use the opportunity to show them she was worthy by doing a bang-up job. Instead, she had pretty much proved the opposite by getting pregnant by the client’s son, but that was getting ahead of the story a little.

That night changed her life forever. It was not only the night she had met the father of her baby, it was the night her imaginary childhood friend had returned as big as life and nearly given her heart failure. The night… she had learned that there might be a little bit more to magic than she had come to believe.

Either that, or that a high-pressure job in the big city was a little more stressful than she was equipped to handle.

“Lena?”

She had no idea how long she’d been sitting in front of the crackling fireplace, staring into the flames. But when she heard her mom’s voice, she brought her head up fast. Selma was standing there looking down at her, frowning. Her glorious red hair was shorter these days, and a few strands of gray dulled its old vibrancy a little. She still wore the big gaudy jewelry and jewel-toned, free-flowing kaftans, though.

Captains, Lena thought, smiling at her inner witchling.

“Are you okay?” her mother asked.

“I… Ernst McNally is dead.”

Her mother’s hand flew to her chest. “Oh, honey—I’m so sorry, I know you cared for him. How did you hear? Did someone call?”

“Bahru came by.”

“Bahru?” Selma blinked her surprise, turning back toward the big oak door she’d just come through. “He was here?”

“Yeah. Showed up in a big Lincoln with one of Ernst’s drivers at the wheel. I tried to get him to stay, but he was in a rush to leave.”

“I wish I’d seen him,” her mother said.

Lena sighed, recalling how much her mother and Bahru had seemed to enjoy bickering over tea recipes. Mom was a top-notch herbal-tea maker. Bahru was no slouch. But that was before…

“He says I’m named in the will, or the baby is, or something. Anyway. The funeral’s tomorrow. He made me promise that I’d be there.”

Selma’s still-auburn eyebrows pressed against each other. “Do you think that’s wise, honey? To travel that far, this late in the pregnancy?”

“It’s only a few hours’ drive. I can handle that.”

“It’s not just the drive I’m worried about. He’ll be there. Can you handle that?”

She meant Ryan. Of course. “I’m sure I can. I knew this day would come, Mom. I have to face him sooner or later. He has a right to know.”

“You could tell him later. After the baby’s here.”

“Keeping it from him this long was wrong. And you know it. And I know you know it, because you’re the one who raised me never to lie.”

“You didn’t lie to him.”

“And you’re also the one who taught me that omissions of this magnitude are the same things as lies.”

Selma pressed her lips together. “Damn thorough, wasn’t I?” She ran a hand over Lena’s hair. “You sure you can handle him?”

“I’m sure.” So why did she feel compelled to avert her eyes when she said it? Lena wondered.

“Okay, if that’s what you want to do. You want me to go with?”

“Mom, I’m not six.”

Selma smiled and nodded, her spiral curls—even tighter than Lena’s longer, looser waves—bouncing with the motion. “What’s that you have there?” she asked, nodding at the box in Lena’s lap.

“I don’t know. Bahru said Ernst wanted me to have it.” Lena stroked the box. “I got lost in thought and forgot about it.”

“Memories?”

Lena nodded and tried to ignore the hot moisture in her eyes.

“You really loved him a lot. It hurts. I know, honey.”

She wasn’t talking about Ernst, but that didn’t need to be said. They both knew what she meant. Flipping open the tiny latch, Lena lifted the lid as her mother leaned over her from behind.

An old, very tarnished chalice lay inside the box, nestled in a red-velvet-lined mold that fit its shape perfectly. Frowning, she lifted it out, held it up, turning it slowly so she could see the dull stones embedded around the outer rim.

“I think that’s silver,” her mother said. She hustled to the kitchen, and returned with a bottle of tarnish remover and a soft cloth. Then she took the chalice and went to work. Leaning forward in her chair, Lena watched the tarnish being rubbed away, the heavy silver gleaming through. Her mother sat down in the matching rocker on the other side of the fireplace, rubbing and scrubbing and polishing. “It’s real silver, all right. Heavy. It must be worth a small fortune. Where on earth did he get this?”

“A street vendor in Tibet. Bahru said the stand was mostly junk, with this just mixed in with all the rest. He said Ernst took one look at it and knew it was meant for me.”

Her mother sighed. “Never knew a rich guy as decent as that one.” And then she paused and held the chalice up. The firelight made it gleam and wink in what Lena now saw were semiprecious gemstones: amethyst, topaz, citrine, quartz, peridot, three others that she thought might be a ruby, an emerald and a blue sapphire.

“It’s old,” her mother said. “And if these stones are as real as this silver is, and I think they are—I know my rocks—”

“I know you do.” Most of the jewelry her mother wore, she had made herself.

“Lena, this cup could be worth thousands. Maybe tens of thousands.”

“It’s worth a lot more than that,” Lena said very softly.

Her mother frowned at her. “What do you mean?”

“Remember when I was little, Mom? My first attempt at scrying? The vision I had?”

“The one where you saw your handsome prince. The one you later thought looked just like Ryan.”

“Didn’t look like him. Was him.” She reached for the cup, and her mother handed it to her. “And do you remember the cup I saw in that vision? The one I described to you?”

Selma seemed to search her daughter’s eyes. “Lena, you don’t think—wait. Just wait here, I’ll be right back.” She was out of her chair and up the stairs, heading, Lena had no doubt, to their temple room on the second floor, where they kept their altar and all their witch things. Herbs, oils, books. It was their own sacred space. The house’s chapel, so to speak. Lena studied the cup while she was gone, wondering what on earth all this could mean.

Her mother returned, a Book of Shadows in her hand. An old one. Goddess knew they had filled many over the years, Selma more than Lena, of course. She was flipping pages as she walked. “I remember, I had you draw what you’d seen. You were only eight, but—here. Here it is.” She came to a standstill in front of Lena’s rocker, blinking down at the page, and when she looked up again there was no more doubt in her eyes. Just astonishment.

Turning the book toward Lena, Selma showed her what her eight-year-old hands had drawn in crayon. The shape was the same, the color—well, she’d used the crayon marked “silver,” though what resulted was a pale shade of gray. But most interesting were the gemstones, because they were each a different color and a different shape.

And they matched the ones on the cup.

“They’re even in the same order, at least the ones that show,” her mother whispered, staring at her as if she’d never seen her before. “My Goddess, Lena, it wasn’t your imagination. It was a true vision you received that day.”

“Looks like,” Lena said. “The question now is—what the heck does it all mean?”

“I don’t know.” Selma moved closer, hugging her. “I don’t know, baby. But we’ll figure it out.”

That’s what I’m afraid of, Lena thought.

Ryan McNally sat in the front pew, and felt small and insignificant inside the magnificent cathedral. But it was fitting that his father be memorialized here. He’d been bigger than life, too. Until his wife’s death had brought him to his knees.

When his mother died, Ryan thought, the best part of his father had died with her. He’d loved her so much that losing her had all but demolished him. Ryan had been eleven, and even then he’d known he would never let that happen to him.

He was seated near several of his father’s closest friends—old men, all of them—and Bahru, who had added a black sash to his red robes today, and who looked as if he’d been crying. His eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, his cheeks even more hollow than usual.

Seeing the old guru like that almost made Ryan rethink his twenty-year belief that the man was nothing but a con. But only until he reminded himself that Bahru had spent a lot of time around actors, prior to latching on to a broken and grieving widower. He’d probably learned a few tricks of the trade, like tears on demand.

Ryan had to give the eulogy. He’d spent a lot of time on it, yet when the priest nodded at him to come up, he found his knees were locked and he couldn’t quite force himself to move.

Bahru put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right,” he said. “I promise you, it’s all right.”

He didn’t like or trust the man, even resented him—and yeah, that was mostly because Bahru had been closer to his father than Ryan had been himself. Not Bahru’s fault, though. “Of course it is.”

12 İz.

Daughter of the Spellcaster

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Daughter of theSpellcasterMaggie Shayne

Prologue

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Daughter of the
Spellcaster
Maggie Shayne