Margie said, “We have, and I’m sorry for wasting your time. I’m just not comfortable with this.”
“Please don’t worry about it,” Grace told her as gently as she could. She considered the two. Don appeared to be struggling with disappointment, while Margie had clearly been crying. She realized she had promised Don and Margie she would help them, and that had been part of what had helped her to hold on.
In the meantime, everything in her head seemed to have quieted down and her heart rate was returning to normal. Cautiously, she reached deep inside herself. Was it just her imagination, or did the Power feel closer? No, it was definitely closer. She made contact with the dark sea, and it rose readily to her touch.
Right there, in broad daylight. It rose to her touch, because it was hers.
Hers.
God DAMN.
There was no mistaking her euphoria that time. She kept a stern grip on the emotion, as she said, “If you don’t mind me asking, what makes you most uncomfortable? Is it actually speaking with your father or the thought of going underground to do it?”
Margie glanced at her brother then said, “I don’t mind you asking. It’s both things, really. I—you were right, it’s too soon for me. Then the thought of having to go down in some dark cave is too much like going into his grave.”
Grace winced at the imagery and the pain so evident behind it. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Remember, you can always come back when you’re ready.”
“I’d like that,” Don said. “Maybe we’ll be in a better place in a couple of weeks.”
“Just e-mail me if you would like to come back. Maybe next time we can try to connect with your father without going into the cavern,” Grace said. “As long as you keep in mind I can’t promise anything, I’d be willing to try if you are.”
Margie’s eyes filled. “Thank you,” said the older woman. “Thank you so much.”
Grace nodded, feeling awkward in the face of so much raw gratitude.
Looking as awkward as she felt, Don handed her an envelope. She could see cash through the paper. She gave him a small smile as she folded the envelope and slipped it into the pocket of her capri pants.
Then they walked back to the front of the property, mostly in silence. Neither Don nor Margie seemed inclined to small talk, and Grace had more than enough on her mind.
She needed to digest what had happened, to consider what it might all mean.
The ghost had said the woman she had bitten had gone mad. Had the woman been too mad to comprehend what had really happened or explain it to her children? How many of Grace’s family traditions were because her ancestors didn’t understand where the Power had come from or why they couldn’t control it? Had any of them tried to exorcise the ghost before and failed? Would Grace be able to call the Oracle’s Power at will? She needed to practice, to see how much control she could establish over it. Now that it was hers—really hers—did that mean it wouldn’t pass on to Chloe or to some other child? Would it die with her? What did a mere mortal do with an immortal Power?
Was she…still mortal? The possible implications were enormous.
They reached the driveway. She said good-bye to Don and Margie, and watched as they climbed into a Ford pickup. When they pulled onto the road, Grace took a deep breath and turned to the house.
That was when she sensed Khalil. His presence seethed.
He was in the house. With Therese. And he was very, very angry.
Well, crap.
Grace hurried to the house and climbed the porch steps as fast as she could. As she reached for the screen door, Therese was already on the other side, slamming it open. Grace jerked back. “Whoa, easy there!”
Therese was a pretty woman in her midthirties, and usually she had what Grace privately liked to call Snow White coloring—very dark hair, pale skin, and a full mouth Therese emphasized with red lipsticks. At the moment the older woman’s creamy skin was flagged with two bright spots of hectic color.
“You have a Djinn in your house!” Therese hissed. “I heard one showed up the other day, but I thought he had left!”
Like any other small, tightly knit community, witches gossiped. The percentage of humans who were born with Power was low, and often the ability tended to run in families. The number of those who pursued and received training for their Power was even lower, even in their own demesne. At the last census, those who claimed to have received training in witchcraft were under six thousand.
The coven grapevine was notorious, so Grace shouldn’t have been surprised Janice had talked about Carling, Rune and Khalil, but Therese’s acidic tone roused Grace’s own temper.