It hit me in waves.
I had been so involved in my head about my new job, about the castle, and jet-lagged that I had not noticed at first.
But his White Magic light was edged with darkness.
Was he a Dark Warlock? No. My instincts told me no. Most of his aura was swathed in white light. It glowed all around him, though certainly not pure. He had dabbled in the dark energy…for whatever reasons I couldn’t imagine.
I was stuck in place, staring at his aura, and unable to speak for a moment.
He regarded me quizzically and said, “Miss Skye?”
“Bobbie,” I answered, buying time.
Logic, Bobbie, I told myself. Break it down. He knows you are a witch. He knew you were a witch when he hired you. He hired you not for your managing skills but because you are a witch.
I got stuck on that for a moment.
“Bobbie,” he corrected himself and smiled at me. “You had a question?”
A question? Hell, I had a hundred of ‘em.
I deflected. I had to buy time. Was I in danger? If he knew I was a witch and he was a Dark Warlock, was I brought here for some awful purpose?
I avoided staring at him by turning to wave at the large collection of books on the shelves. “Right, I had a question and it is this,” I stalled. “The owner, Devin MacLeod…what is his story? I mean, he has this amazing home…these books…but I understand he has been away for well over twenty years or so?” I couldn’t very well accuse Jeremy of being a warlock, could I—should I? I should. I have always been a straightforward kind of gal. Take it on, deal with it, be done.
I swallowed because no doubt was left. He was a warlock. Here in Scotland at MacLeod Castle—a warlock.
I have only one powerful warlock amongst my dearest friends. He had been Auntie Elle’s closest and oldest friend—literally oldest, as he is an immortal and has been alive for five hundred years. He is my dear Manfred. I adore him. He, like the vampire Rafael, has always served in the capacity of an uncle to me.
“That is a pretty general question,” Jeremy said. “How do you know there is a story?”
I had already forgotten what I asked him and had to think, oh yeah, Devin MacLeod.
It struck me that Jeremy was far too cautious about answering a perfectly natural question.
“Because, ap
parently, people think the place is haunted,” I said boldly, and met his gaze straight on. Okay, time to face the facts. He didn’t want me to know that he knew that I am a witch. He didn’t want me to know that he is a warlock. Why?
“Ah, and do you think the place is haunted?” he asked, and made no secret of studying me for my reaction.
“I have an open mind about that sort of thing, ghosts don’t worry me. They, I am told, are looking to finish unfinished business. I say, let them get to it. What I am asking you about is the owner of MacLeod. What can you tell me about him that I should know?”
“He left here more than twenty-two years ago, a year after his wife vanished. It was presumed he was heartbroken at the time and went off to Europe to make a new life for himself. He keeps in touch with me and that is all you need to know for now,” he said. His voice was low and his hazel eyes went dark.
My Shama was on the alert. There was more to this story, much more. I could see that I had hit a nerve and touched on something he did not wish to speak about—yet he was a warlock. What do I do? Do I tell him I know?
However, every witchy sense I had put out a warning that screamed right out loud in my head—danger, danger. Not now, not yet, don’t tell him you know what he is my gut advised. So I didn’t.
“I see,” I answered.
“Well,” he said, starting for the door as though someone had lit his butt on fire. “I must be going.” He handed me his card. “Call as often as you like.”
I already had his number in my records, but I took the card and said, “I will.”
I watched him go without a backward glance and fell on the rest of the little cakes. I had just arrived and matters were already getting complicated. Should I leave? Why was I brought here?
I popped one more miniature cake into my mouth and then another and in spite of my concerns, groaned with pleasure. I love sweets, fries, pizza and oh so many food items I can’t list them all, and my friends hate me because I can eat and eat and never gain weight. Witchy advantage to make up for witchy inconveniences. However, now, I needed to figure out just what was going on at MacLeod, because something strange certainly was, and I no longer believed for a minute that I was brought here to manage the estate!