Evelyn.
Maximilian had tracked them for years, from country to country, state to state, and finally after years with nothing to show for it, he’d sent his son after the child. He’d supervised Max’s training himself, as his son was unique, and had dispatched him knowing her mother would be unable to identify him as a witch. That was one of the few benefits of Max’s maternal side. And now, he was being told Max had betrayed him. He ground his teeth together. He’d warned him, his son who wanted so badly to prove he was a Cronin, despite the mixture in his genes.
He refocused on the portrait. The girls looked like darker versions of Annabel, but were no less beautiful than she’d been. Anything less than perfection would make a mockery of what they were. Druids. Not one, but two. Twins usually signified a balance. Which balance?
When the witches had banished the druids for the evil they’d wreaked upon mankind and immortal alike, the druids had cursed them to a life of mortality before disappearing into the realms. It was only through powerful spells that he, and other ancients, continued to live, but those would one day wear off. Even now, he could feel the fragility of life, the brittle bones, aching joints, wrinkled skin, in his own hands. To be brought low by druids, the bastard sons and daughters of Gods….
Maximilian wanted his immortality back, craved it, and was willing to do anything, even resurrect his mortal enemies, to do it.
“What did you see my son do, Timothy?”
Timothy didn’t answer for a few seconds but then he stuttered and began repeating his earlier story. “He killed Malachi, my lord. He changed into some…creature and killed Malachi.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Did anyone else see this transformation?”
“No, my lord.”
“That is good.” He paused and tucked the picture into his pants pocket. “You will forget everything you saw concerning my son. He was never there.”
“But, my lord—”
The Grand Wizard’s voice dropped an octave and his eyes turned black. “You were ambushed by the twins. They killed Malachi and Jared. Max was not there.” He paused until Timothy nodded. “You will tell the others that the girls are dangerous. They killed Malachi and Jared. Max was never there.” A chant filled the air and Timothy’s eyes—already glazing over—closed momentarily before he nodded. “Good, Timothy. You’re dismissed.”
***
Vivienne had the distinct feeling she was being watched as she stepped from the double doors of Conall’s house and followed him to the large black SUV parked on the street. Telling herself that she was being paranoid, this wasn’t The Scarlet Letter and there was no “A” on her chest, she lifted her eyes to scan the area, only to find her instincts were right.
She was being watched and from what she could see, by many pairs of eyes. Lowering her head and wishing for pair of large aviator glasses and a Jackie Kennedy-like head scarf that would loop about half of her face, she quickly walked to the SUV and slipped into the front seat. After meeting Conall it seemed her destiny was to relive college, this time partaking in all the wild and embarrassing things she’d easily foregone years ago.
She stared from the mercifully tinted window at scattering of people on porches, lawns, and even in the middle of the street. This had to be a rich neighborhood. It was Thursday for crying out loud, not Saturday. Normal people had jobs, nine-to-fives, and the sort that they couldn’t just up and miss. She sighed. There were a few children gathered but instead of running around as they were wont to do when released by parents, they, too, stared in her direction. Although she found it odd that the children weren’t in school, kindergarten mostly, Vivienne dismissed it. They all probably had underpaid nannies.
Feeling her face heat, she decided that rich or not, Conall’s neighbors were extremely rude. It was not nice to stare. Thank God she wouldn’t be coming back here. Rolling her eyes, more at the fact she was that clichéd girl leaving her lover’s house and being caught, Vivienne checked her phone for missed calls and messages.
As soon as her eyes caught sight of Max’s name, she felt guilty. He’d called her twice, no doubt worried she hadn’t come home last night. She was about to heap the blame on Conall, when she reluctantly decided it was on her. It wasn’t Conall’s fault that when he was touching her, her mind refused to work. It wasn’t his fault she’d craved—she looked out the tinted window to where he stood conversing with Raoul—and still craved all the delicious things his tall and muscular body could give her.