The Magic's in the Music (Magic Series Book 5) by Susan Squires Page B
Authors: Susan Squires
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didn’t seem magical anymore. It couldn’t cleanse him. It was a force for chaos in his life, not control. Just like she was.
Maybe the girl was the reason he was so…not himself. That fit. Because he was pretty sure she was meant for him. She must have the Merlin gene, just like his family. After all these centuries of the magic dispersing until the world had thought it was lost, now for some reason, it had decided to gather again. Whenever two of the genes came into contact, they called to each other, demanding the hosts mate and produce children whose magic would be even stronger.
He hung his head. It had happened just that way with his siblings and their mates. They hadn’t had any choice about it. They’d gotten magic powers. They’d gotten married. Tris already had babies. Kemble had one on the way. Destiny. Great, right?
But what if you didn’t want any part of it? What if you didn’t want to be some unwitting cog in the wheel of the universe as it turned back toward magic? What if you didn’t want to fight Morgan Le Fay and her Clan for the stupid Talismans Merlin had created to amplify magic powers?
What if you just wanted to be left the fuck alone?
Standing, he staggered back. He turned into the house, his body exhausted. Coming out into the yard naked and jerking off under the moonlight was probably enough to get you a padded cell. He could see that now.
He had to get out of here. His life was his own, Goddamnit.
He was too exhausted to slam the French doors. He slid into the Bay of Pigs and shuffled down the hallway, feeling like a husk. He’d go. Now.
His stomach rolled. Yeah. He knew what that was, too. He’d feel sick when he tried to leave her. It had already started at the club tonight. Tris and Maggie, Drew and Michael had all fought their attractions, and it made them damned sick. Well, he also knew that distance helped. And he was willing to bet a whole heaping bunch of Scotch wouldn’t hurt either. He pulled on his clothes haphazardly and staggered out to the Harley.
*
Greta felt a little better now. She’d gotten an hour or two of disturbed sleep after sunrise, after her stomach had calmed down a little. What a night. The whole mutual masturbation thing with the Ghost in the garden under the moonlight seemed unreal. Waking with sticky thighs argued that she hadn’t dreamed it. Her panic when he’d turned his head and stared straight at her was real, too. What must he think of her?
She peered at herself in the mirror. If Kevin Anderson could see the circles under her eyes, he’d cast her as the superhero’s mother, not his girlfriend, or maybe as the smart-aleck CGI raccoon. She was stiff, too. Her knees were bruised and scabbed. She sighed and darted a glance over to the lovely electric-blue, silk blouse and black, tailored slacks hanging on the hook inside the bedroom door. Apparently she’d slept soundly enough to miss the welcome wagon visit. Obviously, her benefactor wasn’t blonde, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and it was very nice of one of the Ghost’s sisters to lend her clothing. They’d even left some soft ballet shoes—the kind with elastic around the outside, so the fit didn’t matter as much. She’d have the clothes cleaned and returned when she got home.
If it was home anymore. She couldn’t look at her phone. She’d be all over the Internet by now in horrible, grainy pictures. And those articles were forever. They’d come up when anybody Googled her from now until she was eighty-five. Getting pictures just whetted those ghouls’ appetite for more, too. There was no doubt they’d be camped outside her apartment.
She dressed, surprised that the clothes fit pretty well, and sat stiffly on the edge of the bed to call Bernie. She had to look up his number in her contacts list. She wasn’t one of those starlets who had their agent on speed-dial. It occurred to her that she actually didn’t talk to him much, and yet he was the only person she could
Maybe the girl was the reason he was so…not himself. That fit. Because he was pretty sure she was meant for him. She must have the Merlin gene, just like his family. After all these centuries of the magic dispersing until the world had thought it was lost, now for some reason, it had decided to gather again. Whenever two of the genes came into contact, they called to each other, demanding the hosts mate and produce children whose magic would be even stronger.
He hung his head. It had happened just that way with his siblings and their mates. They hadn’t had any choice about it. They’d gotten magic powers. They’d gotten married. Tris already had babies. Kemble had one on the way. Destiny. Great, right?
But what if you didn’t want any part of it? What if you didn’t want to be some unwitting cog in the wheel of the universe as it turned back toward magic? What if you didn’t want to fight Morgan Le Fay and her Clan for the stupid Talismans Merlin had created to amplify magic powers?
What if you just wanted to be left the fuck alone?
Standing, he staggered back. He turned into the house, his body exhausted. Coming out into the yard naked and jerking off under the moonlight was probably enough to get you a padded cell. He could see that now.
He had to get out of here. His life was his own, Goddamnit.
He was too exhausted to slam the French doors. He slid into the Bay of Pigs and shuffled down the hallway, feeling like a husk. He’d go. Now.
His stomach rolled. Yeah. He knew what that was, too. He’d feel sick when he tried to leave her. It had already started at the club tonight. Tris and Maggie, Drew and Michael had all fought their attractions, and it made them damned sick. Well, he also knew that distance helped. And he was willing to bet a whole heaping bunch of Scotch wouldn’t hurt either. He pulled on his clothes haphazardly and staggered out to the Harley.
*
Greta felt a little better now. She’d gotten an hour or two of disturbed sleep after sunrise, after her stomach had calmed down a little. What a night. The whole mutual masturbation thing with the Ghost in the garden under the moonlight seemed unreal. Waking with sticky thighs argued that she hadn’t dreamed it. Her panic when he’d turned his head and stared straight at her was real, too. What must he think of her?
She peered at herself in the mirror. If Kevin Anderson could see the circles under her eyes, he’d cast her as the superhero’s mother, not his girlfriend, or maybe as the smart-aleck CGI raccoon. She was stiff, too. Her knees were bruised and scabbed. She sighed and darted a glance over to the lovely electric-blue, silk blouse and black, tailored slacks hanging on the hook inside the bedroom door. Apparently she’d slept soundly enough to miss the welcome wagon visit. Obviously, her benefactor wasn’t blonde, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and it was very nice of one of the Ghost’s sisters to lend her clothing. They’d even left some soft ballet shoes—the kind with elastic around the outside, so the fit didn’t matter as much. She’d have the clothes cleaned and returned when she got home.
If it was home anymore. She couldn’t look at her phone. She’d be all over the Internet by now in horrible, grainy pictures. And those articles were forever. They’d come up when anybody Googled her from now until she was eighty-five. Getting pictures just whetted those ghouls’ appetite for more, too. There was no doubt they’d be camped outside her apartment.
She dressed, surprised that the clothes fit pretty well, and sat stiffly on the edge of the bed to call Bernie. She had to look up his number in her contacts list. She wasn’t one of those starlets who had their agent on speed-dial. It occurred to her that she actually didn’t talk to him much, and yet he was the only person she could
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