Blood of Time: Book 18 of the Witch Fairy Series Read online

  Blood of Time

  Book 18 of the Witch Fairy Series

  Bonnie Lamer

  Copyright © 2020 Bonnie Humbarger Lamer

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, dialogue, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright ©2020 by Bonnie Humbarger Lamer

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without the express written permission of the copyright holder.

  For my mother, Joann, who recently lost her battle with cervical cancer*.

  Mom, those who were close to you knew several things to be true:

  - Never, ever ask for your opinion unless we were ready for an honest answer

  - Your wit was as sharp as your sense of humor was dry

  - Although you chose to share your work with only close family and friends, your crafting talent rivaled any professional’s

  - And even though on many occasions you claimed that you had no heart, yours was so large that it could be seen from space

  You raised your children to be strong and to think for ourselves. You taught us to stand up for what we believe in, and you taught us to never stop fighting for what is right and just. No matter how hard it may be. For those things, we will always be grateful.

  Though love is never perfect, our memories of you will be.

  *Cervical cancer is 100% treatable when caught in time by a gynecologist performing a routine pap smear. It affects both the young and old alike, but many falsely believe that they no longer need pap smears after menopause. My mother fell into the latter group. She died because of it.

  Regardless of your age or the gender you associate with, if you have a uterus, please follow recommended guidelines for getting pap smears.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Books In This Series

  Books By This Author

  Chapter 1

  “I forgot how much space you took up in there. I barely had room to move.”

  “I forgot how whiney you were about every little thing in there. I simply required a tiny bit of extra space to be comfortable.”

  “A tiny bit of extra space? My face was practically flat from being pushed up against the side for so long.”

  “Oh please. Don’t try to blame me for your weird facial features. Besides, your nose eventually popped back out. Who cares if it’s a little crooked?”

  “My nose is not crooked, and it’s funny how you are always confusing the term ‘weird’ for ‘devastatingly handsome.’ You should funnel some of that magic of yours toward your brain cells. I believe they could use a boost.”

  “Could the two of you stop squabbling for a minute or two? It would be a nice change of pace for my abused ears. And are we here to simply watch them sleep? Or are we going to wake them up sometime soon? If not, there are others in this house I would rather be spending time with.”

  “Fine, go peek in on them. Just be back here in about five minutes.”

  Good lord, I just can’t take it anymore. Without even opening my eyes, I mutter from under the pillow that I dragged over my head when they first started bickering, “Kids, your father and I want just a few more minutes of sleep. Why don’t you go play in your rooms?” I snuggle deeper into the warm blankets and my husband, fully intending to fall back to sleep.

  The arm Kallen has snaked around me pulls me even closer. Thick morning stubble tickles my ear. His deep voice thick with sleep, he asks, “What did you just say?”

  “I told the kids to go play so we can stay in bed a few more minutes. It’s way too early to get up.” The land of dreams isn’t quite finished with me yet, and Kallen’s warm chest is a perfect new pillow since mine is now covering my ear.

  “Wait for it. This is my favorite part,” an amused voice says in a stage whisper.

  “I don’t need the power of sight to know what happens next. I know our parents as well as you do.” The roll of his eyes is so dramatic, I can hear it in his words. A skill he learned from sister over the years. Something I’ve tried to discourage in both of them.

  Wait. What?!

  Moving as one unit, Kallen and I are sitting up so fast our forward momentum causes the bed to bounce. Which sends Taz and Felix rolling toward the floor. Only Felix can put on the brakes by grabbing the blanket with his teeth. Taz hits the floor with a bacon-soaked splat.

  “Parents?!” Kallen and I exclaim in unison. You’d think we were twins joined at the head the way our brains are working as one.

  Sitting in the two yellow armchairs across from the bed are a boy and a girl. They appear to both be around the same age despite a distinct height difference. They also look shockingly familiar. Looking in the mirror and around the dinner table familiar.

  The girl could be me around the age of 14 with her long black hair and the shape or her cheek bones and nose. But her eyes are different than mine. They’re shaped more like Kallen’s despite my shade of Fairy green saturating the irises. Her determined jawline is an exact replica of Isla’s, but it seems much softer on the girl’s young face. As I’m sure Isla’s once did before cynicism and stoicism hardened the older Fairy’s facial features. In this hereditary jumble, it’s like someone took all our best features and combined them in just the right way to make this girl beautiful.

  The boy is just as handsome as the girl is pretty, and his features are also a jumble of familiar parts. His eyes resemble mine a bit more than the girl’s, at least in shape. But his tall, muscular frame and his black shaggy hair is all Kallen. My husband’s own little mini-me.

  “Good lord, they look so much like us,” Kallen mutters. He leans forward to peer more closely at the two of them, as if he can’t really believe what he’s seeing. That makes two of us.

  The girl waves off his words with an annoyed sigh. “Yes, yes, we hear that all the time. Can we move on to why we’re here instead of what we look like?”

  I’m not sure I like her tone, and I open my mouth to tell her so. What the hell? I clamp my mouth shut again. But it seems the admonishment just won’t be held back, even if I’ve never seen this girl before in my life. My lips open again on their own volition. My tongue moves in a rhythm that I somehow know will eventually create well-worn grooves along my teeth. “Don’t talk to your father and me in that tone.” Oh. My. God. I have just become my mothe
r. Worse? I get it. I get why my snarky tone can get under her skin and wiggle around until it irritates her so much that she wonders why she was ever opposed to corporal punishment when disciplining her children. Oh man. I owe Mom an apology. Or at least a box of nice chocolates. I’m going with the latter. It seems more palatable than an apology.

  Finally, an awareness of what words I used penetrates my brain. Your father and me. Why did I say that? I don’t know these kids. What is wrong with me? Why am I treating these strangers in our bedroom as if they are our children?

  To my right, an annoying grin is trying to form on my husband’s face. “What?” I growl.

  A small chuckle manages to escape his throat. When he has it under control, he finally says, “I am imagining how often you will likely be saying that to our children someday. Especially if we have a daughter.”

  If death glares had the power to render someone senseless, my gorgeous husband would just be a babbling pile of senselessness about now. “Shouldn’t you be more concerned about the fact that there are strangers in our room than what conversations I’ll have with our children some day?” Turning my growing annoyance toward the lumps of fur who claim to always have my back, I am about to chastise them for sleeping through the invasion of children. But I’m rudely interrupted.

  Crossing her arms over her chest, the girl gripes, “Hello! We are your children. Good lord, I wish this part would go faster. Each time I’ve seen it in my vision, I’m bored silly. Why does it always take so long for you two to get it?” There is a perfect balance of whine and disgust in her words. She has obviously been working on the recipe her entire life.

  Kallen is the one to respond, and this time, and it’s his tongue moving against future well-worn grooves. “Zyla Grace, you will not speak to us in such a manner.” His voice is firm and holds no room for argument. Impressive.

  Yet, Zyla still throws her arms in the air, slumps back in her chair, and grumbles, “Fine, let the world fall apart then. See if we care.” Seasoning the recipe with a healthy dash of martyrdom now to give it a full-bodied flavor. She’s good.

  Kallen opens his mouth, but whatever he was about to say gets pushed behind his gums by a wave of confusion. He turns toward me, and his face is a mask of bewilderment. What comes out of his mouth instead of another chastisement of the girl is, “What did I just call her?” His eyes are asking an even deeper question. Why did her name just roll off my lips like I know her? Like she’s really our daughter.

  He’s asking me? Like I’m supposed to know any better than he does what’s happening here? All I can do is shrug and shake my head, even though deep down I suspect that I do know the answer to his question.

  “My name. You called me by my name,” Zyla sighs.

  I can see Kallen’s tongue moving in his mouth. It’s like he’s trying to find the strings that moved it earlier. Or, maybe he’s trying to taste any magic that could have encouraged him to speak those familiar yet unfamiliar words. That’s a possibility, right?

  “Did she implant that idea in your mind?” I whisper out of the side of my mouth, even though the two across the room can clearly hear me.

  “If I was going to implant a name, it would not be a weird combination of yours and Great Grandmother’s,” Zyla snarks. Wow, that’s a lot of bitterness in such a little package of teenage Fairy. It’s also rude.

  “Enough!” Kallen and I both bark in unison, neither of us tolerant of our daughter’s disrespectful words.

  Our daughter. The thought swims around in my brain for a minute. Kallen and I turn to look at each other again, and I swear in the back of his eyes I can see the idea splashing around in his brain, too. Using our eyebrows as a primary communication tool in a silent conversation, we mull the idea over together.

  I raise my eyebrows high on my forehead. Could it be?

  One of Kallen’s eyebrows lowers while the other raises. I don’t know how it could be.

  Both of my eyebrows slant down. I know, but it just feels like it could be.

  Kallen’s eyebrows scrunch together. It does, but it could be magic making us feel this way.

  One of my eyebrows lowers while the other rises slightly. True.

  Zyla throws her hands up in the air and gripes, “Oh my god, just get to the end already.”

  Both Kallen’s and my eyebrows slam down in annoyance. In unison, our eyebrows declare what we already know in our hearts. Whatever this is, it’s not magic. She’s our daughter. And she’s being really annoying right now.

  Xavion chuckles, and I do a double take to determine the sound is coming from him, not Kallen. Referring to his comment from earlier, Xavion says to his sister, “I also didn’t need the sight to know that it would be your attitude that brought them to awareness.”

  A familiar death glare is unleashed on him. A few people may have described it to me over the years. I’ve only caught it once or twice in the mirror myself, but that was enough to etch it into my brain. That’s my death glare. This girl sitting in front of me has too many of my traits not to be my daughter. “How is this possible?” I ask. “How are you here?”

  Zyla rolls her eyes. “Magic.” The ‘Duh’ is just implied. No need to waste vocal energy on it, apparently.

  “Zyla,” Xavion sighs. “We can’t save the world if you get yourself grounded for eternity.” His warning is both saturated with amusement and sprinkled with a healthy mixture of annoyance. And is that…yes, it is. Expectation of the inevitable. I suspect Zyla gets grounded a lot.

  I know I want to ground her right now. Did I say I owe Mom a box of chocolate? I think she deserves a new car. Well, we’re in the land of the Fae, so a new carriage. And maybe a boat.

  Swinging my eyes from Zyla to her brother, I say, “Xavion, maybe you should explain.” Out of the side of my mouth, I mutter to Kallen, “Isn’t it strange that we know their names when we’ve never even talked about what to name our children? They’re not even close to being born yet.”

  Something clicks in Kallen’s brain. His eyes travel down my body, rest a moment on my belly, and then climb slowly back up. With one raised brow, Kallen mutters back, “Isn’t it strange that I didn’t even know you’re pregnant?” The hurt in his voice is faint since he’s trying to hide it from the kids, but it’s still loud enough for me to hear it.

  “If it makes you feel better, she only figured it out for certain last night,” Xavion rushes to assure him. How does he know that? As if I spoke the question aloud, Xavion explains, “We timed our arrival based on when Mom said she first knew she was pregnant.” He turns his familiar green eyes in my direction and smiles. The dimples that form on either side of his mouth are filled with hope. “We needed you to believe that we really are your children.”

  I cock my head to the side and consider his words. “Does that mean that I sent you back here?”

  Zyla and Xavion exchange a quick glance. They have their own silent conversation, and they don’t even need their eyebrows to do it. They just stare at each other for a few minutes. Can they speak telepathically, or is it just a twin thing, I wonder.

  Twins. How do I know they’re twins? Yes, they seem around the same age, but they’ve never said they’re twins. Okay, I just know they are, and I’m going to stop twisting my brain up trying to figure out the logic behind all of this. Logic and magic often don’t go hand in hand. Generally, they walk across the street from each other. In opposite directions.

  Finally, Xavion turns back to me. His eyes are full of an emotion I just don’t have the heart to question. “We can’t tell you that. But we really need you to believe that we are who we say we are. Our lives depend on it.”

  Every newly found maternal instinct rises to the surface of my heart. I want to climb off the bed and give him a hug. Since I don’t know if he’s too old for hugs from his mother now, I refrain. Instead, I soften my voice and assure him, “Of course we believe you’re our children.” I glance up at Kallen and the certainty I feel is staring right back at me. He’s ju
st as freaked out about it as I am, but he’s also just as certain that it’s true.

  There’s a knock on our open bedroom door and all eyes shoot in that direction. Kegan is standing there holding baby Keelan. Next to him is a tall, lanky boy with Alita’s pale green eyes and Kegan’s square jaw. He must be the boy who left the room before Kallen and I sat up. “Before I give my wife a heart attack by informing her that we suddenly have two sons, would someone like to explain what’s going on?” Kegan asks.

  “That’s what we’re trying to determine,” Kallen tells him. He nods to Keelan. The taller one.

  Kegan ushers his sons into our room and closes the door behind him. Turning to us, he explains, “I was up changing Keelan when…” he looks to his son who is almost as tall as he is and shakes his head as if to clear it. Continuing with no small amount of awe in his voice, Kegan says, “When Keelan came into the room.”

  “Weird how you know exactly who he is, isn’t?” I ask.

  “That is an understatement,” Kegan replies with another shake of his head.