I hadn’t heard him play in years—more than twenty at least. He’d played when I’d been a tiny child, out under the sky behind the house at Many Farms.
Grandmother hadn’t liked that. “He’s calling to her,” she’d snap.
She’d meant my mother. The men of our family made and played flutes, usually only for the women they loved. The music was a traditional ritual of courtship—legend said that woodpeckers showed the way for the first flute to be carved, and when that first musician played it, women were drawn to him. The other men, seeing this, had learned to carve them too.
My father had played for the woman he loved, hoping against hope that he’d see her again, no matter how dangerous she might be to him.
Then one day, he’d shut the flute away in a cupboard, never to take it out again. That day he’d decided, I realized much later, that my mother was never coming back.
Now my father was playing again. My heart turned over as I recognized his touch, the voice of his music. I knew also that he was no longer playing for my mother. He was playing for Gina.
Tears filled my eyes. My dad had been lonely for so long, and now he’d found a woman—a sensible, non-evil one—to share his life.
I was happy for him, ecstatically happy, but hearing him play for Gina gave me a small, left-out feeling. He’d never played the flute for me.
Mick’s large, warm hand landed on my shoulder. I looked up at him to find his blue eyes full of understanding. He knew me, did Mick, inside and out.
I gave him a shaky smile, nodded to indicate I was all right, and we headed down to the hotel.
***
My dad had drawn a crowd in the circular patio of the saloon. He stood off to one side, fingers moving easily on the flute, his head bowed and his eyes closed, his black braid unmoving on his back. Anyone might think him getting into his music, but I knew it embarrassed him when people watched him play. He didn’t mind if they listened, but all those eyes on him unnerved him.
My guests sat in groups around him, enraptured. Some of them were ordinary people who used the hotel as a point from which to explore the countryside and Indian lands. Others were magic-born, mostly witches, who came here for the auras of Magellan and the vortexes. One of the crowd was a Nightwalker, Ansel, restored and relaxed, a smile on his face.
Gina sat in a chair next to my father. She listened with silent intensity, the love in her eyes beautiful to see.
Gabrielle lingered at the edge of the crowd, eyes on my father, her expression strangely quiet. I left her there and silently entered the hotel through the back door into the kitchen.
Elena and my grandmother lingered, hands wrapped around steaming cups of tea at the table, while Don, the assistant, cleaned up the meal Elena had served my family. Grandmother and Elena looked up and gave me, Mick, and Drake identical belligerent looks.
“Too many Firewalkers here,” Grandmother said, casting a warning glance at Drake.
“You love us, Ruby.” Mick stepped to my grandmother and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
I waited for her to smack him with her cane, but Grandmother only humphed and didn’t move as he pulled away.
“Don’t be stupid,” she said. “You I can tolerate. That Colby is a different story. And I’m not so enamored of you.” She lifted the cane and pointed it at Drake.
Drake looked offended to be lumped into the same category as Colby, and I sensed his ire rise. I stepped in front of him. “If you even think about flaming my grandmother, I’m going to have to take you out.”
Drake’s irritation grew. “I have no intention of flaming anyone. The fact that Ruby Begay’s earthbound, shaman blood is in your veins is one reason the dragons have allowed you to live.”
Mick was another. They’d have to go through him to get to me, and they knew it.
“You can move, Janet,” Grandmother said. “I can defend myself against Firewalkers just fine.”
Like hell I would let Drake and my grandmother battle it out in my kitchen. I waved my hands, herding Drake toward the door. “Lobby. Now.”
Drake gave me a cold look but turned and stalked to the door. He was making it clear that he left the kitchen because he chose, not because I’d ordered him to.
Colby lay stretched out on one of the sofas in the empty lobby, watched over by Jamison’s statue. He was snoring. I moved to him and nudged the hand that dangled to the floor.
“Not exactly what I intended as decor,” I said when he snorted and opened his eyes.
“Hey, Janet.” Colby clasped my hand and held it fast. “Want to keep me company down here? Oh look, it’s Micky and Drakey, come to take away all the fun.”