Derrick
As Witches, we recognize that our intelligence is vastly superior to that of the non-magical, and that is why we have a moral duty to nurture and guide them.
Rule Number Nine of the Nine Rules
*World Council of Witches*
Derrick was seething, more at himself than at anyone else. He ought to have known that Bart would insinuate himself into the situation somehow.
But he lived all the way in London. What was he doing, concerning himself with a small-town hell rift, when he had the corporate offices of the World Council of Witches to run?
Not that it mattered, Derrick supposed. Bart had always done exactly as he liked.
Annoying prick.
As he stood in the chilly parking lot, listening to his call go to his mother’s voice mail, Derrick reflected that most grown men got along with their brothers—even with their half brothers. Most of them didn’t have to call their mothers when one of their brothers was doing something underhanded. They dealt with the situation themselves.
But then again, most brothers didn’t have a mother like his and Bart’s.
“Hello, darling,” purred his mother’s voice in his ear. “I can’t answer the phone right now because I’m busy doing . . . other things. But if you leave a message, I promise to get back to you . . . someday.”
His mother’s voice mail message never failed to irritate him, which was too bad since he had to listen to it more often than not. She “didn’t have time to text.”
“Mother,” he said. “It’s me. You’ll never guess who’s here in West Harbor. I’ll give you a hint. It’s one of your many other sons. And not one I like. Call me back and tell me what you want me to do about it. And if fratricide is on the table, I’m all for it.”
He made sure his phone was on vibrate so that when she called back, the ring wouldn’t disturb the proceedings inside, then went back into the dining room—only to find an empty chair beside his.
“Where’s Jessica?” he leaned over to ask Esther.
“She went to look for you,” the kid whispered back. “Didn’t you see her?”
Derrick shook his head. He didn’t like the sound—or look—of any of this. The Hopkins woman was gone, too, he noted. It was only his jackass brother on the stage, still droning on about pre–Revolutionary War West Harbor. The gasbag had never been able to resist an opportunity to listen to his own voice over a microphone.
“I’ll be right back,” Derrick whispered to Esther, whose only response was a long, bored suck through the straw of her cranberry juice.
Exiting the dining room, he nearly collided with Rosalie Hopkins, who was coming back in.
“Pardon me,” she said, giving him a hefty dose of side eye.
He held the door open for her. “No, pardon me, ma’am.”
She sailed past him with a self-satisfied little smirk. Derrick couldn’t help thinking what a good pair she and Bart would make. Too bad she was already married.
Back out in the bar, the jazz trio were nearly packed up.
“Hey,” Derrick said. “Did you see a woman in a blue dress with dark curly hair—”
“And the face of an angel?” the drummer said. “Yeah, she was looking for you. She was in there with the blonde who just came through.” He pointed toward the door to the ladies’ room. “Blonde came out, brunette is still in there.”
Derrick grinned, then reached into his pocket for his wallet. “Thanks, guys. Have a good night,” he said as he slipped a hundred-dollar bill into the tip jar the drummer was holding. They wouldn’t be able to tell it was a hundred until one of them unfolded it. Derrick was always careful to crease his tip bills nine times, so the recipient would receive good fortune.
But even without knowing this, the musicians beamed in appreciation.
“Thanks, man,” they said, and left with all of their equipment.
“Drink?” the bartender asked Derrick when he settled onto a barstool, his gaze locked on the door to the ladies’ room.
“Club soda would be great, thanks,” Derrick replied. He needed to keep his head clear for what he knew was about to occur . . .
And then it did.
The door to the women’s restroom swung open, and Jessica slowly emerged, looking shell-shocked—though whether it was from what she’d heard in the dining room moments before, or just now, from Rosalie, he had no way of knowing.
“Jessica.” He rose from the stool, the drink that had only just been placed on a coaster near him completely forgotten. “I—I can explain.”
Her gaze rose from the floor to center on his face, and his gut immediately twisted from the pain and betrayal he saw in those twin dark pools.
“You can explain?” Her voice was rough with sarcasm—and possibly even some unshed tears. “Oh, really? Just how can you explain the fact that you’ve been lying to me this whole time, Derrick?”
The bartender, who’d been standing behind him polishing glasses, took that as his cue to beat a hasty retreat for the kitchen, and then the two of them were alone . . . except for the hundred or so people Derrick could hear laughing in the dining room next door.
“Look,” he said, taking a step toward her, his hand outstretched.
But to his utter heartbreak and horror, she retreated from him, shrinking against the wall as if she were afraid of him—of his touch.
He knew she had a right to be.
“Jessica, I never lied,” he said. “I just couldn’t tell you the truth.”
“What truth?” Her dark eyes flashed. “The truth that your own brother founded the most exclusionary and screwed-up organization for witches that’s ever existed? You mean that truth?”
He dropped his hand. This was going to be much more difficult than he’d thought.
And that was the problem, really. He hadn’t thought. Not with his head.
“Okay. Yes, you’re right. But I didn’t tell you that because I knew how you felt about the WCW. And also because the truth is so outrageous, I never thought you’d believe me.”
“Uh, the fact that I’m the Chosen One is more believable than whatever else you’re hiding?”
“No. I mean yes.” He couldn’t stand the pain in her voice. He wanted to walk over and put his arms around her and sweep her back in time, back to this morning and the warm coziness of her cottage, of her bed, where the rain pattered against the roof and the outside world couldn’t intrude and it was just them and Pye and her endless supply of leftovers and miniature chocolate bars and coffee.
But he hadn’t been blessed with the gift of time travel.
He’d been given a different gift, instead.
“Bartholomew Brewster is my brother—half brother.” His voice sounded as rough and as raw as hers. “And he did found the World Council of Witches. All of that is true. But it’s also true I’ve never been a member. I hate clubs. I also hate my brother, for whatever that’s worth.”
That didn’t earn him the laugh he was hoping for, only a reproachful look.
“But I was sent here to help save your town,” he went on, desperate now. There was nothing else he could do. He was going to have to tell her the truth, even though doing so might be worse than letting her think he’d lied. “Just not by the World Council of Witches.”
She let out a tired sigh. “Who sent you, then? Go ahead, lay it on me, Derrick, I’ve heard it all. I’m a witch, remember? Conspiracy theories have been getting people like me killed since the beginning of time. So who was it? The CIA? Homeland Security? MI6?”
“No,” he said. “My mother, Gaia.”