Autumn Storm (The Witchling #2)(50)

“Come on,” Beck said, motioning her to follow.

The log cabin was huge, with twelve foot ceilings, crystal and wrought iron chandeliers, and stone floors covered by thick rugs.

Beck ducked into room. She entered a few steps behind him. The natural décor extended into the family area, a comfortable if large room with a reading nook, massive flat screen television and theatre-style seating. A hearth blazed on one side. Two men were at the pool table. Both gazed at Beck, one amused and the other curious.

“Dad, grandpa, this is Autumn,” Beck said. “She’s staying here for a little while.”

Their gazes turned to her then her cane. “It’s okay, Beck, just take me –“

“You’re so not off the hook for wandering in the forest during a storm,” Beck said firmly. “Michael Turner, my dad and the short little man there is Grandpa Louis.”

She rolled her eyes at him then took them in. The twins looked a lot like their father, who was tall and lean with steady brown eyes, hair silvering at the temples and laugh lines around his mouth and eyes. Grandpa Louis was close to her height with cocoa skin, white hair and a warm smile.

They weren’t what she expected. She sensed their magick: it was gentle and calming, though it seemed to have no effect on Beck’s agitated air.

“I’ll be back later,” Beck told his family. He gave her a look. “No funny stuff. No running off or calling a cab or whatever. Got it?”

Something more than her being lost was wrong. Sensing it, she bit her tongue to keep from retorting and nodded. He strode out and back towards the kitchen, muttering about needing cookies.

An awkward silence fell as his father and grandfather gazed at her curiously. Michael moved at last and motioned her to a cozy armchair near the pool table.

“Do you play?” he asked.

She shook her head and crossed to the chair. Autumn tugged off her coat, watching them return to their game. Grandpa Louis tried a bank shot that nudged the wrong ball towards the hole in the corner.

“It’s mainly geometry,” Michael said.

“And good aim,” Grandpa Louis added.

She wasn’t sure what to say. Biji claimed the Turners were billionaires. Looking at the cabin, she could tell they were wealthy. What did she say to someone like that? She’d never had more than the meager stipend the orphanage gave her.

They played for a few minutes, the soft knocking and padded thumps the only sounds. Michael sank four. Grandpa Louis came back and sank the rest of his then the eight ball.

“He’s a shark,” Michael said with an easy smile.

“I’ve had a few more years of playing time,” Grandpa Louis replied. “My dear, would you like some tea?” He passed off his cue to Michael, who dug all the balls out from under the table.

“Sure,” she said.

“If Beck didn’t steal all the cookies on his way out, I’ll bring you a few of those as well.”

She smiled. The small man left.

“You were out in the storm?” Michael asked.

“Sorta. I was with Sam.”

His gaze turned intent. “He doesn’t usually take an interest in the students.”

“I keep hearing that,” she replied, eyes on her clenched hands. “Um, and thank you for replacing my iPad. I didn’t mean to leave it outside.”

“Not a problem.” He sounded amused not mad. “I take it you’re not going home for the holiday?”

“No.”

“Air magick?”

She nodded. “And earth secondary.”

“A rare combination.” His voice was quiet. “A good one, though. Grandpa Louis is earth primary and air secondary. I’m earth.”

“Must be a very calm household.” She looked up. He was corralling the billiard balls in a triangle.

“I think they call it balanced,” he said. “My wife was the Mistress of Dark before my son, Decker, took over.”

“Oh, my god,” she whispered, horrified by the idea of two Deckers in the same house.

He laughed. “You’ve met one of them?”

She nodded.

“The wife of Grandpa Louis was a Dark Mistress, too.”

“It must be so hard to love someone whose job is to do such things,” she said. “How are you so normal?”

“You take things one day at a time.”

It didn’t seem possible that anyone could tolerate such a life. Autumn didn’t want to consider what the man before her might’ve been through or how he managed to smile when he knew what his wife had done.

Grandpa Louis returned with a tray of tea. She smiled as he set it down on the small table beside her chair. He and Michael pulled up chairs to join her. Grandpa Louis handed her a delicate cup and saucer that looked old. She balanced it carefully, suspecting nothing in the house was cheap.

“I see you have battle wounds,” Grandpa Louis said, eyes on the scar on her neck. “Let me show you one of mine.”

Autumn stared into her tea, embarrassed. The elderly man rolled up one flannel sleeve to display a twisted, mottled scar that ran from wrist to elbow.

“Wow,” she said, not expecting him to have anything resembling her scars. “I can’t imagine what did that.”

“I was in Vietnam,” he explained. “Mortar attack sent my bayonet up into my arm and out my elbow. Scars are badges of honors. They tell people you’ve lived a full life.” He was smiling.