Magic Binds (Kate Daniels #9)(17)

Aha. “You boasted that you would be officiating.”

“Yes, I did, and I regret nothing. The entire Biohazard Department will be coming.”

I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to count to ten in my head. Sometimes it helped. One . . . two . . .

“Also, your father.”

My eyes snapped open. “What about my father?”

Roman blinked. “That was a bona fide snarl.”

Ascanio nodded, his eyes wide. “Yes, she gets scary sometimes. She’s very difficult to work for.”

“I can imagine.” Roman nodded at me. “Roland will be attending and he’ll probably invite some people.”

“By the time the wedding comes about, we may be at war. He won’t be attending, take my word for it.”

“Kate, you’re a good person. But you’re delusional. That’s okay. You’re getting married. You’re supposed to be delusional, irrational, and crazy.”

“Again, this wedding is for me and Curran. You’re not turning it into a three-ring circus.”

“No.” Roman got up off his chair. “The wedding night is for you and Curran. The wedding is for everyone else and it’s the price you pay so you can get to the wedding night. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything. Anyway, we have bigger problems. The Witch Oracle wants to see you.”

“No.” When the Witch Oracle had something to tell me, it was never anything good, like You’ll live long, grow fat, and be happy. It was always, The world is ending. Fix it!

“My mother was very insistent.” The good-natured amusement slid off Roman’s face, and his eyes turned grave. “Sienna foresaw something.”

I bet she did. “I’m not going, Roman. I have my hands full here, and if something bad is about to happen, I don’t want to know.”

“It’s about your son,” he said.

? ? ?

“HOW FAR IS this place?” I peered down the overgrown road. The Jeep roared and spat thunder, squeezing miles out of charged water. Usually when the Witch Oracle wanted to see me, I met them at Centennial Park, once the site of an Olympic Games celebration and now a dense but carefully managed wilderness in the center of Atlanta belonging to the Covens. Meeting them there also involved climbing into the mouth of a magical tortoise, which wasn’t my favorite.

This time Roman said they were waiting for me at some place called Cochran Mill Park. According to Roman, it was less of a park and more of a forest now, and getting to it apparently required two hours of driving through hellish traffic and bad roads. We got stuck behind a camel for fifteen minutes because the damn thing came to a detour around a sinkhole and refused to walk on the wooden planks. Finally, the rider got off and pulled the reins, screaming and waving his arms, and the poor camel vomited all over the man’s head. Served him right.

Now we drove on South Fulton Parkway, which had long ago given up all pretense of fighting off the encroachment of the magic woods. The maples, hickories, and poplars crowded the crumbling pavement, braiding their branches overhead, and driving down its length was like entering a tunnel of green, with the sun a hint of brighter green above.

“Why here?” I asked. “Why not at the tortoise?”

“The park is being watched,” he said.

“By whom?”

Roman gave me a look.

Right. “Why would my father be interested in the Covens?”

“It’s not the Covens. It’s the Oracle. And especially you coming to see the Oracle. Turn off here.”

I turned right onto a dirt road and the Jeep rolled and careened its way to a small parking lot. I parked and got out.

“We go on foot from here,” Roman announced, and started down a narrow trail.

Around us the forest was filled with sound and light. Birds chirped, sang, and warbled, squirrels chittered, and foxes barked. A wolf howl soared to the sky, too distant to be a threat. A fat badger wobbled out into our path, looked at me with small eyes as if offended I dared to intrude into his domain, and took off, unhurried. This was a witch forest. It belonged to animals and those whose magic was attuned to nature. Normal humans didn’t visit often and weren’t welcome.

“Cheer up,” Roman said. “The sun is shining and the air is clean. It’s a nice day for a hike.”

If only I could get my father and the crosses out of my head. I really hoped I didn’t start a war this morning.

The trees parted, revealing a rocky basin of clear water, framed by huge boulders and cushioned with emerald-green trees. A sixty-foot wall of rock jutted above it. Atlanta didn’t really have mountains, with the exception of Stone Mountain, which was basically a huge boulder that had somehow gone astray from its friends, the Appalachians. This place looked like it belonged in northwest Georgia.

I glanced at Roman.

“It used to be less impressive,” he said. “During the next-to-last flare there was a magic explosion here. A mountain thrust out of the ground, and cracks traveled all the way up to Little Bear Creek, opening it up. Now it’s Little Bear River.” He pointed with his staff at the rocks. “We wait here.”

We sat on the boulders. I watched the water. The pool was crystal clear and small waterfalls skipped down the rocks at its far end. So beautiful and serene. Roman was right. It was a good day for a hike.