Echoes of Angels

Encouraged by his reaction, she urged him on. "Tell me about the house. It's magnificent."

Saint-Evanston shifted so he could look directly at her, crossing his legs and lacing his fingers around one knee. "The foundation of the manor you see now is built of stone quarried in the late sixteenth century. It has burned down several times through its history, once in the Revolution and twice when the Unionists set it afire in the war between the North and the South. In all the fires, only the original stone walls were untouched. Blackthorne Manor was rebuilt a final time at the turn of the twentieth century."

"Quite a history," she commented.

"I know it extensively." Saint-Evanston pinned her under his direct stare. "And stories about the ancient Blackthorne clan abound. The local people claim Celtic druids created this place as their sanctuary."

"Druids?" she asked. "As in witches and the like?" She recalled her encounter with the woman in the airport. They destroyed your mother with their practices. You're next. Mark my words. She was sure she hadn't misheard. Were the practices she spoke of...witchcraft? Surely, the idea was ridiculous. After all, this was the twentieth century, not Salem during the witch trials.

"And the like," he replied vaguely. "Many believe their occult influences linger here to this very day." He did not offer clarifying details.

Mulling over his last comment, she reached into her purse and extracted her first cigarette since boarding the flight to Virginia. She removed the last one from its rumpled pack and placed it between her lips. "You mind?"

Saint-Evanston gave a conciliatory wave. "If you must. Please continue."

"Thanks." While Julienne searched for her lighter in her purse, she asked, "Do you believe the stories?"

She glanced up to see a shadow of unease cross his features. As quickly as it had come, though, it vanished.

"I am half-Irish," he answered. "We believe all tales of supernatural lore. It is in the blood."

"Ah, I see." Finding the lighter, Julienne lit her cigarette. She doubted he believed at all. Morgan Saint-Evanston didn't strike her as the type who'd have the patience for elaborate rituals, be it established church or pagan. He struck her as one more analytical, ready to debunk myth rather than create it. She also suspected that he did not go out of his way to accommodate people who did not interest him. Allowing people to perpetuate the tales probably amused him.

"By all means, pound another nail into your coffin," he said dryly.

"As fast as I can." She coughed when the first smoke hit her lungs.

"Then far be it from me to let a lady indulge alone."

Saint-Evanston unexpectedly leaned forward and snagged her cigarette. Tearing off the filter and discarding it, he lifted it to his lips and took a deep drag, exhaling a cloud through his nostrils with the finesse of an experienced smoker. Settling back, he gave a quick artful wink through the drifting curls of smoke.

"Hey!" she protested. "That's my last cigarette."

"My first in three years," he countered.

"So, you were a smoker." Julienne was secretly delighted. At last, he was showing a bit of personality. She would have gladly sacrificed a whole carton of smokes if it meant he would lighten up and pull that feather out of his uptight ass. And he smokes without a filter, she noted. Damn, he must like them strong.

"Filthy habit," he opined, ignoring her statement. "I can see you are going to cause me to resume this vice."

"So, who says you have to start again?" she demanded.

"Weak of will." He reached toward the ashtray and flicked off the ash. "I cannot resist sin."

"I see," she said, as if in serious thought. "Since your Irish half is wound so freaking tight, it must be the other half luring you into such temptation."

His expression turned into a question mark.

"You're half-Irish and what else?"

"Why do you wish to know?" A hint of suspicion clouded his dark eyes.