Page 14 of Shift of Morals
“Are you going to touch it or stand there all day?” Moira said, amusement coloring her voice.
“Haven’t decided yet.”
“I don’t blame you.”
Finally ready, I reached out and touched one finger to the middle bloom, the blush rose still in perfect condition.
Normally, when I focused my magic on memory retrieval, I’d get a flash or two back, a hint of a larger memory. Sometimes, I’d get a full memory. Today, I got way more than I bargained for.
A stunning bride with mahogany-colored hair, dressed in her wedding finery, standing in a tastefully decorated room, crying. “He’s different!” she screamed. “He’s not the same man I’m supposed to marry!”
The back of a shifter, hunched over, fur crawling down powerful arms, groaning in pain. His nails were curved into lethal claws, blood soaking his hands all the way to his wrists.
A small chapel with stained glass windows, burnished oak pews, and a flower strewn aisle with a white runner, smiling family and friends in attendance, but one individual snagged her attention.
Finn, his eyes burning with malice, sat toward the back, a small smile on his lips.
I jerked out of the vision with a harsh gasp, magic punching me in the stomach.
Moira caught me as I sagged. “Evie!”
“Finn,” I breathed. “He was at their wedding.”
Moira’s low curse and my harsh breathing were the only sounds in the fridge. She helped me to the floor and sat down beside me. “He’s one of Caelan’s then?”
I shook my head. “No way to tell. It’s possible. Finn posed as Halvar for months, maybe years. But there was no sign of Caelan in the chapel.”
“What else?”
“The bride said the groom wasn’t the same person she was supposed to marry. I saw him, but his back was turned to me. He’d partially shifted, and there was blood all over his hands and wrists.”
Moira’s expression turned grim. “We’re supposed to go to the Keep tomorrow. It might be a good time to ask.”
I hadn’t told Moira about Caelan showing up at my house. “Right,” I said. “If I can get him alone.”
Moira’s eyebrows wiggled. “If you get him alone, I’m sure you won’t be talking about rogue shifters.”
I shoved her shoulder, making her laugh. “Perv.”
“Please,” Moira said as she stood and held her hand out to help me. “You haven’t had a real date in years. That thing might be a dried-up old prune if it’s still there.”
“It’s my prune,” I said primly as I got to my feet. “They last way longer than fresh plums, anyway.”
“Because prunes are for old people,” Moira retorted, her snickering laugh following her out of the walk-in.
“Jerk,” I muttered.
Once I’d put the evil bouquet back into the bag, I locked the walk-in and headed back to the front, going straight to the sink to scrub my hands.
“What did you get?” Ash called from his bonsai table.
The dryad was hunched over a small red maple. He held a pair of tiny scissors in one hand and used the other to slowly turn the lazy Susan that held the ceramic pot holding the tree. His bonsais were revered and rare, each taking months, sometimes years, before they were ready to go to a new home.
I’d begged him for one for years, and all he would say was that he had one for me, but it wasn’t ready yet. Knowing Ash was set in his ways, I never asked again. If he said he had one, I believed him.
Patience was a virtue, especially when it came to dealing with a living, breathing, talking tree.
I repeated the story, telling him we would go see Caroline once the shop closed unless someone wanted to stay behind. Tess raised her hand.
