power comes from belief—either its presence or its absence. She has complete faith in Erik’s . . . ah, regard. So at some level, probably unconscious, she accepts his Magick too, because she believes unconditionally in him.”
When he smiled, Prue caught her breath. He’d been so quiet, she hadn’t really noticed him. Merciful Sister, he was a handsome man!
“It’s a soul connection, I think.” He glanced down at Cenda, his face alight with an expression so intimate and tender Prue felt she should avert her eyes. “Cenda and Shad and I complement each other. Together, we make a whole. I suspect Erik and Prue are the same. And that the gods intend it.”
Prue’s brows drew together, her logical mind tussling with the foolish part of her that wanted to dissolve into a happy puddle. “Sounds good,” she argued, “but what do you know of Magick, Gray? It’s Cenda who’s the fire witch.”
“I know enough,” said Gray softly, his eyes gleaming.
Her brain snagged on something else. “And who’s Shad?”
Gray grinned. “Allow me to introduce you.” He pushed his chair back and sauntered around the table, his shadow wavering behind him.
“Gray . . .” Erik’s growl held a warning. His hand closed hard over Prue’s.
Gray stopped and looked Erik in the eye. “We’re in this together,” he said. “Every single one of us, with whatever gifts we can bring. Deiter’s made that clear enough. She’ll have to know sometime.” He shrugged. “Might as well be now.”
His attention swung back to Prue, his head turning, but his shadow was strangely immobile, as if it searched Gray’s face still. “Shad is the name I give to my shadow, Prue.” He glanced at the man-shaped piece of darkness standing at his side. “Shad,” he said gravely, “this is Mistress Prue McGuire. Behave yourself.”
Under Prue’s astonished gaze, Gray’s shadow swept a deep bow, as elegant as any courtier. Prue’s jaw dropped. Katrin choked on her tisane, Deiter thumping her on the back in a helpful kind of way.
“Please, Prue.” Cenda came to stand between Gray and his shadow. She laid a slim hand on each shoulder and their arms crept around her waist. “Don’t be frightened. Shad would never hurt you. He’s dear and sweet and funny.” Shad’s head tilted, and Prue got the distinct impression he was laughing.
“You forgot to mention modest,” Gray said dryly, but his lips twitched.
Shad leaned in to nuzzle Cenda’s cheek, and Prue could no longer restrain herself. “But how—? I don’t understand.”
Gray shrugged, and his shadow turned to look at him. A second later, Shad shrugged too. It was uncanny. “Shad and I have been together for as long as I can remember. I’ve never known a time without him.”
“You’re a sorcerer of shadows,” said Deiter. “Face it, man. Once and for all.”
Again, that elegant movement of the shoulders. “To me, this is how it’s always been. Nothing unusual, nothing Magickal.” Gray’s smoky gaze shifted to where Shad was stroking Cenda’s cheek with long, dark fingers. “If I were a real sorcerer,” he said with some asperity, “you’d think I’d have better control over my . . . minions. Shad!”
Shad snuggled a grinning Cenda into his shoulder. Behind her back, he raised one finger in an unmistakable gesture.
At Prue’s side, Erik chuckled and the tension in the room relaxed. Then he said, “Shad smells different, sort of cool and dark, not like you at all, Gray.”
Gray and Shad appeared to exchange a glance, but before anyone could speak, Katrin said, “You’re not like the Purists at all, are you?”
Every head turned to stare. A scarlet flush soared up out the neck-line of her gown to stain her cheeks. “S-sorry. I mean . . . I only meant Mam doesn’t bother Gray. Not the way—”
Deiter reached out to clamp a hand on her shoulder. “Shut up, girlie. Let me think.”
Gray arched a dark, flyaway brow, but he said nothing.
At last, Deiter stirred. “Well,” he said, “if I’ve learned one thing in a long and misspent life, it’s that the gods exist. But also—” Obviously relishing the drama of the moment, he took a sip from his tisane cup, only to set it aside with a grimace. “Also that They are fallible. Whatever you call Them—the Lord and the Lady, the Brother and Sister, whether you believe in one or a plethora—They don’t know everything.
“In the Enclaves,” he went on, “the Purists teach that Magick is a gift of the gods. It’s conventional wisdom. True enough, I’m sure, but no one believes