Marcus tried to find any vestiges of patience that an afternoon on the boat with Sean hadn’t already obliterated.

Without success.

“You have a what kind of message for me?”

Aunt Moira pursed her lips. She didn’t approve of his general grumpiness. “We got an unusual visitor in the Witches’ Lounge today. She brought a message for you, from the spirits.”

It was a particularly bad day when even the dead wouldn’t leave him alone.

And his aunt’s mind was oddly jumpy. Marcus gave up on his vain hope that the universe would disappear in a poof of dust and lasered in on the jumpiness. “What’s going on?”

She reached for his hands, a sure sign of impending disaster. “The message is from Evan.”

Evan. One word, and oxygen vanished from the world.

Marcus fought for the right to breathe, just as he had every day of the last forty-three years. “Evan is dead.”

“I know, dear boy.” Tears threatened to spill over in Moira’s eyes. “But a special few can hear the words of those gone from us.”

You didn’t grow up in Aunt Moira’s world without at least some respect for the more mystical magics. Marcus tried to keep his gruffness in check. “I wasn’t aware that you knew any mediums.”

“I don’t.” She shook her head slowly. “She was a stranger, sent to deliver a message.”

From Evan. Marcus had spent most of his life trying to reach across the veil that kept his twin just beyond his reach. That a stranger had done it drove him to fury and guilt in less than a breath.

And then he breathed one more time, and reason kicked in. “A stranger showed up in Realm with a message from the dead? And you believe her?” He reached for Moira’s mind. Politely-she’d always been hell on poor witch manners.

“Go ahead and look, my boy.” Her voice was pure Irish primness. “And then remember that appearances can be deceiving.”