“There’s a baby coming. A wee girl by the name of Morgan.” Not by an eyelash did Moira betray her unease, but he could feel it stirring in her mind. “She’s to be yours.”

Marcus stared. And then felt the most unusual sensation. Laughter, bubbling all the way up from his toes. “Someone escaped from Las Vegas to tell you I’m going to be a father?” Clearly an object lesson on trusting his first instincts-nothing that glittery could possibly be real. “I can assure you, there are no babies out there with Marcus Buchanan genes.” He wasn’t entirely a hermit, but his recent life in Fisher’s Cove hadn’t exactly lent itself to clandestine encounters.

He got up to deal with the whistling kettle, wishing the whole day to hell. “Any other messages from beyond?”

“The dead don’t always speak clearly.” Moira, not taking the hint, reached into the cupboard for his cookie tin. “And there was one more bit about a missing soldier and church steps.”

The words hammered into his lungs. Marcus bent over, clutching the counter, vaguely aware that the dropped kettle had smashed a teacup to smithereens. Pink and green shards floated in front of his eyes, a terrifying gray haze sliding in to enfold his brain. The mists had come for Evan. Now they were coming for him.

And the part of him that would have been glad to go vanished in an onslaught of fear.

He was coming round. Sophie eased out of her healing trance slightly-Marcus was a strong mind witch, and he wouldn’t appreciate the invasion once he was conscious enough to feel it.

She looked over at six-year-old Lizzie, competently handling healer’s assistant duties. “Nice job on the monitoring there, sweetheart. What did you notice?” All moments were teaching ones, even when a perfectly healthy adult had collapsed while drinking tea with Aunt Moira.

Lizzie frowned. “It’s like Gran, but different.”