Silver at Midnight: A Paranormal Romance Urban Fantasy (The Keepers of Knowledge Series Book 5) by Bridgette O'Hare (reading books for 4 year olds txt) 📗

it out to be radioactive. If I were human, I’d not only avoid it, but I’d avoid every town withing a forty-five-mile radius. I was certain this detail might have swayed my expectations of what I’d find when I arrived.

It wasn’t a ghost town. It was quaint and historical and bustling with people. I drove the black Chevy Malibu I’d purchased from a used car dealer in Boston—using my newly acquired alias—down Main Street and turned onto Keeper Way. I decided my first stop in town should be to see Uncle Lachlan, then I’d locate Nira Garrison and check in. Besides, I had Uncle Lachlan’s address, and I had no idea how to find the Garrison woman. How do you look up an address if the town itself isn’t even supposed to be populated? I made a mental note to ask if they had a town directory or information hotline or something. I couldn’t have been the first one to wonder about it.

It took a few minutes, but I found Uncle Lachlan’s house on the corner of Keeper Way and West Road. He happened to be in his yard trimming some limbs from an exceptionally large tree. By the time I pulled into his drive, parked, and got out, he had foregone his task to walk toward me.

As I got out of my car, a smile spread over his face.

“Aisling, my dear, ‘tis so good t’ see ye!” he exclaimed and hugged me as if a day hadn’t passed since our last encounter.

“Hello, Uncle Lach. It’s nice t’ see you too,” I returned the regard and the hug.

“Let me look at ye,” he demanded as he took a step back, keeping a hand placed on each of my arms like I might get too far, or too close, for him to focus if he didn’t. “You haven’t changed a bit. Still as lovely as ever.”

“Thanks, Uncle Lach. You are lookin’ well, yourself,” I replied.

He laughed. “I appreciate ya trying t’ humor an old man.”

He called himself an old man, and although he was in his late seventies, he didn’t look a day over fifty-five. Fae aged extremely well and often lived to be well over a hundred. We weren’t immortal and didn’t do anything unsavory, like some races, to achieve immortality. But unless extenuating circumstances came into play, our mid-life crisis could easily hit around the age of seventy or so. Mom and Grams had unfortunately fallen into the category of extenuating circumstances. I honestly didn’t know what had happened to my father. Mom never talked about it. She’d always said she’d tell me about him when I was older, but she never got the chance.

“I’m so glad yer here,” he moved next to me and squeezed me in a side hug. “Let’s go inside and put on a pot of tea and catch up, shall we?”

“That sounds lovely,” I agreed.

I had never given any thought to what Uncle Lachlan’s house might look like, but once inside it made sense. Every item reflected his personality and the aura he exuded. It was classic and traditional in an old-world, dark mahogany and leather kind of way, but inviting and comfortable at the same time. I recognized elements of Grams’ style as I looked around and took it all in.

He put on a kettle while I meandered through the sitting room and looked at the photos situated on the fireplace mantle. There were a few from older family holidays with me, Mom, and Grams. He had one of me in my cap and gown when I graduated from university, and there was a beautiful black and white photo of him and Grams as teenagers sitting on a rock with a lighthouse in the background. I didn’t recognize the place, but they were laughing and holding up shells like it was the best day ever. I smiled and moved on to an enclosed glass cabinet where a collection of relics was displayed. Because of my work during the past seven years with Natra, I knew a thing or two about relics and artifacts. Uncle Lachlan had quite the collection.

“See anything interestin’?” he asked as he approached with two mugs, handing one over to me.

“Thank you,” I said as I wrapped my hands around the warm mug. “And aye . . . you have some fascinating items here.”

“I thought ye might be one t’ appreciate them,” he offered with a sly smile and moved over to take a seat in a comfortable looking leather chair by the fireplace.

The tone and manner in which he made the statement left me wondering if he was referring to the fact that I had minored in archeology at university or if Uncle Lachlan did, in fact, know of more than I was aware. Interrogation was an art form. The most effective interrogators asked the fewest questions and did so in the most conversational of manners. Never allow a target to think you need the information you want. Steer the conversation in a direction that gets them comfortable and talking. Not that the technique would work on my uncle. For all I knew, he’d hold things as tight to the vest as Grams had always done. They were cut from the same cloth and taught by the same parents; odds were, they’d be more alike than I had ever considered. But it was worth a shot.

“Of course I appreciate them,” I replied. “I would love t’ hear the stories of how ya came into possession of some of these. There must be some interesting adventures t’ be told.”

“Aye, lass. I’ve had my share of adventures and I certainly have a few stories. But I’m sure ya have a few of yer own to tell,” he added. “Have a seat, maybe we can exchange one or two. You can start by telling me how ya have been fairin’ lately.”

I settled into an identical leather chair situated opposite him in front of the fireplace. It was even more comfortable than