By the time I slipped into our bedroom, Quaid was already sliding under the covers. I had yet to tell him about my day, or he me about his, but from the weary look on his face I knew it would have to wait.
Still, the issue of Gabriel was too troubling to let go. I hopped up onto the bed, hands toying with the hem of the sheets as Quaid sighed and settled into his pillow, bare arm dark against the cotton.
"Gabriel seems to think the loss of witches was his fault." Anger roared suddenly now I was out of my son's gentle influence. "Who the hell would tell him that?"
Quaid's dark eyes blinked slowly. "You know witches," he said, sounding sleepy. Too sleepy for my liking. This was our son we were talking about. "They like to blame, speculate, pass rumors. He must have overheard some busybodies looking for a target. It's nothing, Syd."