Joanna pulled at the stalk nearest her head and squeezed, shouting an incantation she had not used in a very long time. But the words worked, and the tangle around her face dispersed. She could see the stars again, and the stalks began to weaken and slide away, thinning like an old man’s hair right before her eyes.
Whatever had brought the plants to life was gone, and all around the grass was gray and withered as before. She wasn’t sure if the plants had reacted to her presence, or if her magic had accidentally disturbed them. Certainly North Hampton was a place where things like this could happen, being so close to the seam and all. Ingrid had mentioned something in passing the other morning, about how she had noticed a gray darkness in the spirits of the people in town. Joanna had meant to look into it but had been busy with home renovations and with Tyler. The boy had recovered from that nasty ear infection and was back to his old habits: lining up his trains, running around in circles, refusing to eat anything but tunafish sandwiches.
Joanna chided herself for allowing herself to be distracted; constant vigilance was key to keeping North Hampton protected. She stood and scurried down the bluff, tearing at the dead grass as she cut through it on her way back to the beach. First the three dead birds, now this. There was something new and strange in town; something wicked this way had come.
chapter sixteen
Friend or Fraud
Shall I send in the rabid hordes?” Hudson asked, leaning on the office door, his hand on the doorknob. Ingrid knew he found the whole enterprise on the droll side—he insisted on calling her the White Witch of the Library, and had threatened to market T-shirts, or worse, start a Web site.
“Don’t make fun.” Ingrid frowned as she put away her files and cleared her desk in anticipation. She liked the office to look generic when her clients entered and not messy and stacked with blueprints and archival material.
Hudson looked hurt. “I’m not. I find it all sweet, really.”
“Do you believe what they say about me?” she asked. They had never really talked about what she was doing; everything had happened so quickly that they hadn’t had a second to themselves to chat. They used to spend lunch hours together, but Ingrid had little time for office camaraderie lately.
“The magic thing?” Hudson asked. “The spells and charms?” He put a finger against his cheek. “Not sure I believe in anything, really. I think you just tell them what they want to hear. Isn’t that how so-called ‘psychics’ work? Like that bearded quack on the cable network who speaks to the dead?”
“Hudson! You think I’m a fraud!” Ingrid barked a laugh, trying not to feel too offended. She had expected to hear that he was skeptical or doubtful, but not that he assumed she was merely playing parlor tricks.
“You’re not?” Hudson asked, a face of innocence. “I thought it was all a ruse to get people to come to the library and read books, and donate to the cause. Very clever, really. You’re always trying to figure out how to make the library more popular—I assumed you’d finally figured out how.”
When he put it that way, it sounded so reasonable, but Ingrid itched to show him just how much she could do. She gave him a look.
“Wait a minute, so you’re not just making it up?” Hudson asked.
“Try me,” Ingrid said. “Surely there’s something you want that you can’t get otherwise.”
“You can’t help me.” Hudson shrugged. He fished in his back pocket and showed her a worn brochure. Ingrid unfolded it slowly and read the headline. gay? you don’t have to be! heterosexuality is just 12 steps away!
“Mother is insisting I consult this . . . ‘therapist.’ One of those people who can, you know, cure me of my disease.”
“Oh, dear.” Ingrid put a hand on her mouth.
“I suppose it is amusing.” Hudson sighed, rolling his eyes in agreement.
“Of course not. It’s just . . . Hudson, this is ridiculous.” She returned the brochure to him and held his hand for a beat longer than necessary. “Hudson?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Come to the back with me, let me read your lifeline.”
“No thanks. I don’t like knowing the future. I don’t even know where I’ll be tomorrow.”
“You’ll be here. Working at the library until the wrecking ball hits. Come on. I insist,” Ingrid said, leading him to the storage room. She placed him in the middle of the room and drew a pentagram around his feet.
Hudson tried not to giggle. “Spooky!” he said.
“Shush!” Ingrid said, trying to peer into his lifeline. With the witch sight from the pentagram, it should have been clear, but there was something blocking her view—a hazy gray darkness, a blankness right where the vision should be. She lit another candle and murmured a few words, and the gray haze dissipated somewhat and she was able to see a little more clearly.
She switched on the lights and faced her friend. “For what it’s worth, your mother will come around one day,” she told him. She had seen it in his lifeline, the slow thawing of his mother’s stubborn heart, the ingrained homophobia (it was all right for her hairdresser, her interior decorator, her personal chef to be gay—just not her son!) battling with the fierce love she felt for her handsome boy. Missing him during every lonely Christmas. The slow, tentative steps toward reconciliation and forgiveness. A mother, son, and son-in-law trip to Paris. “She loves you, Hudson. Don’t give up on her.”
“Hmm” was all Hudson would say, but she knew he was moved. Later he left a bouquet of her favorite flowers on her desk.
Over the next hour Ingrid helped a variety of women with their concerns: more headaches, more bizarre skin infections, a pet or two who had died suddenly. Ingrid was not sure what they thought she could do about their dead animals, but she made a note of it, thinking of the dead birds her mother had seen earlier that summer. Emily Foster, the artist who had been blocked in her work, walked in at the end of the hour.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” she told Ingrid, looking pale and wan in an Indian tunic and silk pants stained with paint.
“It’s not a bother, Em. Blocked again?”
“No, no, the work is going well. It’s Lionel,” Emily said, her voice cracking. “I don’t know if you heard, but he’s in bad shape.”
“I hadn’t heard, what happened?”
“He was out in the water the day of the accident—you know, that big explosion off the coast. He always takes his sunfish out in the mornings. The waves knocked him out cold and he swallowed a lot of water.” Emily wiped the corners of her eyes with her fluttering hands and took a deep breath. “He would have died—he would have drowned—but luckily a couple of surfers found him and brought him to shore.”
“Oh my god.”
“I know.” Emily nodded. “They knew CPR, so they got his heart to start beating again and they took him to a hospital.”
Ingrid looked relieved. “So he’s alive?”
“Barely. He’s on a respirator. The doctors say he’s brain dead.” Emily began to weep openly.
“I’m so so sorry,” Ingrid said, taking Emily’s hand across the table and squeezing it in sympathy. Lionel was a good friend to their family; he was the one to whom the Beauchamps turned to replace hard-to-reach lightbulbs or perform small carpentry and handyman tasks around the house.
“I just can’t believe it. I mean, he was fine that morning and now . . . he’s brain-dead?” Emily began to cry. “And on top of that, his mother hates me. She’s kicking me out.”
“Pardon?”
“See, technically, it’s Lionel’s house. We never got married,” Emily said. “We didn’t plan on having kids so we didn’t see the point. God, I wish I hadn’t been so stubborn back then! Me and my idealistic bohemian ideals! Now they want the house back. They’re giving me until the end of the month to pack my things. They’re moving in so they can be closer to Lionel, and good riddance to me. They never liked me anyway, thought I was never good enough for their family.
“We’ve lived in that h
ouse since we first met. It’s my house. My studio is there. I don’t know where I’ll go. If only he would wake up. The doctors said there’s no hope. That he’s a vegetable.”
“What do you want from me?” Ingrid asked.
Emily looked up from her wet handkerchief and balled up tissues. “I know he’s in there. He can’t leave me. He’s got to wake up. He’s got to. Could you wake him up, Ingrid? Please?”
“I wish I could, I really do,” Ingrid said, shaking her head. “But my magic—I mean, what I can do, it doesn’t work that way.”
The grieving woman nodded. “I understand. I just thought I’d ask.” She began to gather her things, and seeing her friend looking lost and defeated stirred something in Ingrid’s heart. It was the same impulse that led her to help Tabitha get pregnant and throw off the bounds of their restriction.
“Hold on. I can’t help him,” Ingrid said, getting up from her chair. “But I know someone who can.”
chapter seventeen
Midsummer
Night’s Dream
For an agonizing week Freya kept the key to Killian’s boat in her pocket, and on Sunday night found herself standing in the shadows away from the dock. The dreams of Killian were getting more vivid each day; she could not walk a step or breathe a mile without thinking of him. His kisses had branded her, and at night she could feel his desire press upon hers.
The boat was a midsize sport fish, popular in the community for its twenty-foot outriggers. Her father had once owned a boat like it. She knew Killian was inside; she could sense his presence nearby, could feel him waiting in the quiet. If she closed her eyes and concentrated she could even see what he was thinking—the swoon of his body against hers, what they would do once she let herself inside. That was all she had to do. Step off the harbor and climb aboard. Put the key in the lock. Open the door. And fall off a cliff. Freya removed the key from her pocket. It felt as if it were vibrating, but it was only because she was trembling so much.
There was movement on the deck and Killian appeared from the cabin below, gazing out into the dark night. “Freya . . . ?” she heard him whisper. “Are you out there? Come on in.”
That was enough to steel her willpower. With a heroic toss, she threw the rotten key into the ocean and ran back to her car. She could feel it begin to form in her, a darkness, a recklessness that she would not be able to stop, would not be able to contain. She had to get away from him.
Later that same evening, Freya had a dream. It began when she realized she was not alone in bed, and a body lay heavy on hers. It was a familiar weight, and she struggled against it. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t open her eyes, and finally she stopped fighting as a quiet peace washed over her. When she blinked her eyes open she was walking in the woods, holding hands with Killian.
He smiled at her. “Don’t be afraid.”
“I’m not,” she told him. She knew where she was. They were walking to the middle of the forest behind her house, to a secret spring that only she knew, right into the heart of the wilderness, the only virgin maidenswood that remained in their keep, by the banks of a clear blue pond, a natural swimming hole.
“How did you know about this place?” she asked Killian, whose blue-green eyes were alight with mischief.
“You were the one who brought me here,” he said.
Freya wondered about that. She did not know if she was dreaming or if this was real. It certainly felt real, but there was a strange quality to it. How did she get here? She could not remember.
She walked to the banks of the pond and, with one fluid gesture, pulled off her dress to show she was naked underneath. She let him look at her, his eyes grazing over breasts, over the curve of her waist, her taut stomach, and toned legs. It was as deep as a physical caress.
“Follow me!” she yelled, diving into the water.
And soon he was kicking off his shoes, unbuttoning his shirt, and throwing his belt to the ground along with his pants. “Nothing you haven’t seen before,” he said with a wicked grin, following her lead and diving into the lake, his body a straight arrow falling gracefully into the water. He splashed up in a wave of water, sending a huge spray that drenched her to the bone.
The air was warm as a blanket on her skin as she dove back into the water. She swam as deep as she could until she couldn’t hold her breath any longer. She kicked to the surface and Killian splashed her. They swam and played, ducking away from each other, teasing and laughing, taking turns dunking each other underneath the water.
Freya felt the water move with her, her happiness filling the air like the cry of the Valkyries. She remembered their old traditions: dancing naked by the bonfire, covered with tar and paint; the masks, the chanting, the ecstatic communion with nature and everything that had made the earth. Once upon a time humanity had shared in that ecclesiastic connection, but no more. But here, with Killian, she was herself again, dancing and laughing and celebrating the beauty of being young and alive forever.
The water swelled and rose, erupting in a playful fountain that shone with dazzling light, her magic expanding as her joy grew, Killian laughing and smiling in wonderment. The very earth seemed to bless them, the grass wet and dewy, the sound of the wind whistling a complementary melody through the trees. She dove into the water and swam to the deepest part of the pond, and when she came up again Killian put his arms around her waist and pulled her toward him. She kissed him back and felt the deep passion of his kisses. Her heart beat faster and faster, as his hands traced circles around her body, over her breasts, between her legs. He brought her up on the riverbank and lay on top of her.
She closed her eyes and began to consecrate the circle, calling up the earth and water elementals to bear witness to their union. She began to chant and sing under her breath. The woods were alive with magic; every living thing, from the blade of grass to the graceful canopy of oak trees above, thrummed with a celebration of their love.
“I give . . .” I give myself to you, she would have said, except she was not able to finish the sentence, as the skies broke with a crash of thunder and lightning, and Killian was pulled away from her body; the hot electricity between them instantly cooled. The magic ended. The elementals vanished. Killian was gone.
Freya opened her eyes. She was back in her bedroom and her phone was ringing. She picked it up. “Darling?” a concerned voice asked.
“Bran!” Her relief was overwhelming. She fell back against her pillows and heaved a sigh. She was saved—saved from herself again, and from Killian.
“I missed you—I have a few minutes before my connection to Oslo so I thought I’d call,” he said. “I’m sorry to wake you.”
“I’m so glad you did,” Freya said, shaking. What just happened? What had she done? She had almost gone and married Killian for god’s sake. If she had been able to say the words, it was over—what the gods have wrought no one could tear asunder—that was the rule, that was how it worked, how it always had been. . . . She would have been his and only his always and forever. It would have been the end of everything.
She clung to the phone and Bran’s voice, willing the last vestiges of the dream away, until her heart stopped pounding and she fell asleep once again to the sound of the ocean waves lapping against the shore.
chapter eighteen
The Patron Saint of
Lost Causes
Why her daughter had promised this miracle Joanna did not know. She knew, of course, that Ingrid had set up something of a clinic in the library, doling out her brand of practical charms and domestic talismans while Freya was now offering her custom concoctions in a brand-new cocktail menu at the North Inn Bar. Both endeavors were clearly against the restriction, and yet Joanna could not find it in her heart to scold her daughters for their actions or demand that they stop. As she had overheard the girls say to each other the other day, it wasn’t as if she were completely innocent of the matter either. Already someone had reported a UFO sighting in the area after she had taken off to the skie
s the other day—Joanna hadn’t been as careful with the cloud cover as she had thought. UFOs indeed! She had not gained that much weight, had she?
At first she had told Ingrid there was no way she was going to do it; it was simply out of the question. She was still unnerved by her experience after the benefit; at night she could feel the vines begin to slide around her legs and suffocate her mouth. Joanna had performed a check of the seam, which she discovered had frayed in certain places. She refrained from mentioning anything to her daughters, since she did not want to worry them until she knew what it was.
Also, it was one thing to make toy soldiers run around and fix a burned pie; it was quite another to perform the Lazarus-like undertaking her eldest was asking her to do. This was resurrection they were talking about here, and yes, she had been put on Earth precisely for this task. But those days were over: the restriction had seen to that—and there was also the Covenant of the Dead to consider. One did not tiptoe around Helda’s territory lightly. Render to Caesar what was Caesar’s and all that. Okay, so maybe Lionel was technically still alive, but according to the doctors he was a vegetable. Joanna shuddered at the term and wished people would stop using it. To think of a man as nothing more than a plant was too . . . demeaning somehow. Of course, that was the point—to ease the sorrow so that the family could let go, since their loved one wasn’t truly there anymore.
But Ingrid had asked, and it really was an awful story: Emily, who painted those gorgeous seascapes and brought them beautiful brown eggs from her chickens and fresh milk from her cows, was getting booted out of her home just because of some nasty in-laws. Joanna definitely knew all about that. No one was ever good enough for anybody’s precious sons. No one ever called daughters precious, and why was that? Things had not changed very much. In the end women like Emily and Ingrid and Freya and Joanna only had one another to lean on. The men were wonderful when they were around, but their fires burned too bright, they lived too close to the sun—look what happened to her boy, and to her man. Gone. Women only had one another in the end. So she agreed to do what she could for Lionel, for Emily’s sake.