Legacy (43 page)

From a high branch one leaf fell. It was shriveled and dry, as dead as the tree on which it had grown. It floated lazily on the early morning breeze, catching the thin sunlight as it made its way down fifty feet of desolation to land, curled and papery, into Eric Shaw’s hand.

He looked at it for a moment, cooing softly in amazement as it plumped and grew green, it veins stiff with water, while those of us with him stood open-jawed at what was happening behind him: The tree was coming back to life, shedding its blackened bark, growing new branches, sprouting a crown of green leaves and young acorns.

The breeze picked up, filling the air with the scent of green. All through the Meadow, the spirits of the Summerland stirred. Serenity Ainsworth passed by me, and Zenobia, and Ola’ea. They were no more than a fragrance now, a vague memory. The dead cannot stay with us for long. They cannot bear our sorrow.

“Thank you,” I said as they rustled through the new green leaves of the living oak. I doubted if any of us—even
me—would remember that they were ever here. But in the distance, far away, I could hear the sound of water and wind and the turning of the earth, and the sun shone warm on my face as I listened to the great song, and knew that I would never, never be alone again.

Concentric circles.

In the midst of one world lies another, a mystic sanctuary where witches live as if they were mere humans. They celebrate the rare triumph of good over evil, congratulating themselves on their integrity and goodwill.

The revelers feast, unaware of all the circles around them. They are noisy, happy, lighthearted, satisfied. There is the sound of laughter. Talking. Music. The occasional snap of a party favor, the pop of a champagne cork.

Then, outside, the chirp of crickets, the songs of nightbirds. Voiceless creatures moving delicately through the woods. A snapped branch. The whistle of the wind. The rush of moving water. The deep, terrifying call of the sea.

Beyond that, wrapped in the conjured fog, the spirits of the Summerland arise, come to remember the agony and joy of life. Quiet stirrings, the longings of stilled hearts made
uneasy through memory. On this night, the dead cannot rest. On this night, they watch.

Above them, above it all, too far for the living to notice, too silent even for the dead to hear, curls a presence like black smoke against the black of night, invisible, inexorable, certain.

The Darkness.

Apart from the lands of the living and the dead, in the realm of deepest magic, it circles like a bird of prey, waiting, waiting . . .

Suddenly, in the center of the circle, something glimmers. A gold coin, turning, spinning, flashing prettily, seductively, fulfilling a prophecy that none of the witches remembers. Gold and power, and utter destruction.

Delicious.

The Darkness shivers.

Patient.

Waiting . . .

Waiting . . .

I am indebted to so many people for their support, encouragement, and assistance in the creation of this work: among them my agent Lucienne Diver and my editor Alexandra Penfold, for guiding me through the peculiarities and difficulties of this new genre . . . my stalwart readers Pam Williamson, Lynne Carrera, and Shay Miller, who vetted each page as soon as it was written and cheered me through the hard parts . . . my son Devin Murphy, for keeping me abreast of trends in fashion, speech, music, and electronics . . . Lady Liadan, who graciously supplied the three-part spell used in the book . . . Tim Fox and Michael Belletti of Fox Optical in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, for providing me with gorgeous new glasses when mine broke so that I could finish my story . . . and BFF Michele Horon, who spent many tortured hours agonizing over the plot with me.

I also need to thank my last corporate boss who, by firing me on a whim, convinced me to go back to writing, which, for all its heartbreak, is a lot more fun than actually working.

Blessings on them all.