Serpent's Kiss: A Witches of East End Novel (36 page)

“Oh, no, not again!” said Freya, squeezing her eyes shut to brace herself for the pain.

This time Freya did not fall asleep, moving through the time-line was much quicker and smoother, more like a jump cut in a French new wave film, like the scene from
Breathless
in which Jean Seberg’s movements are spliced as she rides along in the convertible—the tiniest moment missing from one to the next. They were here in one position, then there in another, all three huddled together on the sand, Joanna and Norman rushing at them. Freya felt sapped from the experience. Killian’s face looked paler, and a droplet of blood dribbled from his nostril, which Freya reached over and wiped, while they both held Anne, limp between them. It was early evening now, and the sky was a band of gray, then pink along sea.

“She needs food and water immediately,” said Killian. “Or more like an IV bag.”

“Yeah, I have one in my briefcase in the house,” said Norman—an attempt at humor. “I’m so glad you’re back.” He grabbed them all in a bear hug, and Joanna came to kneel beside her daughter, caressing her head, kissing it.

“We need to get Anne inside,” Freya said.

“Anne … how lovely. My
fylgja
.” Joanna had tears in her eyes.

“Goody Anne Barklay,” Freya said.

Anne’s head rolled. “Where am I? Who are you? Take me home! Please take me back,” she mumbled.

They carried her into the guest room by the study downstairs, made her comfortable in the bed. Joanna and Norman tended to her like seabirds to a nestling while Freya and Killian raided the fridge. After being caged for days on end and dragged into the square again and again, time-traveling had nearly done Anne in. They spoon-fed her broth and mashed vegetables, but mostly she needed to be hydrated, which would take time.

Killian and Freya had perked up but were still the worse for wear. They joined Joanna and Norman in the guest room once they had eaten and changed into their regular clothing.

“She looks like a Norn,” Norman said to Joanna, hovering by the bedside. “The beauty mark above her lip.”

“I am,” rasped out Anne, her eyes straining open. “Norn. My name is Verðandi, so I chose Anne in Midgard.”

“Verðandi,” repeated Joanna, shaking her head in awe.
Verdanne-dee
.

Freya sat at the side of the bed and took Anne’s hand. “Do you know my mother? Did you come to Joanna in spirit form to warn us about something?” she asked excitedly.

“Yes,” said Anne. “I lied to you before. I’m sorry. The guard, he has ears everywhere even though he feigns to sleep. Only interested in money, that one. He’s bleeding my husband—every little kiss costs more.” Her frail body shook. Joanna pressed a cool wet cloth to her forehead.

The information came slowly, Joanna and Norman filling Freya and Killian in with their own knowledge. Anne—Verðandi—was one of the Norns who tended to
Yggdrasil
. She was also a goddess of destiny as it is twined into the unfurling of time. Anne was the goddess of the present, her sisters the goddesses of the past and future, forming the triumvirate that controlled the fates of gods and men. Just as Joanna had guessed, Anne had placed the message on her own grave in such a way that Joanna might come to the conclusion she was a Norn.

Anne was indeed her
fylgja
, but she explained why she had been resistant to leaving the past with Killian and Freya. She had fallen in love with a mortal, she told them. “Me, I can always return to life, even if they hang me, but once John is dead, I will never see him again,” she said. She licked her chafed lips. Despite her misery in Fairstone, she had wanted to spend every last moment of that wretched, ignorant time with John Barklay. Taking her away would endanger him. When she returned, he could be dead.

She had wanted Joanna to come to her directly; she had made contact with her and trusted her. She didn’t know who else she could trust. Joanna was tied to her by an invisible thread, a thin tendril that tugged at Anne through time or when any of the Beauchamps or their loved ones were in danger. She would always recognize Joanna, and Joanna alone, because she was Anne’s spiritual ward, assigned to her since the beginning of time.

Anne told Joanna why she had reached out to her. Something had happened. She wasn’t meant to be hanged; she and John were supposed to live their lives together. She had seen it. But something had changed; evil had come to Fairstone, had begun the finger-pointing, stirring up trouble, singling out and persecuting witches.

“It all started when a new family purchased the Isle of Wight and settled there. They are new to the community and have caused us much grief.”

“Who?”

“Lion Gardiner and his wife,” Anne said. “We know him as …”

“Loki, of course.” Freya sighed. She would have recognized him anywhere she knew now. They called him Lion Gardiner but she knew him under different names: Branford Gardiner, Bran, Loki. “We can never seem to escape him—not in this life or any other.”

Captain Atkins and Freddie, the treasure in a cylinder slung over his back, silently glided up in the elevator to the forty-second floor and entered Her Majesty’s Shipping Co. This time they did not have to speak with the receptionist, who immediately called Mr. Liman as they walked past the clear-glass pod and headed toward his office. Freddie heard the young man announce, “They’re on their way, Mr. Liman.”

Liman rose from his swivel chair behind the ship-size desk, rubbing his hands. “Hello!” Luckily, the blinds were down, the light soft and welcoming this time. “Freddie, I’d say you look like the cat who has dragged in the mouse and is about to deposit it at my feet.”

“Looks like I’ve fulfilled my contract, Mr. Liman,” Freddie proudly replied.

“Indeed you have,” added Captain Atkins, standing behind Freddie, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Excellent!” said Mr. Liman, coming around the desk, appearing antsy to get his hands on the treasure that Freddie was slinging off his back. Mr. Liman took the cylinder from him and brought it over to his desk, punched in the combination to unlock it, humming to himself, then slid the slim, brilliant gold case out. “Excellent,” he repeated, inspecting it, then running a hand along its smooth surface. “I’ll open it later.” He lifted his eyebrows and smiled at Freddie.

Freddie beamed. “So when can I see Hilly? I wish to propose to her formally, even though I don’t have a ring yet—” Freddie cut himself short because Mr. Liman had begun to titter, but soon these soft, quiet paroxysms turned into bellowing, maniacal laughter that shook the walls of the skyscraper as if a supersonic jet were passing overhead.

Freddie’s face twitched. “What’s so funny?”

Mr. Liman picked up the contract, which still lay on the gleaming surface of his desk, and strode over to Freddie. “My dear boy, you
are
marrying my daughter as the contract states, but you must have not bothered to read the fine print. It isn’t Hilly you are to wed but rather one of my adopted daughters, Gert … the eldest. You’ll never be quite good enough for Hilly, Freddie.” Liman handed the contract to Freddie, whose knees had buckled at the news. He felt as if he had been socked in the chest by a large, blunt object. “Not back then, and not now.”

Freddie quickly skimmed over the contract and found the paragraph that undid him:

Following the execution of the duties described hereto in the Contract, Retriever will deliver unopened Gold Case containing Treasure to President and thereby will be obligated under the Contract, within a period of no longer than thirty (30) days, to (i) propose to, (ii) exchange vows with, and (iii) wed Gert Liman. Under no condition will Retriever evade above-mentioned obligations (i), (ii), and (iii), get cold feet, not show up at the altar for, or refuse to say ‘I do,’ or thereafter divorce Gerðr, or annul the marriage to Gert, or attempt to wed Hillary Liman instead of Gert, or conduct adulterous relations, whether emotional or sexual, in whatever form, at whatever point, with Hillary. If Retriever does not comply with the conditions set forth hereto, thereby breaching the terms of the Contract, Retriever will be subject to a fine described under Paragraph V and required to return to Limbo for a period no shorter than five thousand (5,000) years per Paragraph VI.

Freddie looked to the bottom of the page and saw the signature he had scratched with the ostrich feather pen earlier, using his blood as ink, only the color had changed to a darker one, resembling dead rose petals. “Who are you?”

Harold patted Freddie’s shoulder as if this could calm him down. “There, there,” he said. Freddie shrugged the captain’s hand off.

“So you have forgotten me,” said Mr. Liman, as if he were speaking to a child. “I’m just a humble god. It’s not like the mighty Fryr ever paid attention to details. But times have changed, haven’t they? Although in this, I think, your fate will always remain the same. Always in love with my girl, but I fear it will be unrequited for perpetuity. This is what happens when Joanna goes and communicates with the dead. Helda extracts a price and you have paid it. If you had only read the contract. You were too eager, dear boy, and you signed it with your blood.” He tsk-tsked.

Freddie swung around to Captain Atkins and glared at him, feeling entirely betrayed. Harold made a sad, cringing face and shrugged. “My hands were tied. I had no choice. I’m so sorry, Freddie.”

If anything, Freddie found the captain even more despicable than Mr. Liman. At least Liman had been a bastard from the beginning.

Yep, same thing over at Mayor Frond’s place. No damage. Over,” came the voice from the walkie-talkie as Matt strode toward Ingrid.

Teeth clattering, Ingrid extended her wrists together (one hand holding up her wand), the pixies crowded behind her.

“What are you doing?” Matt asked.

“Well, I
was
sending these kids home,” she said, still holding up her wrists.

More noise sputtered from the walkie-talkie, and Matt switched it off. He gestured to her hands. “I mean, holding out your wrists?”

“Aren’t you going to arrest me?” she asked as he leaned into the gaping doorway.

He shook his head. “Why? Did you do something wrong?”

“Isn’t that why you’re here? To take them away?” she said as she cautiously let her arms fall to her sides.

He answered her question with one of his own. “What’s all that noise?” he asked. “It sounds like birdsong.”

A warm breeze wafted up from the door, but Ingrid was still cold. The pixies continued to huddle around her anxiously.

Matt walked past them toward the open trapdoor. He kneeled down, held both sides of the door, and peered inside. He had such strong arms, Ingrid noted. “What is it?” he asked, looking back at Ingrid. “It’s amazing.”

“It’s where these homeless kids … these
pixies
live. It’s a portal to their world,” she said, knowing there was nothing to do now but tell the truth. He could either believe her, or he could continue to live under the delusion that magic did not exist. She studied his face, saw him grimace and then relax.

“Huh,” Matt said. “What’s it called?”

“Álfheim, the pixies are
álfar
… elves,” she said.

“Well, then we should get them home, shouldn’t we?” he asked.

“You’re not here to take them away?”

“Why would I?”

“But I thought …”

He shook his head. “I didn’t want to believe what was right in front of me. I knew there was something different about you … and I’m sorry for being such a pigheaded idiot.” He sighed. “It’s been hard for me accept that you’re really a witch. It goes against everything that I know is true. But I know a higher truth now. I don’t understand everything, but I believe you and I believe in you. I believe that you are magic.”

“You’re not an idiot,” Ingrid said, a smile beginning to grow on her face. She watched as he got to his feet—a single jump out of the pushup without falling in. She had no idea he was this athletic.

“I am … I would be … if I let you go,” he said, looking deep into her eyes. “Do you forgive me?”

“Always,” Ingrid said, her eyes shining.

“So, you’re a witch, huh?” he asked.

She nodded. “That’s one word for it. My real name is Erda, and I’m from somewhere else, too. But unlike the pixies, I can’t go home.”