The Returning (12 page)

Finally she said, “She has books with scary pictures in them.”

“What kind of scary pictures?” Dad asked.

Phoebe shrugged. “I don’t know.”

A motorboat sped by close to the end of the dock, cutting a wake in the water. Billy watched as the series of small waves rolled to shore.

His father leaned forward again to look at Phoebe. “Do you know what the books are?”

“No,” Phoebe whispered. To Billy’s surprise, she added, “She uses them when she casts her spells.”

Billy had to think about that for a minute. Suddenly, he laughed. “You mean, like Beka is a witch or something?”

Phoebe narrowed her eyes at him, and Billy stopped laughing.

“What makes you think she’s casting spells, Phoebe?” Dad asked.

“Well, once she got mad at me and said she was going to put a spell on me if I didn’t go away and leave her alone.”

“She did?” Dad looked at Billy. “Is that what kids are into these days, Billy?”

“Not me, Dad.” Billy shook his head. “I don’t know anything about it. Maybe she thinks she’s Harry Potter or something. She and her friends were crazy about all those movies.”

“Oh yeah,” Dad said. He nodded and then smiled at Phoebe. “Listen, honey, it’s just pretend. Beka can’t really put a spell on you. All that stuff in the movies—that’s just pretend too. You know that, don’t you?”

Phoebe looked out over the lake. She didn’t answer.

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

The moon wasn’t anywhere
near full, and today wasn’t the right day of the week for this kind of thing, but Rebekah decided to go ahead and do it anyway. It couldn’t hurt. She could do it now and do it again later. After all, as Lena had explained, that was what was so wonderful about all of this; you were free to do whatever you wanted, however you wanted to do it. Rebekah had the power within herself to make things happen; she had only to find the right way to unleash that power. At least that’s what Lena said.

Glad that Phoebe had already made her nightly trek to Billy’s room, Rebekah pulled back the double doors of her closet to reveal her sacred space. That was where she kept the wooden crate she used as an altar, her candles and incense, her herbs and oils—all the tools of the Craft that she’d been collecting over the past months. The crate lay on its side with the open end facing out so that she could use the crate itself as a sort of cubby for her belongings. She also had a small collection of magic books given to her by Lena and Lena’s aunt Jo, who knew just about everything there was to know about the Craft. Rebekah’s most important book, of course, was her Book of Shadows, a spiral notebook in which she recorded her thoughts, her feelings, and her own made-up spells.

She glanced at the luminous face of the clock on the nightstand beside the bed. Just past midnight. At least it was a good time, she thought, to call on the elements to make her more beautiful. She had to be beautiful for David because she didn’t want to lose him. The thought of being without him terrified her, but she tried to push it away. She didn’t want to be pulling down any negative thoughts when she should be envisioning only good things. If she did this right, she could bend even the universe to her will. She wanted badly to believe that. She needed badly to believe it. She reminded herself that some months ago she had cast a spell, asking the universe to send her love, and right after that David had shown up. That had to be more than coincidence.

Rebekah lit two candles on the altar—both red, the color of love. Around the base of the candles she sprinkled cinnamon, ginger, marjoram, and thyme, all of which were an aid in love, and all of which she had conveniently found in her mother’s spice rack.

For just a moment she hesitated. Maybe she should wait for the full moon after all. But no, that was two, maybe three, weeks off, and she couldn’t wait that long. She had to do something now. David was sure to find out the truth about her father, and that might change his mind about her. On top of that, she had seen him tonight talking with Jessica Faulkner while he collected tickets at the Ferris wheel. They had talked a little too long and had laughed a little too much, as far as Rebekah was concerned.

When Rebekah and David met at closing time, she asked him what he and Jessica had been talking about. David had shrugged and said, “
I don’t know. Nothing much. Why?
”

“
No reason. Just looked like you were having fun
.”

“
Not jealous, are you?
”

“
No
.” Yes. She was jealous and afraid, but she wouldn’t let on.

“
Want to meet tonight?
”

“
I’ve got to lie low for a while
.”

“
How come?
”

“
My dad’s back, remember? It’s harder now to sneak out and back in without getting caught
.”

“
Yeah. Okay
.” He’d obviously been irritated.

“
Soon, though, David. We’ll meet soon. I promise
.” Because if she couldn’t spend time with him, he’d find someone who could.

On the floor in front of her she dumped the contents of a plastic bag. These were the items she would need for the ritual: her makeup, soap, shampoo, lotions, several pieces of jewelry, a hand mirror, and a mister filled with holy water consecrated beneath a full moon. Carefully she placed each of the items on the crate that served as her altar.

She stood then to cast her circle. “
You can never forget to cast your circle
,” Lena had warned, “
or you leave yourself open to negative energy
.”

Moving clockwise, Rebekah defined her circle by placing stones on the floor to create a perimeter. Next she placed her elemental representations on the points depicting north, south, east, and west: a jar of dirt for earth, a feather for air, a tiger’s eye gemstone for fire, and a shell for water. As she did so, she pushed back a stray doubt about what she was doing, knowing that the doubt itself would work against her, interfering with what she wanted to accomplish. Once the elements were laid, she used a small broom to brush away any doubts and all negative thoughts; the circle was a sacred place and needed to be pure. To fill the space with positive energy, she opened a jar of salt water coated with rosemary and, dipping her fingers in the mixture, flicked the water around the circle’s edge.

When she finished, she paused a moment, unsure what to do next. She didn’t want to mess up. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she shut her eyes and pictured Lena. In her mind she heard again what her friend had told her so many times. “
You can’t do anything wrong, you know. That’s the beauty of it. Anything you do is right. Just do what works for you
.”

She picked up the mister and sprayed each item on the altar with holy water. Each time she sprayed, as the mist tumbled down upon each object, Rebekah whispered, “The power of beauty in me, around me, on me. The power of love in me, around me, on me.”

She paused and took a deep breath. It was time to center herself. Before she could go on with the ritual, she would have to purify her mind and draw up positive energy from the earth, letting the power sink into every part of her body.

“
You will learn
,” Aunt Jo had told her, “
that you yourself are divine. You are a part of the goddess and the god, the lady and the lord, the universal one. You can do anything
.”

Rebekah stood and raised her arms. She shut her eyes and tried to release the nagging doubts, tried to dwell on the divinity within her. She hoped that Lena’s aunt was right and that she could do anything, because losing David would mean losing the best thing in her life.

C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN

The cramped church basement smelled
of mold and old coffee and somebody’s too-sweet perfume. Eleven people sat in a circle on metal folding chairs, some chatting quietly, a few sitting silently as they waited for the meeting to begin.

John looked down at his hands, clasped loosely at his knees like two people caught in a conversation they didn’t want to be in. Nothing about his body felt right at the moment because he really didn’t want to be here, exposing himself as something he still didn’t like to accept.

He’d grown used to the A.A. meetings in prison, but it had taken a couple of years, mostly because in prison he was struggling to see himself not only as an alcoholic—which he had long denied—but worse, as a criminal. Granted, he was a lousy husband, a second-rate father, and an unreliable provider, but still—how do you go from that to a convicted criminal seemingly overnight? One day you’re holding a low-wage but honest job and the next you’re in the slammer without so much as a clear memory of the events that got you there.

For a long time he refused to put himself on a par with the other prisoners. They were the real criminals, the conscious wrongdoers. They had robbed convenience stores at gunpoint, sold crack cocaine on street corners, committed fraud, abused children, killed their wives. John Sheldon hadn’t done anything like that. He’d had no desire to kill a man and no intention of killing the man he did kill.

Only after thirty-three months and probably a hundred talks with Pastor Pete did John realize there was something about the human heart that could make a man do even things he didn’t want to do. Only after all those months of being locked up did he come to understand that there was something to the idea of good and evil, and if you didn’t choose the one, you’d be chosen by the other.

That was when he surrendered, seeing himself for what he was and knowing he’d go on spiraling downward if goodness didn’t intervene. God broke in then—safety net, savior, life itself.

Still, John didn’t want to be here at this A.A. meeting, admitting to strangers he was something he didn’t want to be. He wouldn’t have come if it hadn’t been a requirement of his probation. He certainly didn’t need A.A. to stay dry. Killing someone, he’d discovered, had a way of putting a person off alcohol for good.

John looked up with a start when a man across the circle began to speak. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he said as he rose to his feet. “This is the regular meeting of the Conesus Lake group of Alcoholics Anonymous. My name is Larry, and I’m an alcoholic and your secretary.”

He was a tall, gaunt man, about sixty-five years old. He had a narrow, fleshless face and thinning gray hair, and he wore a pair of baggy trousers that appeared to be held up not so much by his belt as by his protruding hip bones. He might have appeared more dead than alive except for the uncanny warmth in his eyes and a voice so rich in compassion it seemed to settle like a down comforter over the entire group.

“Let’s open our meeting tonight with a moment of silence and the Serenity Prayer.” He shut his eyes and bowed his head. Everyone in the circle followed suit.

In the next moment John heard the murmurs of the Serenity Prayer rise up around him. He heard himself join in, heard the words tumble from his own reluctant lips, heard above everything else Larry’s strong voice leading the group like a shepherd gently herding his flock.

John liked Larry instantly, knew there was something good and solid about him, and would have gone on listening to the man with intrigue if, upon looking up at the close of the prayer, he hadn’t found himself gazing directly across the circle at a woman who hadn’t been there a moment before. She must have slipped in quietly when everyone had their eyes shut. She had settled in the vacant chair right next to Larry, and though she’d come in late, she looked as unrushed and serene as if she’d been there the entire time.

Larry looked down at her and chuckled. “I hardly heard you come in, Pamela. Glad you could make it.”

“Sorry I’m late, Larry. Car trouble.”

“That’s all right. Car running okay now?”

“Yeah. I called Triple A and got it jumped. That was all it needed.”

“Good, good. Well, let’s get on with the meeting, then, shall we?”

Larry talked on, but John didn’t listen. He was too busy trying to steal glances at the woman named Pamela. He’d never seen anything like
that
at the A.A. meetings in prison, had never seen anything like that in prison at all, save in his own imagination. She was no doubt the kind of creature that invaded the dreams of every man behind bars, their waking dreams, their sleeping dreams, those gut-wrenching dreams that leave a man tossing feverishly in the dead of night.

She was lovely and classy and soft, without that hardened look of so many women who’d spent years cradling a bottle. She was young, but not so young that she hadn’t lived. She had an open, serious face and full red lips and hair the color of mahogany and doelike eyes that held a look John knew well. He was acquainted with that look from his years inside, had seen it often in the eyes of the prisoners, an expression that spoke of a loneliness so deep it seemed to be bottomless. How could a woman like this know such loneliness?