Winds of Salem (13 page)

Inside the house, Freddie was making his way through the smoke-filled corridor upstairs. Somewhere behind him was his team—Big Dave, Hunter, and Jennie, the lone firewoman on the team. The trapped girl had been calling out to them for help from one of the rooms in the back, but now she’d gone quiet.

The hallway seemed to go on forever, the rooms on the way empty, filling with smoke and flames. It was as if someone had splashed the entire place with an accelerant. And there was not one fire sprinkler in this campus house. Huge possible lawsuit, Freddie thought. Underneath his mask with the self-contained breathing apparatus, he could hear his breathing getting louder.

Freddie reached out a hand, pushing at the flames along one wall, redirecting them: they moved down the wall but unexpectedly billowed back. Usually they responded to Freddie’s every command, the way a musician in the orchestra pit follows a conductor’s baton and hand gestures: rising, lowering, fading, stopping. Tonight the flames had a mind of their own.

If he didn’t find the girl soon, they were screwed. First came self-preservation, then rescue. But he knew she was close, and he needed to get to her. At this point, they would have to exit via the roof. The fire had followed them up the stairs. He remembered a recent dream in which he’d been surrounded, engulfed by flames, and realized the nightmare was presently unfolding before him. He had no power over the flame—he had become an ordinary firefighter in the midst of an out-of-control fire, a house on the verge of collapse. Sweat poured off his forehead, trickled down his neck. He heard the axes against the roof.

He moved farther inside a room. He sensed her. He could hear her heart pounding, or was that his? The carpet burned in spots. The crackling grew louder around him. He pointed his flashlight and saw an opened door, the bathroom, the girl on the tile floor, curled in a ball. Something hit hard against his helmet, falling behind him, grazing his bunker jacket—flaming debris. He quickly moved toward the girl in the bathroom. Flames leaped out at him from the side. He made a hand gesture and they rippled away, but then detached and spread, crackling and flickering, barring his way. He couldn’t stop them. The fire paid no attention to him.

Dammit! He knew his magic had been losing vigor, but he hadn’t been aware it had become this feeble. He needed to save the girl and get out. He moved forward, but the flames moved toward him. He lunged to the side. The flames lunged, flinging Freddie onto the floor like a wrestler, clasping a hand of fire at his neck. His mask fell off, and Freddie gasped in scalding flames.
This is it,
he thought.

Images flashed through his mind. He remembered the first time he had
really
seen Gert—that day on the campus when Hilly had broken up with him. He saw her dancing along the lamppost-lit path, her blond hair swaying, reflecting the light, the way she smiled as she turned to him.

Fire burned at his neck as the flames squeezed the air out of his lungs. He had never experienced death before, unlike the other gods, who would die and come back; he had been trapped for almost all of his long life in Limbo. He wondered if he should be afraid. They always came back, of course, but it would mean saying good-bye to this life. Good-bye to Gert for now, and who knew if he would be able to find her again? Then someone was pushing him, rolling his body, calling his name, spraying him with foam. The fire vanished, its hot weight dissipated. Jennie
kneeled beside him. “Big Dave’s got this one,” she said. “It’s okay, Freddie. You’re okay. We’re getting you out of here.”

Freddie woke to faint noises: beeping, whispers, squeaking, breathing. He blinked his eyes open and found himself staring up at a pale pink ceiling. His vision was blurry, the fluorescent lights too glaring. He felt his body’s deadweight, so heavy on the hospital bed. He turned his head to the side, and there was Gert, staring at him with so much tenderness. She was here.

“You’re awake,” she whispered, rising from her chair. She came over and touched his forehead, leaned over and kissed him gently.

His throat was dry and sore, and he could barely get a word out. “Gert,” he managed. “The girl… is she okay?”

“She’s fine. You saved her. They wouldn’t have known she was there if it hadn’t been for you.” Gert smiled lovingly at him and brought a glass of water up to his parched lips, helping him hold his head up so he could drink. “I was so scared when I heard what happened! They told me a beam fell on top of you, pinning you down! What happened—is it because we can’t do anything anymore?”

Freddie nodded. His body ached, and there was a stinging sensation along his neck.
All out of magic.
Gert could feel it, too. They didn’t talk about it much, but it was there—a slow transition to mortality. What did it mean?

“I’m sorry about Judith,” he said. “She didn’t deserve that.”

“It’s not your fault. The pixies confessed.” A small smile played on her lips. “And anyway, it was sort of funny…” She laughed.

He laughed. “I love you,” he said.

“I love you so much!” Gert blinked, and tears pushed out
from beneath her thick lashes, rolling down her cheeks. “I thought I had lost you!”

“Never!” said Freddie.

When they returned to the apartment they discovered they had the place to themselves for once, the pixies out of sight.

Freddie lay on the bed and Gert lay on top of him, her thick hair cascading over him as she gently kissed at his wounds, her lips a healing balm. He reached for the clasp at the back of her bra and took it off one-handed.

“You’re such a pro,” Gert teased.

He grinned as they moved together, Gert on top, grinding. Freddie felt alive, so alive, and life was good again—Gert was back.

chapter sixteen

The Perfect Family

Matt had Maggie for the weekend. Even though Ingrid had made a point of telling him she would be busy, she harbored a small, secret wish that he might call, surprise her, ask her to do something impromptu with them. The truth was Ingrid was lonely. Her research was at a standstill: while she had zeroed in on the probable source of the hysteria, there were still so many things she didn’t know.
Why?
Why did the girls do it? Why did they suddenly begin to point fingers and call their various acquaintances and friends witches?

In the meantime, Joanna and Norman had gone MIA, and she had called Freddie to see if he and Gert wanted to spend the weekend on Long Island, at home, bring the pixies even—but they were all busy, too. Ingrid had visited the other week after Freddie’s accident, and she was relieved to find her little brother doing well. She missed him, but as she understood it, he and Gert were having some kind of second honeymoon.

She called her best friend, Hudson, but he was in the city with his boyfriend, Scott. That was odd—hadn’t Hudson mentioned on Friday as they had closed the library that he would be in North Hampton “
all
weekend long,” hard at work on that dissertation for his doctorate in Romance languages at Harvard? Ingrid had helped him pick out a few salient books for his
research. How many years was it now that he had been working on his PhD? Was it going on eight? No wonder, thought Ingrid, shaking her head at her friend, if he was running off to the city to go shopping when he promised to buckle down.

Her pride kept her from calling Matt and admitting she had free time.

It was noon on a Saturday. A long, solitary weekend stretched ahead. Who else might she call? Tabitha? But she remembered Tab and Chad were off on their babymoon to some resort in the Bahamas.

Dejected, Ingrid walked into the kitchen to make a sandwich. But because her rebellious teen of a mother had vanished on a joy ride, the fridge was nearly empty. An expired yogurt. Limp carrots. Old Chinese food in to-go containers from Hung Sung Lo’s.
Ugh!
Part of Freya’s genius was scaring up a meal when there was barely a thing left in the fridge and cupboards. Ingrid longed to hear her sister’s laughter, wished Freya was in the kitchen making one of those magical meals, the two of them talking about anything that came to mind.

She needed to get out of this gloomy, quiet house. She would grab a panini at the local café, bring a newspaper, catch up on current events. She had become such a bore with her head stuck in the seventeenth century and had no idea about what was going on in the world lately. Tabitha had been appalled when Ingrid had admitted she hadn’t known the actor who played a young hipster in the show
Williamsburg
had died in a plane crash last week, one of those little four-seater jets.

Ingrid had never even heard of that show.

A scattering of clouds hung low on the horizon, but overhead, the sky was a clear robin’s egg blue. It was cold but the
breeze smelled of the sea, and there were a number of winter tourists about, who liked the cheaper rates and had been lucky enough to find their way to the charming little town. When Ingrid arrived at Geppetto’s, the café at the end of the park, the outdoor tables in the covered and heated patio were all taken. The hostess came over, asking how many were joining her.

Ashamed of being alone, Ingrid glanced down. “Just me,” she muttered.

The girl smiled as if she pitied her. “Great!” she said on a high note, then gave Ingrid the once-over. “I’ll see what I can do.” She pivoted on her heel.

Ingrid stood in line, her purse dangling off a shoulder, her newspaper in hand. She lifted her sunglasses onto the crown of her head and scanned the tables. Someone was waving. Matt. She started. He was sitting with Maggie and a gorgeous-looking brunette in big dark sunglasses. Who
was
this woman who was leaning toward Matt, whispering something in his ear, looking a little too intimate for Ingrid’s taste. Maggie looked up and saw Ingrid, and began flailing her arms.

“Over here!” the young girl greeted.

Ingrid had no other choice than to make her way toward them.

“Hey!” said Matt. “What are you doing here? I thought you were busy all weekend.”

“I am. I, uh… just needed a break and something to eat. I do have to get back to work,” she lied. She patted her bun, making sure it was in place.

The woman removed her sunglasses and stared expectantly at Ingrid, smiling. Something about her recalled an elegant Italian movie star, like a Sophia Loren or Claudia Cardinale. She was the opposite of Ingrid: busty, hourglass shaped, dark, sensual
looking. Matt had compared Ingrid to Grace Kelly, but next to this bombshell she felt pale, thin, and gangly.

Maggie stared at Ingrid with her big, watchful eyes. “The stuffed clams are to die for. Come, sit with us!”

Ingrid felt at a loss and the woman elbowed Matt, giving him a look. “
Matthew!
” she chastised. There seemed an ease and familiarity between them.

It felt as if the ground, which had already been shaky when she saw them, completely dropped from beneath Ingrid. Her pulse sped.

Matt looked a little uncomfortable as he made the introductions. “Ingrid, this is Mariza Valdez, Maggie’s mom. Mariza this is
Ingrid
!”

“Yes, of course.” Mariza smiled. “Margarita talks so much about you.”

Oh right, of course,
Ingrid thought. She had completely forgotten that there was a mom in the picture. Ingrid couldn’t help but note that Mariza called Matt by his full name (“Matthew,” which sounded so
sexy
somehow) and Maggie “Margarita”—had she been wrong in calling her Maggie? But Matt called her Maggie. The woman reached out a hand, and Ingrid shook it.

“Delighted!” Ingrid said with a smile that hurt her cheeks.

The hostess had come around with a couple to seat them at the table that had cleared beside them.

“Mari!” cooed the woman being seated as she looked their way.

“Rowena!” Mariza cried.

Rowena and Mariza fawned over each other, each saying how great the other looked. Ingrid glanced at Matt, who rolled his eyes. He motioned for her to sit beside him. Maggie continued to smile at her imploringly. The whole situation was growing more awkward by the second.

Rowena Thomas.

She had been one of Ingrid’s clients back in the days when she provided her once-popular counseling services at the back of the library. She hadn’t seen Rowena in a while. Shortly after Freya’s disappearance, Ingrid had abandoned the “witching hour,” as Hudson facetiously called it, forever the skeptic about Ingrid’s “witching abilities.” She didn’t love Hudson any less for doubting her, but in a way her mortal friend was right. Her magic had grown ineffective, and she had begun to feel like a sham. Now her office remained locked at lunch hour, a note on the door explaining that counseling services would resume at a later date. Ingrid had made Rowena a talisman for her mother’s kidney problems and also a love knot or two or three. Rowena had been desperate to fall in love.