Witches of East End (10 page)

chapter eighteen

The Patron Saint of
Lost Causes

W
hy 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 skies 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.

Privately, Joanna had started to wonder if provoking the Council might be a good idea, anyway. Freya’s upcoming nuptials had put her in an optimistic mood. If the fickle goddess of Love was tying the knot on the night of the harvest moon (the Labor Day weekend fell right on their traditional holiday—not that they were allowed to celebrate it anymore, of course), perhaps there was still hope that things would finally change around here.

But if she was actually going to do this she was going to need the right ammunition. It might be a good idea to have it anyway, after what happened the other night. They would need protection from whatever was out there. Joanna climbed up the attic steps and rooted around the cramped space until she found the false wall where she had hidden their greatest treasures. She had been very careful to make sure the Council did not take everything back then.
Ah.
There was the black steamer trunk, right where she had left it hidden under a piano sheet so many years ago. She pulled off the dusty sheet, unlocked the lid, and looked inside. The box was empty save for a simple wooden case, and from inside the wooden case Joanna removed three ivory wands, as pristine and beautiful as the day they were made.

“Mother? What are you doing up there?” she heard Ingrid call from below. “We need to leave for the hospital now, before visiting hours are over.”

“Coming, dear,” she replied. When she climbed back down she was holding the three wands tightly in her left hand. She handed two of them to Ingrid. “Make sure you give Freya hers when she gets home. But remember to be careful with them. Only use when absolutely necessary.”

“Are you sure about this, Mother?” Ingrid asked, holding the wands reverently. They were made from dragon bone, from the skeleton of the old gods, older than the universe itself, the very bones that created the earth, the same ones that once supported the bridge. Translucent, white to the eye, they shone with an iridescent light.

“Not really. But something tells me it’s time we took them out of storage,” Joanna said. She stuck her wand in her coat pocket. “Now, come on, let’s go see if we can wake up Lionel.”

T
hey arrived at the hospital in the late afternoon, managing to make it right before the patients’ rooms were closed to visitors. “So how long has he been out?” Joanna asked, rolling up her sleeves as they made their way to the correct floor.

“About a week or so.”

“And there’s no brain activity at all?”

“Some, but not enough to guarantee he would ever recover consciousness.”

Joanna nodded. “Good. This shouldn’t be too hard, then.” If there was still some brain activity it meant Lionel was only barely submerged in the first level of the underlayer, and it would be easy enough to pull him to the surface.

“That’s what I thought.” They arrived at the right room, but before Ingrid opened the door, she turned to Joanna. “Thanks, Mother.”

Joanna patted her daughter’s arm. She would never have agreed to it unless Ingrid had asked, and since Ingrid never asked for anything, as her mother she couldn’t refuse. Besides, Emily Foster’s story piqued Joanna’s sense of injustice. Marriages weren’t held together by paperwork, and it angered her to think that a woman could be thrown out of her home simply due to bad luck and horrid in-laws.

Ingrid pushed open the door to find Emily Foster weeping by Lionel’s bedside. His body was covered by a sheet, and Ingrid exchanged a startled look with her mother before approaching.

“They pulled the plug while I went home to change my clothes and check on our animals. When I came back the nurse told me his mother signed the consent forms. She knew I wouldn’t agree so they did it behind my back. He’s gone. He’s gone, Ingrid. You’re too late,” Emily sobbed.

Joanna pulled off the sheet slowly and took the dead man’s wrist in her hand. His skin was gray, and his fingernails were white and bloodless, but there was still a hint of color on his forearms. “The body’s still warm. They did this when . . . just a few minutes ago?” she asked.

“Just before you arrived,” Emily said.

“Emily, this is my mother. She’s going to help Lionel.”

“I remember,” Emily said, blowing her nose. “Hi, Mrs. Beauchamp.”

“Close the door,” Joanna instructed. “Draw the curtains and take her out of here.”

Ingrid did as told and guided Emily out of the room. “What’s going to happen? I mean, he’s dead, right?” Emily asked, looking at the two witches fearfully.

Ingrid and Joanna exchanged another glance. “Not quite. Even without a machine, the heart keeps beating, it’s just undetectable as it’s a very, very low pulse,” Joanna said, hoping the newly bereaved woman would believe her tiny white lie. But it would be too difficult to tell her the truth: that she was going to bring Lionel back from the dead. He had been gone for only a few minutes, not even an hour, which was well within the allotted time.

When she was alone in the room, Joanna took Lionel’s cold hand in hers. She closed her eyes and stepped into the glom, the twilight world of disembodied souls. In the glom was a path, a trail in the sand. Using her wand to light the way, Joanna saw that Lionel had made it only to the second level; he was climbing the mountain toward the gate, and once he crossed the gate it would be much harder to bring him back. For beyond the Kingdom of the Dead lay Hell’s frontier.

There was something different about the glom, a sense of malice and despair that she had never felt before. “Lionel! Lionel!” she called. She wanted to get out of there as soon as possible.

Lionel Horning turned around. He was bald and severe-looking, dressed in his usual attire of paint-splattered clothing. When he saw her he smiled. “Mrs. Beauchamp, what are you doing here?”

Joanna climbed up next to him so that they were both looking over the view. “Taking you home.”

“I’m dead, aren’t I?” he asked.

“Only in human terms. Your heart has stopped beating,” Joanna said.

“Did I drown? I seem to remember being all wet.”

“You did.”

“Emily always said that ocean would get the better of me one day.”

Joanna analyzed his spirit. There were traces of a silver spiderweb around his soul; she had never seen that before and it worried her. “Would you prefer to stay here?” she asked Lionel.

He looked around. “Not really. What is this place?”

“Think of it as the halfway station. See that gate up there? Once you reach it, it’ll be harder to get you to the surface.”

“How’s Emily?”

“Not good. She’s about to get thrown out of your house.”

“My parents!” he groaned. “I know I should have forced her to marry me. She’s stubborn, you know.” He sighed. “I can’t leave her.”

“Then don’t.”

He stared at the glimmering path, at the mountain trail that reached toward the silver gate. She knew how hard this decision was. He had been in the underlayer, in the glom, for a week now. He had forgotten about hardship and fear; he was beginning to transition to the spirit world. Perhaps this wasn’t such a great idea. Perhaps she should never have agreed to do this.

He looked at the faraway gate, shining in the distance. “Right. Let’s go, then.”

Joanna took his hand and led him back down the way he had come. He started to walk back but suddenly stopped. “I can’t move,” he grunted. “My feet are stuck.”

“Try harder,” she ordered. She felt the hard tugging on the other side; that would be her sister, Helda, holding on to his spirit.

“Do not test me, sister!” Joanna called, waving her wand in the air so that it flashed with a hot white light. “Remember you agreed to keep to the Covenant! It is not his time yet!” She kept her hand on Lionel’s arm and pulled. The wind howled, the oceans crashed, lightning flashed. The Kingdom of the Dead did not give up its souls that easily.

But Joanna’s magic was stronger; this was the power that was rooted in her, older than the earth, older than the Dead, and her ferocious will held on to Lionel and pulled him up and out of the trail. . . . There was a mighty flash. . . .

Joanna was sitting by Lionel’s bedside, holding his hand in a tight grip. The dead man blinked his eyes. He coughed and looked around. “Where’s Emily?”

L
ionel’s parents were thrilled to have their son back, if a bit sore about losing the house, although they tried not to show it. Joanna and Ingrid bade their good-byes.

“How can I ever thank you? I don’t know what you did, or how you did it, but thank you.” Emily wept. “What can I give you? . . . anything. Take the house,” she laughed. “Lionel’s putting me on the deed.”

Joanna embraced her and kissed her on both cheeks. “Take care of each other,” she said. “And keep an eye on him. He might be feeling a bit off for the next day or two. If anything changes with his condition, let us know immediately.”

Ingrid led them down the hallway. “So, about this whole restriction . . . I’d say bringing a man back to life kind of breaks each and every one of those rules, doesn’t it?” she teased.

Joanna smiled. The whole adventure had felt fantastic, like the good old days again. She stuck her wand into the bun of her hair. “To hell with it. We might as well admit it. We’re witches. Just let them try to stop us this time.”

chapter nineteen

Rhinemaiden

M
att, hi. Caitlin’s just finishing up processing a few new books; she’ll be out soon,” Ingrid said with what she hoped was a friendly smile.

The handsome detective nodded and took his usual seat at the bench across from the main desk. Ingrid felt as if she had blinked and when she opened her eyes, Matt and Caitlin were a couple. It happened so fast that she suspected Freya had slipped one of her now famous love potions in the lawman’s coffee. Her sister swore up and down that Matt had not been to the bar in a while; nor had she recently served Caitlin, who was one of those girls who got drunk after one glass of wine and was hardly a North Inn regular.

Ingrid tried to concentrate on the files in front of her, but knowing Matt was sitting right across from her made it difficult. If he had been something of a regular before, there was no escaping him now. Every afternoon he would appear at the library around five o’clock right on schedule. Sure, today was Thursday and the beginning of a holiday weekend, but still. Didn’t he have something better to do? How did he have so much time to spend lolling about waiting? Weren’t there crimes to solve? It had been more than six months since Bill Thatcher had been found dead on the beach, and the police had no leads. His wife, Maura, was still in a coma, which was too bad as she was the only witness to whatever had happened to them.

The detective’s constant presence was annoying, but not half as irritating as watching Caitlin get ready for her dates. The girl was in the back room, furiously slapping on blush and lipstick, telling everyone in earshot everything about her new relationship. Even Tabitha and Hudson had been pulled into the drama—Tabitha because she adored romance in all forms, and Hudson because he soaked up drama like a sponge. Ingrid had attempted to escape all the girly commotion only to find the lawman idling by the main desk.

She tried to pretend he wasn’t there, or that she was immune to his presence, which was difficult, as something about seeing him made her throat tighten and her body freeze so that she could actually see the goose bumps forming on her arm. Ingrid pulled her cardigan firmly together and tried not to shiver. She would not let him affect her this way. Ingrid was concentrating so hard on appearing indifferent that she did not register that someone was standing in front of the main desk until Emily Foster poked her in the shoulder. “Ingrid? Earth to Ingrid?”

“Emily! Sorry. I was . . .”

“Daydreaming.” Emily smiled and handed her a few books. “Don’t worry, I’m used to it. Lionel’s always gazing off into the distance.”

“How’s he doing?” Ingrid asked, glad for the distraction. From the corner of her eye she saw Matt tapping on his BlackBerry.

“Good. He’s good,” Emily said. “A little more absentminded than usual, but that’s probably because he’s busy working on a new series of paintings. They’re beautiful and haunted-looking, trails that lead nowhere, some kind of mountain with a silver gate. He hasn’t shown in New York in a long time and his gallery is very excited.”

“Good to hear; please tell him we say hello,” Ingrid said, handing Emily her stack of novels.

So far, after Lionel’s resurrection there had been nothing from the Council. No messages from the oracle, no indication that they had even noticed or cared. It was a bit unsettling, and Ingrid wondered if they had followed the rules too closely. If the Council didn’t care if the rules were broken, perhaps they should have used their magic a long time ago.

There were a few more patrons in line stocking up on books for the long weekend, which kept Ingrid busy. See, she wanted to shout to their pompous mayor, people still
use
the library—it was still relevant to daily life. There wasn’t much hope, however. She had heard that they planned to move the architectural archive to a warehouse with a tiny office, but that was only because the bequest could afford it; as for the library itself, its future was grim.

At last the line dwindled and it was just Ingrid and Matt again. The silence between them was going to drive her mad, so she decided to take action.

“Let’s see what’s keeping her,” she told him, as she finished tidying up the main desk. She walked briskly to the back office, where Caitlin was sitting at her desk, pursing her lips and surveying her reflection in her compact mirror.

“You know Matt is here, don’t you?” Ingrid asked.

“I know, I’m so late.” Caitlin sighed, snapping the compact shut. “He doesn’t mind, of course, but I hate to make him wait. You know he’s a stickler for time! Always so prompt; he makes me look so bad. I guess it’s just part of his personality. Did you know his father was captain of the force before he retired? And his grandfather, too. Runs in the family—isn’t that sweet?” It was as if the girl had developed a personality overnight. Suddenly she was a chatterbox; you couldn’t shut her up. The staff was well-informed of her dear Matthew’s eating habits (he took most of his meals at the diner by the highway), political views (like Ingrid, he didn’t vote for the current mayor), and ex-girlfriends (not many). Ingrid was finding it increasingly difficult to refrain from hexing her. All it would take was thirteen black candles and a pentagram and that silly girl wouldn’t know why she was breaking out in boils.

Ingrid would prefer not to know so much about Matt Noble. Especially since the picture Caitlin painted was of a simple, honest, hardworking guy, someone she couldn’t help but respect and admire, if only from afar.

“Do you think this looks right, Hudson?” Caitlin asked, fretting about her outfit, a white linen dress that showed a hint of her tanned cleavage.

Hudson arched an eyebrow. “Considering I helped you pick it out, I think it’s fabulous.”

“You look great,” Tabitha agreed, looking on enviously. She wasn’t showing yet, except for a slight puffiness in her cheeks and the requisite bout of morning sickness. “Where is he taking you, again?”

“To the outdoor opera, you know, by the beach? I can’t remember which one.”

“It’s Wagner, the Ring cycle,” Ingrid said icily. She had made plans to see it as well. The North Hampton orchestra performed an abridged instrumental version every year over the Fourth of July holiday, with a fireworks show at the end. Ingrid had been planning to attend with her family, but Freya had canceled on her at the last minute, and Joanna had begged off the yearly tradition, saying she really didn’t feel up to all the
Sturm und Drang
this summer. Ingrid had decided to skip it, as she didn’t feel like attending the opera alone.

“Hold on,” Hudson said and tightened the belt around Caitlin’s waist to further exaggerate the dress’s hourglass silhouette. “That’s better.” He nodded approvingly. The traitor was Caitlin’s new best friend, Ingrid lamented. Hudson had the soul of a thirteen-year-old girl. He couldn’t help but swoon at a new love affair. It certainly beat recapping last night’s reality shows.

Caitlin blushed and giggled, and Ingrid tried not to listen, telling herself that she was not jealous, she was not jealous! If only there was something she could do to stop feeling the way she did. She could help other women with their problems and yet she couldn’t seem to fix her own. Freya would tell her to take one of her love potions and steal him away. But Ingrid didn’t want that. She didn’t want him to like her due to some magic trickery. Not that she liked him, anyway. Right? It was getting harder and harder to fool herself into indifference. She liked Matt Noble, and it wasn’t just because he was now out of reach. Ingrid did not suffer from the affliction of loving men she could not have. To be honest, she had never loved any man, not one in her long life. She preferred her own company. So this infatuation with Matt came at just the wrong time. She thought he liked her, and so it had piqued her interest. She had been wrong about his attraction, but now she could not seem to do anything about her feelings.

Hudson whispered something in Caitlin’s ear that made the girl blush furiously, making her look even prettier than she already was. “Well, if you really want to know,” she said, and Ingrid could not help but overhear, “tonight’s his lucky night!”

“Lucky night for what?” Tabitha asked. “Oh! Oh!” she said, as she realized what Hudson and Caitlin were talking about and giggled naughtily.

“We’ve been seeing each other for two weeks now and I think it’s time,” Caitlin said primly.

“Is that some sort of rule I’m not aware of?” Hudson asked. “The two-week shag?” He turned to Ingrid and Tabitha expectantly.

“Not for me,” Tabitha chortled. “Chad was a one-night stand.”

“Tab, you slut,” Hudson teased. “A one-night stand that lasted fifteen years, huh?”

“I guess so.” She smiled.

“What about you, Ingrid?”

Ingrid crossed her arms. Some days she really did feel like the world’s oldest virgin. “A lady never tells.” She shook her head at her colleagues and excused herself to the restroom. Caitlin followed her.

At the washbasins, Caitlin suddenly blurted, “I swear, it’s so weird—the whole time I was sure he was always here to see you.” She ran the tap and washed her hands. “He asked about you constantly.”

Ingrid looked up with a start. “Really?”

“Yeah. What kind of books you liked to read. What kind of work you did with those drawings. I thought he had a crush on you . . .” Caitlin pressed her lips together tightly to blot her lipstick. “But it turns out he kept talking about you because he was so nervous because he was talking to
me
! Isn’t that funny?”

Hilarious. Ingrid slammed the bathroom door and went back out to the main desk. The detective, the subject of all the gossip in the backroom, looked up from the book he was reading. He placed the book on the table. J. J. Ramsey Baker’s opus, the thousand-page doorstop that Ingrid could not get anyone to borrow and read.

“Did you like it?” she asked sweetly.

Matt Noble thought for a moment. “It was . . . interesting but not really my sort of thing.”

“What kind of books do you like, then?” Ingrid asked a bit defensively.

“I don’t know . . .” He shrugged. She was right, she thought, pleased. He wasn’t much of a reader, just a library lurker. He was probably one of those weirdos who liked to nap in the carrels.

“Well, what’s your favorite book?” she asked, feeling confident that he would not be able to name one, or if he did, it would be something like . . .

“
To Kill a Mockingbird
.”

“Really?” Ingrid asked, taken off guard. “That’s my favorite book, too.” But was he just saying that? Or was it something Caitlin had told him? But when did she ever discuss
Mockingbird
with Caitlin? Caitlin didn’t like to read. She spent her free time updating her online profile’s status.

“Really.” Matt smiled, and for a moment he looked a little like Atticus Finch, or maybe Gregory Peck playing Atticus Finch, if Gregory Peck had light brown hair and freckles and blue eyes. He held her gaze for a moment, and it looked as if he were going to say something more when Caitlin finally appeared, looking radiant in her white dress. “Matthew!”

He turned away from Ingrid and kissed Caitlin on the cheek while the two of them embraced. It was only then that Ingrid saw he was holding a picnic basket, a bottle of wine and a baguette poking out of the side.

Tabitha and Hudson followed behind. “All clear, boss lady,” Tabitha said, meaning the library was empty. Ingrid turned off the main lights and set the alarm, and the group walked out of the building together. It was warm but breezy, and the night glowed; it would be light until late. A perfect summer evening for listening to music. Ingrid felt a pang.

“Hey, you want a ride to the concert?” Caitlin asked as Ingrid made her way to her bicycle. “Ingrid goes every year with her family,” she explained to her date.

“No, it’s okay—they can’t make it this year. I think I should just go home,” Ingrid said, as Tabitha waved good-bye.

“Oh, well, come with us then!” Caitlin offered.

“I couldn’t . . . I don’t want to crash . . .” Ingrid said, her cheeks beginning to burn again; if this kept up she would get a tan. If there was one thing she did not want to do, it was become a third wheel on a romantic date.

But for some reason Caitlin would not take no for an answer. “Not at all. Matt won’t mind. Right, Matt?” He shook his head and smiled at Ingrid. “Not at all. Join us, please. I packed enough cheese to feed a cow.”

Hudson unlocked his bike and began to wheel it away when Caitlin pounced on him as well. “We could make it a foursome! Hudson, come to the opera with me and Matt and Ingrid—she needs a date!” There seemed to be no dissuading Caitlin, and Ingrid felt helpless to resist.

Hudson looked at Ingrid questioningly. He had offered to take her that morning when she mentioned that her family had bailed, but she had declined, and Ingrid hoped her friend would not mention it. Thankfully, Hudson rose to the occasion. “Wagner’s so dreary. I prefer Puccini. But sure.”

T
he orchestra had set up on a small stage in a grassy field a few miles from the beach. There was already a huge crowd waiting. They found an empty spot between two groups of opera devotees who were toasting the evening with wine in plastic glasses, balloons bobbing in the air as signposts to pinpoint their location for stragglers or lest anyone get lost on the way back from the restrooms. The sun began to set over the horizon, bathing the scene in a warm, orange light, and then the music began to play. It made for a very pretty scene, but Ingrid could not find any beauty in it.

Caitlin snuggled next to Matt the entire evening, and when the two of them weren’t nuzzling they were kissing. Ingrid thought she might burn all her Wagner records by the end of the night; she felt sick to her stomach. Her wonderful library was going to be razed to make room for condominiums, and the guy she liked had ended up with someone else. She promised herself she would get over Matt Noble somehow. Even if she had to take one of Freya’s bitter-tasting antidotes to do so.