Witches of East End (16 page)

chapter thirty-one

Marooned

F
reya watched Killian put the phone gently back in its cradle, admiring his profile and the arc of muscles on his broad back. She placed the palm of her hand on his skin; she could never stop touching him. They had spent the entire evening pleasuring each other, trying new and exciting variations of the same dance, and for a moment there she had been worried he would never tire, he had been that insatiable. . . . She had never met a man who could keep up with her, but she had found her match in him. They would finish only to start again a few minutes later, an innocent hand on a leg, or a brush against a cheek leading back to where they began, and Freya discovered she was getting turned on just thinking about all the things he had made her feel last night. His skin was smooth to the touch and, like everything about him, physically perfect, no nubby ridges or dryness or scars, evenly bronzed all over.

They were in his cabin on the
Dragon,
and through the portholes she could see it was daylight, probably just after noon since the sun was casting no shadows. What day was it? She wasn’t sure. Where did time go when she was with him? She never noticed, it was an elusive quality, and she could never remember what they did—when they weren’t in bed, that is—and it seemed as if they were always in bed whenever they were together. There should have been a hermetic, somewhat stale quality to the room, since they had not left it in a few days, and Freya had made all their meals on the small galley stove with whatever she found in the fridge. But instead of smelling like sex and sweat and cooking oil, the room was bright and clean, and when she closed her eyes she inhaled the fresh scent of pine and flowers. She wondered why he preferred to live on the boat rather than in Fair Haven, which definitely had enough bedrooms, but ever since the beginning Killian had made the fishing boat his home.

“Who was that on the phone?” she asked, releasing her hold.

“Your sister,” he said, lying back down on the pillow and folding his arms behind his head, a thoughtful look on his face. His dark bangs covered one eye and he brushed them off impatiently.

“Ingrid? What did she want?” Freya propped herself on an elbow.

“I lent her some blueprints of the house a while back for her art show. It sounds like they’re missing,” Killian explained. “She didn’t say so, but I could sort of tell.”

“What is it about those blueprints? Bran asked about them the other day,” Freya said, picking at the lint on the sheets. “Ingrid told him she found something cool in the design keys in those blueprints. There’s some kind of code that she’s almost figured out, which has some historical significance.” She was babbling and trying to change the subject, as she was talking about Bran in Killian’s bed.

Killian raised his eyebrows. “You spoke to Bran?”

“Yesterday.” She leaned back and pulled the covers over her face.

“Hey,” he said, gently drawing down the covers.

“I don’t know what I’m doing here.” She shook her head and couldn’t look at him.

“Yes, you do.”

“Listen, I gotta go,” Freya said, pulling away so that she could put her clothes back on.

“Don’t go.” He began to kiss her neck, soft butterfly kisses that electrified every sense in her body. “You just got here.”

Freya had a déjà vu feeling—hadn’t she been in this same situation with Bran not too long ago? And now she was in a different bed, with a different brother. “Killian, come on. I got here four days ago.” She pushed his arms away gently.

“I love you,” he whispered. He was leaning forward so that his head rested on her shoulder and his hands cupped her breasts gently, making her feel warm all over.

“You’re not allowed to say that,” she said. “I told you. Nothing’s going to change. I’m still going to marry Bran in September.” She bit her lip.

“Don’t do this to us,” Killian warned, gripping her shoulder tightly.

“There is no us, Killian. There never was.”

“Don’t say that,” he said desperately.

“Stop it, you’re hurting me,” she said. Her heart was breaking, as well as his. She loved him so much. It was love she felt for him, deep and abiding and entrenched, a fierce white fire, and yet it was wrong. She knew it was wrong, that being with him was wrong. If only she had met him first. If only . . . But it was too late now. She and Bran had found each other and she had promised Bran she would marry him, and marry him she would. It was the right thing to do, it was what she was meant to do. She couldn’t change her destiny.

Killian stood and began to pace the room, running his hands on his face, looking lost and confused and anxious. “Freya, please” was all he said.

“This is . . . this is just a mistake,” she told him, zipping up her jeans and putting on her shirt. She jammed her feet back into her sneakers. “I’m so sorry, Killian. I really am. But I told you from the beginning that this wasn’t a good idea.”

A
fter leaving the boat
, Freya had to walk for a while to clear her head. She didn’t want to keep thinking about Killian and wandered aimlessly for a few hours. With a start she realized she was practically in the middle of town, near the police station, a small building near city hall. Since she was there, she thought she would ask about the progress they had made in their investigation of Molly Lancaster’s disappearance, maybe ask if she could talk to some of those boys, see if she could sense anything from them. While she was still mostly confident that there was no way her potion could have been part of what happened to Molly, she was beginning to entertain the possibility that perhaps something in her magic could have gone awry, and she wanted to see if she could do anything to help. While she still did not believe the boys had anything to do with Molly’s disappearance, she knew she was in the minority. Many people in town were already grumbling that the boys had received preferential treatment from the district attorney.

The police station was its usual shabby chaos. “Hey, Freya.” Jim Lewis, one of the patrolmen, greeted her with a smile. “What’s up?”

“Just thought I’d drop by, see what was going on with the Lancaster case?”

“Yeah, I can’t really talk about that right now,” he said, shaking his head.

“You can’t or you won’t, Jim? Come on, it’s me. Remember how I helped you catch that bicycle thief?” Freya wheedled.

“I know, girl. But this is different.”

“What’s going on?” she asked, as she noticed all the detectives crowded around Matt Noble’s cubicle. “Is that Corky Hutchinson? Did something happen with Todd?”

“Can’t say. Can’t say.” Jim drummed his fingers on the reception desk. “But I will tell you about the Lancaster thing. One of those college boys looks like he’s going to crack. There’ll be an arrest soon, you can count on it.”

W
hen she got back to the house, Gracella practically pounced on her the minute she walked through the door. “So sorry to bother, Miss Freya, but it is Tyler.”

“Of course, not a bother at all. What’s going on?”

The housekeeper twisted the chamois she was holding. “His fever is very high. Since last night. I think maybe I take him to hospital but I am scared. Hector is away and . . .”

Freya followed the anxious mother to the cottage. Tyler’s room was on the second landing, a cheerful place filled with cartoon imagery on the wallpapers and whose bookshelves were stocked with toys of every shape and size. The toy soldiers were heaped in a pile, the puppets lay still on the footlocker. The train set was silent and waiting. In a bed shaped like a racecar, Tyler was wrapped up in a comforter, like a small turtle. She was shocked to find him so changed from just a few days ago. He had lost a lot of weight, and he had no color in his cheeks.

“Hey, kid,” she said gently, putting a hand on his forehead. It was burning. “Yes, let’s take him to the hospital now. There’s no point in waiting,” she said to Gracella. “I can drive.”

They bundled the boy in the backseat. “He’ll be okay; I’ll call Joanna as soon as I drop him off,” Freya said, as she drove mother and son through the empty streets of North Hampton to the small county hospital. “I promise,” she said, even though she knew she had no right to promise anything. Freya knew as well as her sister the limit to their mother’s powers, especially when it came to those she loved.

chapter thirty-two

Thief in the Night

L
ater that same evening, Ingrid had a dream. It began when she realized she was not alone in bed. There was a heavy weight on her body, and now there was a tug at her pajama bottoms. She stirred and attempted to pull them back up but she found she could not, and now her top was being unbuttoned, the air cold on her skin, and she was not sure what was happening—where was her blanket? Then there was a hand on her mouth and she was jolted awake but she could not scream. She could not even open her eyes.

There was a man on top of her; his hands were warm and soft and his body lay heavy upon hers, his hands on her chest, and she was naked underneath him; she struggled against his weight but there was nothing she could do, she was immobile and helpless and then he began to push himself into her, and now he was inside and moving so slowly and she wanted to scream but she could not, because he was kissing her so sweetly and her body was responding to his touch and she could not stop herself. She was wet and he was hard and it felt good. It felt so good to be underneath a man, to be taken and loved, although this was not love.

Suddenly, her eyes flew open and she could see him.

The beautiful, elfin face, coal-black hair and blue-green eyes. And he was stronger now. . . . His hands were around her throat, and he was choking her, digging deep into her neck, causing her to gasp as he pushed relentlessly to a climax. . . . This was
really
happening. . . . Killian was trying to kill her. . . . She could feel her spirit begin to waver and flicker in the glom. . . . She would die—no!—she would not . . . she would not let this happen. . . . With all of her strength Ingrid folded her knee and pushed it against his chest; it was enough to unbalance her intruder, and he released his hold on her neck.

Ingrid opened her mouth to scream . . .

And woke up.

This time she was truly awake.

It was just a dream, after all. Ingrid sat up in her bed, gasping and shaking; she was fully clothed and alone, but the back of her shirt was covered in sweat. Still, it was only a dream. A nightmare. She had dreamed that Killian Gardiner had raped her and tried to kill her, and it had felt so real, she felt sick—aroused and confused and violated at the same time. She had thought she was going to die.

What just happened?

A vision? A sending?

Then she understood.

It all made sense now. Freya’s strange, jittery anxiety at her engagement party, the burned flowers, the tousled hair, her long silences and absences with no explanation, her red cheeks and flushed countenance. She thought of the way her sister had acted the entire summer—daydreaming, distracted, confused, and then snappy and curt. That was not like Freya. Something had happened, more specifically
someone
had happened to her. Just like before. Of course, it all made sense now.

Ingrid got out of bed and put on her robe. She looked at the clock. It was only half past midnight. Freya was still out for the evening, but Ingrid thought she knew just where to find her. The sisters had seen each other briefly when Freya had returned from the hospital. Ingrid was worried about the boy, too, and hoped his flu would not get any worse. She could not imagine otherwise. Even though Freya was not allowed to work at the North Inn anymore, she could not keep away and was now one of their best customers. Ingrid was not a regular patron of the North Inn, but she had nothing against bars and understood the pleasures they provided: convivial company, the comfort of a well-made drink, and the aural excitement of a good jukebox. Once in a while she and the library crew headed there on Friday nights, but since Tabitha had gotten pregnant and Hudson was trying the latest detox diet, they hadn’t visited the watering hole in a while. She walked into the crowded hall and nodded to a few familiar faces.

“Can I get you anything, love?” Kristy asked. The gangly bartender threw a rag over her shoulder and waited for Ingrid to order.

“Nothing tonight, thanks. I was just looking for my—”

There was a huge whoop from the other end of the counter and Kristy shrugged. “She’s in fine form tonight. I told her if she didn’t settle down I was going to cut her off in a bit,” she said, making a slashing motion in front of her throat. “She won’t tell me what’s wrong but she’s been hitting the tequila pretty hard.”

Ingrid nodded. Tequila was Freya’s answer to any emotional upheaval. She looked to where the commotion was and found her sister downing shots and calling out the answers to trivia questions in between sucking lime halves.

“Freya!”

“Inge! What are you doing here?” Freya asked, looking surprised but happy to see her. She grabbed Ingrid in a bear hug, and Ingrid smelled the alcohol on her breath.

Ingrid wasted no time. She leaned close to her sister’s ear and whispered angrily, “Are you having an affair with Killian Gardiner?”

Freya sobered up quickly after that.

“Don’t deny it,” Ingrid warned, as she drove her sister home. Freya had pleaded to be able to finish her drinks but Ingrid was not having it. Now the sisters were sitting in the car, Freya staring pensively out the window, while Ingrid fumed at the steering wheel.

“I’m not,” Freya said a tad petulantly. Of course Ingrid was bound to find out about her and Killian. She had been waiting for this to happen; the only surprising thing about this development was how long it took for Ingrid to come to this conclusion. Her sister usually knew all her secrets even before she knew them herself.

Ingrid looked at her sideways. “I felt it.”

“Ew! Don’t tell me how! You had one of your creepy dreams?”

“Creepy doesn’t cut it.” Ingrid shuddered, remembering the cold hands around her neck and the way his body had felt on hers. She shook her head. “What are you doing? I thought you were in love with Bran, that you thought he was ‘the one.’ ”

“I know. I told Killian things were over between us this afternoon. I ended it.” Freya sighed.

“Good.” Ingrid looked at her sister from the corner of her eye, so she could still keep an eye out for oncoming traffic. “It’s for the best, Freya. Remember what happened last time you got married.”

Freya did not answer and they drove in silence for a while, along the dark and deserted highway. “I’m scared,” Ingrid said finally. “I had a horrible day. Someone called me a witch this afternoon, in front of everyone at work.”

Freya flinched. “Yikes.”

“Corky Hutchinson. I knew I shouldn’t have given her that stupid knot. She wasn’t going to keep him home. Damnit!” Ingrid never cursed but she was unnerved and upset. “Pardon.”

“It’s not your fault,” Freya soothed. “We all know your magic doesn’t work that way. Your knot didn’t kill Todd. He killed himself, Ingrid. Who knows why.”

“I don’t know . . .” Ingrid chewed her bottom lip. “I want to think that I couldn’t have done anything, but I was so upset. He’s going to tear down the library. . . . What if I didn’t mean to do it but it still happened? It’s been so long since I’ve practiced magic, I might be rusty. I could have inadvertently twisted it the wrong way.” Ingrid felt a cold dread sinking in her stomach. What if, even if she had not meant to practice black magic, she had done so anyway? There weren’t any rules when it came to this sort of thing. Anything could happen. She could have killed Todd. Maybe she did.

“You’re being paranoid,” Freya soothed. “You can’t even hex a fly. There’s no way you are to blame for what happened to him.”

“But I was so angry . . . and Corky, she screamed it, in front of everyone. She called me a witch! Almost everyone in town has been to see me, Freya. They believe I practice magic. They’ve seen it work for them.”

“So?” Freya shrugged.

“So? Don’t you remember what happened last time we practiced magic openly?”

Freya began to doodle on the condensation on the window from the air-conditioning. “Seriously? That’s what you’re worried about? This is North Hampton! And last I checked, the calendar said we were in the twenty-first century. They might think that you’ve cured their aches and pains and made some difficult problems go away, but deep down? Do you think they
really
believe in magic? No freaking way.
No one
believes in us anymore. We’re safe,” Freya stressed. “Look around, this is a world of science and technology, of computers and gadgetry. They have iPads and GPS and microwaves. They don’t even worry about death, because according to them, you can beat cancer by just eating tofu! This isn’t like before.”

“I hope you’re right.”

Freya rolled down her window to feel the ocean breeze. “I’m sure I am.”

Ingrid stopped the car with a screech and Freya’s head bumped the dashboard. “Oops, sorry about that,” Ingrid said. “There’s something else I’ve been meaning to tell you. You know that guy Mom saved from death? Lionel Horning?”

“Yeah? What about him?”

“Well, he’s missing,” Ingrid said. She couldn’t believe she had forgotten to mention it until now, but she had been so rattled by Corky Hutchinson’s actions that afternoon and that terrible dream she had that evening that it had completely slipped her mind.

“What do you mean he’s missing?”

“Emily came by, said he’s been acting weird, talking about a path in the mountains and how he didn’t belong around here, and how he was taking a few people with him.”

“What?”

“I know. It sounds like he might be going zombie.” Ingrid sighed. Like Freya, she knew that when a human soul had spent a considerable amount of time in the glom, there was the risk that the physical body would not accept its resurrection if the soul and the body had grown too detached from the other. It rarely happened, Joanna was too good at her job, but it wasn’t unheard of for the dead to come back to life only to succumb to a bad case of zombititis.

Freya gasped. “You don’t think he had anything to do with Molly . . . ?” she said.

“I don’t know—I mean, Lionel isn’t violent. I mean, unless Helda put more of herself in him before Mom got him out of Deadville.”

“Since when has he been missing?”

“Since the Fourth of July weekend.” The same night Molly Lancaster had disappeared.

“Oh, good lord!”

“There’s another thing,” Ingrid said, twiddling her thumbs. She pushed up her glasses on her nose. In her haste to find her sister, she had forgotten to put in her contacts. Her black-rimmed spectacles made her look older than she was; Ingrid hated wearing them, as she looked too much like the classic small-town librarian already.

Freya turned to her sister. “There’s something else other than a possible zombie on the loose in North Hampton?”

Ingrid tried not to look too sheepish. “Right after the holiday weekend . . .”

“Yeah?”

“Someone came to visit me. One of the Fallen.”

Freya glared at her. “A vampire came to visit you and you didn’t tell me? Why not?”

“I didn’t think it was important.” Ingrid sighed. “I don’t know. I was embarrassed. I couldn’t make her go away so I helped her. I know the rules, we’re not supposed to have anything to do with them. But she asked for help and I gave it.”

“When was this?”

“I told you, right after the Fourth. She said she’d been in town all weekend, mentioned seeing you at the North Inn that Friday night.”

Freya tried to remember. Wouldn’t she have noticed a vampire at her bar? The last time she had come in contact with the Fallen was through the boy she had cured in New York last fall, right before she moved back to North Hampton, and with a start she realized she might have caught a glimpse of him somewhere lately—was it at the North Inn? What was his name again—Oliver? And wasn’t he with some icy blonde? Was that his new vampire? It was all so hazy. But then, that was the evening when things began to happen with Killian. No wonder she hadn’t paid attention. “Who was she? The blonde?” she asked.

“Azrael.”

“Interesting. So, the freaking Angel of Death blows into town just as a girl goes missing and our mayor turns up dead!”

“By why would she care about them?” Ingrid argued. “You know the Fallen are bound to that Code of theirs. They’re not supposed to bring harm to humans, and there hasn’t been a human death attributed to them in centuries. It just doesn’t make sense . . .” Then her face went pale. “Wait a minute . . . I told her about the Orpheus Amendment . . . that she would need a soul to sacrifice to Helda for the one she wants returned, and she said she already knew about that part, that she was prepared for it.” Ingrid looked horrified. “You don’t think Azrael could have taken Molly, do you? Or Todd?”

“Anything could happen,” Freya said. “Especially with zombies and vampires around. Next thing you’ll tell me Dad’s back.”

“Actually . . .” Ingrid bit her lip. “Never mind.” Freya didn’t seem to catch it so Ingrid soldiered on. “Anyway, what do you think we should do?” In times like these, she looked to her younger sister for action and leadership. At heart, Ingrid was a seer, someone who studied and analyzed situations; she liked to lay the facts on the table and let someone else make the hard decisions.

“First we’ll pay Azrael a visit,” Freya said. “Then we look for Lionel.”