Witches of East End (20 page)

chapter thirty-nine

The Brief Wonderful
Life of Tyler Alvarez

S
ince Forseti was still negotiating with the police department for a time that would be more convenient for the women to meet and answer questions, Joanna took the opportunity to visit Tyler at the hospital the next day. The children’s wing was painted a cheerful blue and pink, but Joanna thought she had never entered a more depressing place. So much false hope and promise, when, really, all around was the scepter of death at the doorstep, snatching away the most precious of lives. Children should not be allowed to get sick or die; it should be a rule, Joanna raged. One should not leave mid-world until one had had a full life . . . at least until eighteen? Thirty? Sixty? Time did not mean anything to those who had too much of it, but it was even more precious once it was limited.

She had promised herself she would never love another child. After what happened to her boy she knew she would not survive if she lost another. How could she let this happen? And the girls—she could not even think about the ongoing investigation and the girls’ upcoming interrogation. She hoped they knew what they were doing, but she was worried they were far too optimistic about their chances. The world did not change; she had been around long enough to understand that much. Children died. Either on the gallows or in a hospital.

Joanna looked at the small, shriveled form in the large bed, connected to a maze of wires and drips. She stood at the far side of the bed, while his parents kept vigil on either side, his mother holding his hand. Tyler had been moved to the ICU a few days ago. After Freya and Gracella had brought him in he had recovered only to get sick again, this time with a worse infection. The doctors could not explain it: there was no bacterial infection, and he did not respond to viral treatment, either. But Tyler was not the only one: there were two other children on the ward with the same symptoms; and in the main hospital, there were adults with the same phlegmy, forceful cough, the same ragged breathing. Like Tyler, the victims had displayed milder symptoms in the beginning that could be attributed to allergies or the flu; but one by one they took a turn for the worse, with complications that affected lung and brain functions. Freya was visiting her boss, Sal McLaughlin, who was down the hall, and Joanna bumped into Dan Jerrods, whose wife, Amanda, was now on life support.

She watched Tyler’s chest rise and fall, heard his difficult breathing. The attending doctor entered. “Tell me the truth . . . how bad is it?” she asked.

The young resident looked at his feet, his voice strained. “There is nothing we can do for him now but make him comfortable. I am so sorry.”

The Alvarezes turned to her to translate. What did the doctor say? What did he mean? Joanna shook her head and began to cry softly, and that was when Gracella began to scream. Hector tried to calm his wife, and the nurses surrounded them. They were taken to another room, where Gracella was given a sedative.

Joanna stood, rooted at the spot, still trying to process the doctor’s words.
Make him comfortable. Nothing we can do.
Was this truly the end? Was there nothing anyone could do for him? She clenched her fists and cursed the gods who could not hear her. This was just like before. She could still remember the voice that had doomed her son to eternity, how her boy had been enveloped by smoke that rose from the ground and then taken down to limbo, to nowhere, to serve his sentence.

The door opened and Ingrid appeared, holding a fruit basket. “It’s from Tabitha and Hudson. They heard. How is he?”

“The same. No, actually, that’s not right. He’s worse.”

“I’m so sorry, Mother.” Ingrid squeezed her shoulder, but she was crying herself.

“I know, my darling.” Joanna patted her daughter’s hand and held back a sob.

“And there’s nothing . . . I mean, I know there’s nothing you can do . . . but . . . ?”

Joanna shook her head. She cursed the magic within her. Her useless, useless magic. This was the greatest tragedy of her gift: Joanna could bring anyone back to life, could cure any sickness, could bring health and happiness to the person dying in the next room. She had saved Lionel Horning from the Kingdom of the Dead.

But her magic was immune to those that she loved. She remembered that girl in Salem, Bridget Bishop, whom she loved as she loved her daughters. Bridget had died in a river of her own blood, while Joanna remained shocked and helpless, unable to do anything to save her.

Over the next several days, the Beauchamps brought Christmas in August to the children’s ward, especially Tyler’s room. While the attorneys negotiated, Freya made beautiful feasts, huge cakes dripping in cream frosting, fat éclairs swathed in chocolate sauce, the most succulent pastries and the largest chocolate chip cookies. Ingrid made spells to keep Tyler’s pillows plump and fluffy, charms that allowed his sheets to stay dry even through the night sweats. Joanna brought the dancing puppets, the warring soldiers.

One evening, Tyler opened his eyes. He saw Joanna and smiled.

“What do you want, my darling? My sweet? My dearest love?” she asked as she smoothed his hair.

“Want to fly,” he said, looking longingly out the window. “Outside. Like you.”

So that evening, Joanna conjured up a broomstick—she did not need it but it would be easier for Tyler to have something to hold on to.

They flew out of the hospital bed and to the stars, the boy’s laughter carrying over the treetops.

chapter forty

Twenty Questions

S
ince Freya had nothing appropriate to wear to a meeting with the police, it was her turn to borrow something from Ingrid’s closet.

“There,” Ingrid said. “Now you look innocent.”

“We
are
innocent.” Freya rolled her eyes. She glanced at herself in the mirror. She was wearing a cashmere twinset, a plaid skirt that hit her knee, and low-heeled shoes. “Everyone thinks so.” She glanced at the cards that had arrived once the news had spread that the police were interested in talking to the Beauchamp women about their so-called magic.

Ingrid nodded. Many of their friends in town had sent notes of encouragement and love. There was a sweet note from Tabitha, a funny one from Hudson, and even though Sal was still in the hospital, Kristy had left a message on the machine earlier saying that if there was going to be a witch hunt, the Beauchamps were welcome to hide in her house until it blew over. They had nothing to fear; the town was behind them, unlike Salem, where they had been friendless and alone. It gave them courage to face the day ahead.

Forseti was waiting for them with his car. “Where’s Joanna?” he asked, when he saw it was only Ingrid and Freya.

“It’s better if she doesn’t come with us,” Freya said. She and Ingrid had decided last night that it would be better if they faced the questioning on their own. Joanna was too excitable and they did not want to upset their mother further; she was already inconsolable about Tyler’s sickness.

At the police station, they were ushered into the same small interrogation room where they had waited before.

“Where’s Matt?” Ingrid asked the detective who followed them into the room. “I thought we were here to talk to him.”

“Detective Noble is out on another job,” the detective replied with a smirk. “Shall we begin?”

Ingrid paled as she took her seat. Freya felt her stomach sink. The detective was a humorless type with a bad combover. He dismissed Forseti’s handshake and did not look either of the girls in the eye. Freya recognized him from the bar. (His secret sexual perversion: watching high-heeled women crush the life out of small animals. Sick.)

Freya was up first.

“Miss Beauchamp, I have here a cocktail menu from the North Inn bar. Is this the one that you made?” he asked, sliding over the laminated menu.

Freya looked at Forseti, who nodded. They had gone over the routine several times now and she was prepared. “Yes,” she answered.
Admit to witchcraft, but emphasize theirs was a harmless magic.

“Allow me to read from this menu. ‘
Irresistible
: Vodka, pureed cherries, powdered cattail, and lime juice. Not for the shy. Prepare to lose your inhibitions.’ Can you tell us what this means?”

“It’s a love potion,” she said slowly.

“Obviously.” The detective sneered. “And it’s supposed to render the drinker—irresistible? How exactly?”

“The herbal remedies in it create a glow around a person; it heightens their pheromones—their attractiveness quotient, let’s say.”

“By magic.”

“Yes, if magic is the word that means making the impossible possible. I bring out the magic that is inside a person and make it visible. The potion lets everyone see the best parts of the person, and therefore makes them more attractive,” she said, using the carefully rehearsed words her lawyer had approved.

“So it works.”

“Yes.”

“Are there any dangers that could arise from being so attractive? For instance, could a person find someone so attractive it could lead to a loss of control on their end?” the detective mused.

Forseti coughed. “My client is not going to answer speculative inquiries like that one.”

“Excuse me. Let me rephrase it. . . . How do you quantify its power? How can you be sure that it had no adverse effects on the unsuspecting public? Could this potion, for instance . . . drive a man to do something he might not do otherwise?”

The defense attorney glared at the detective and turned to Freya. “You don’t have to answer that, either.”

“I know,” Freya said. “But I will. No, it could never harm the person who had taken it. I’m quite sure.”

“You can’t explain it, but you’re absolutely certain it could not lead to violence?” he barked.

“It doesn’t work that way.”

“How does it work, then?”

“I told you, I don’t know. It’s just . . .” Freya sighed. “Magic.”

The detective nodded, scribbling his notes. “Exactly. Thank you, Miss Beauchamp.”

I
ngrid was next. The unsmiling detective asked her to turn to the computer that had been set up on the desk. On the screen there were two photographs. One was the fidelity knot she had given Corky Hutchinson, magnified so that everyone could see each whorl clearly. On the other side was the noose that Todd Hutchinson used to hang himself. The knot on the noose was an exact replica of the one next to it.

“Tell me about your magic,” he said.

“Mostly I work with little charms, talismans, spells. A lot of the magic I work with is in knots. It’s how sailors used to divine the winds.”

“You gave this knot to the mayor’s wife, did you not?” he asked, pointing to the first knot.

“Yes.”

“For what purpose?”

“She suspected her husband of cheating on her. I made her a knot and told her to put it underneath his pillow. It would keep him from straying; it would keep him home. But only if she was there as well.”

“Do you admit the knot on the noose looks a whole lot like the knot you made?”

“Yes, but . . . the knots don’t work that way,” Ingrid protested. “They would never drive anyone to suicide. At best, they would unravel—”

“So you’re saying that this little talisman, as you called it, did nothing to lead to the mayor’s death. That it was just a coincidence that it looks just like the one he hung himself with.”

“Yes.”

“That the knot you made did not drive him sleepless, or change his personality, or cause him to be estranged from his wife. So what does it do, then?”

“I don’t know, but I know it keeps people together if they want to be together. It makes something more visible that isn’t there.”

“And there is no possible way it can go wrong?”

“Well, I didn’t say that—”

“So there is!”

“I don’t know,” Ingrid said, slumped on the chair. “This has never happened before. We practice white magic. We don’t—”

“White magic!” The detective sneered. He slammed his notebook on the table. “I think we’re done here.”

A
s they walked out of the police station, Ingrid turned to Forseti, who was wiping his brow with a handkerchief. “I can’t believe Matt wasn’t even there to help us. Do you think we did the right thing in admitting that we’re witches?” she asked.

Freya sighed. Her sister was so obtuse sometimes. “If it wasn’t, it’s too late now to change things.”

“You really think we’ll be arrested?” Ingrid asked, horrified, since their lawyer had gone mute.

Freya’s shoulders slumped. “What do you think?”

Ingrid had to admit that perhaps they had miscalculated their strategy.

chapter forty-one

The Poisoned Tree

T
he end of August arrived, humid and sticky, but no arrests were made. Joanna, Freya, and Ingrid each retreated to their own corners to deal with their anxiety and frustration in private. Freya went back to the bar, surreptitiously helping out with the bartending, while Joanna spent most of her time visiting Tyler in the hospital, and Ingrid worked at the library.

It was after hours and the library was ghostly quiet and deserted, but Ingrid took comfort in the familiar and well-loved surroundings. She sat at her desk and went through everything that had happened in North Hampton that summer. The silvery tumors she’d found in the women; the rash of unexplainable diseases affecting the townspeople; the dead animals in Lionel Horning’s barn; the underwater explosion that had released a poisonous toxin, one that was similar to others found around the world—was it possible they were all linked? There was something here she was missing, something that would allow her to pull it all together.

It all tied back to Fair Haven and the missing blueprints, she was sure of it. Mother said that Fair Haven held the seam, but there had to be something more. There was something there that someone did not want her to see, did not want her to find out—and with a flash, Ingrid remembered the image she had taken on her phone earlier in the summer. She’d taken not only a photo of the door but of the ballroom floor plan as well and sent both to her father. She turned on her desk lamp to a brighter setting and removed her phone from her purse. Her fingers quickly tapped and swept the touch screen until the tiny image of the blueprint appeared. Yes! She sent it to a computer terminal and a few minutes later the page from the missing architectural plans was rolling out of the library’s decade-old printer.

Ingrid examined the paper. The printer had automatically sized the tiny photo to fit a letter-size sheet, and the image was grainy, as it had been enlarged many times its actual size. She found the scrollwork in the tiny architectural drawing key, a swirl of dark lines and cryptic characters. As she examined the curving arabesques she caught sight of another faint image, lines and text running at an odd angle across the image. These characters were smaller and lighter than the rest of the text, and some of the characters looked different from those on the key.

She brought the drawing over to the old copier, laid it on the glass, and set the enlargement to two hundred percent and the brightness to the lowest setting. A large blackened image rolled out the far end of the machine, and when she looked at it closely she noticed that the second set of text was actually written backwards, as if seen through a mirror. Ingrid puzzled over it for a moment until she realized that the bright little flash on her new phone must have shone though the thin paper, revealing the lines that had been written on the back of the sheet. She tried to think if she had ever examined the backsides of blueprints and could not remember ever doing so. Blueprints were several feet long and wide and a person reading them tended to just open the page halfway to stare at some portion of the drawing. To flip the pages completely over would have required a desk eight feet wide.

Ingrid grabbed the sheet of paper and ran into the bathroom, excited by her new idea. She held it to the mirror and snapped another photo with a real camera, one with a much higher resolution. Using the mirror would invert the text so that it could be read. She took the camera back to her desk and printed the new photo.

Now she understood. The text was separated into two bands; the top was written in Norse, the language she had learned as a child from her father. The second line contained the same lettering that surrounded the design tags, in a language she could not understand. The characters corresponded to one another, like a Rosetta stone. Since she understood the first language, that was all she needed to decipher the keys.

Ingrid worked on translating quickly. The letters were faint and there were spots where words and characters dropped out, but she could still glean a basic understanding. The first sentence, a title of sorts, read: “Yggdrasil.”

Yggdrasil
.

Ingrid leapt from her desk and dashed to the back of the library, where they kept the reserved books no one was allowed to borrow. There was a book there, one she had inherited from her father many years ago, that she had donated to the library when she first started. A book that contained their history. The front cover was nearly torn from the book when she pulled it from the shelf, although it appeared to have spent the better part of the last few decades entirely undisturbed.

Yggdrasil
.

The word resonated with power. Ingrid sat on the floor in front of the bookshelf resting the heavy book on her folded legs. She flipped through the pages, turning them back and forth until she found the section she was looking for.

Yggdrasil: The Tree of Life that held the Nine Worlds of the Known Universe.

There was a picture of a mighty tree growing in the void of space. Free of the earth, its shape formed a perfect hourglass, with a circle of branches at one end and a ball of roots at the other. The tree floated, its densely woven branches forming a spiraling shape that reminded her of the Fair Haven blueprint. She compared the image in the book with the image on the architect’s drawing and suddenly, everything made sense.

Fair Haven was somehow a part of this great and ancient tree; it housed an entryway into the skeleton of the universe. She began to translate the design tags, finding their corresponding meaning in Norse. Ingrid studied the terms one by one, jotting down the translations as she worked diligently for the better part of an hour. Her head hurt a little and her eyes felt dry from straining at the faint symbols. Ingrid penned the last character and then pulled back, her spine aching from having sat bent in one position too long, but she had found what she set out to discover.

She read the translation again, and her mind whirled, recalling that clandestine trip to Fair Haven when she had discovered the hidden door. At the time, she had guessed that the house had been built to create the mystical doorway. But now she understood from reading the symbols that the house was not an entryway to the tree but had been created as a fortress to protect it. The house was a barrier, not a door.

Ingrid gasped. It was all so clear now. She knew now what was causing all the problems—the silvery darkness, the underground explosion, the barren women, the dead animals, the toxin in the water and in the air. It all pointed in the same direction, to the man who had handed her the plans to the site from the beginning.

Killian Gardiner. He was a Guardian, an immortal who was, historically, meant to protect Fair Haven and the tree. But what if instead of protecting the tree, he had endangered it somehow?

He had come back to Fair Haven after traveling the world. He had worked off the coast of Australia and on an Alaskan freighter—places where the toxin had also been found. She did not know if he had been near Reykjavík, but she would bet on it. He had traveled the globe, spreading the toxin.

As she read the words again she found she could barely breathe. “
The time of
Ragnarok
is at hand, when the earth is submerged in poisoned water. Thus will begin the age of the wolf, when brother will turn against brother, and the world will be no more. Lest the poison of the Nine disperse, the living should not pass the way of
Yggdrasil.
”