Homecoming (23 page)

“You're in better shape than me,” Lyse said, breathing hard and trying to ignore the ache in her calf. “And you just got beaten up.”

“I made a decision a long time ago not to let anything slow me down. So, I just don't.”

Lyse couldn't argue with that.

They walked in companionable silence, Daniela slowing down once she noticed Lyse's limp.

“You should've said your leg was hurting.”

Lyse shrugged.

“It's your funeral,” Daniela said, but continued to maintain the slower pace. “I'm like a hummingbird. I never stop moving.”

“I'll try to remember that for the future,” Lyse said, but secretly she was pleased they were now taking a more leisurely stroll. This way she could once again marvel at how little the old neighborhood had changed since she'd lived there.

As they walked, the sun came out from behind the clouds and started to burn off the morning smog, lifting Lyse's spirits. Bright sheets of light, cut into impressionistic shapes by the canopy of trees above their heads, melted down around them, and Lyse felt like she was walking in a glorious daydream. The change in mood seemed to wake the neighborhood from its Saturday morning slumber, and people began to appear on the street: joggers, bicyclists, new parents pushing strollers, families trundling along with small children in hand.

The sense of community experienced by so many people from so many different ethnic, religious, and socioeconomic backgrounds was one of the things Lyse loved best about the neighborhood. Echo Park's disparate inhabitants lived together in a multicultural microcosm—dressing, eating, and communicating in their own styles—with only minor discord.

Lyse was happy to note that the Eastside of Los Angeles was still keeping it real.

“So, I've been thinking about something,” Lyse said, giving Daniela a sideways glance. “And I don't know if it has any bearing on anything, but apparently somebody broke into my place in Athens yesterday after I left.”

“You're kidding,” Daniela said.

“I talked to my friend Carole. Nothing big was taken, just my computer.”

Daniela stopped in her tracks.

“Shit. That's not good. I bet more stuff's missing, stuff your friend doesn't know to look for.”

“Like what?” Lyse asked, not sure what kind of stuff Daniela was talking about.

“Birth certificate, social security card . . . info like that.”

“But why?”

“To verify who you really are,” Daniela said—and then she realized she might've overstepped her bounds, and she backed off the topic. “Look, just . . . talk to Eleanora about this. I'm making educated guesses and I don't know what I'm talking about.”

“No, tell me what you mean,” Lyse said, reaching for Daniela's arm—but the other woman quickly moved away from her grasp.

“Unh-unh,” Daniela said. “Now is not the time to touch me. Shit's been weird lately and I don't want anyone touching me, period.”

“Fine,” Lyse said, and headed off down the street, annoyed by the whole situation. It only took her a second to realize she had no idea where she was going, and, chagrined, she was forced to retrace her steps back to Daniela.

“Okay,” Lyse said, throwing up her hands in surrender. “You win. Suppose, for the sake of argument, someone wanted info about me and that's why they broke into my place—what's the deal with you? Does someone want to verify who you are, too? What's the connection?”

Daniela scratched the tip of her nose with a gloved finger, thinking.

“The obvious answer is someone is looking for something—and maybe it's more than
one
thing. Like they want personal info on you. And they think I'm hiding something important, and they want it.”

“Are you?”

“Hiding something important?” Daniela asked. “Maybe.”

She grinned at Lyse.

“But if I were, I wouldn't tell you . . . or anyone else.”

“And who is this mysterious ‘they' you keep mentioning?” Lyse asked.

“That,” Daniela said, holding up her hand to block the sunlight streaming in through the trees, “I don't know yet.”

“And do you have any ideas that don't sound like conspiracy theories?” Lyse asked.

She was surprised by Daniela's ready answer.

“Oh, that's an easy one,” she said, continuing down the sidewalk. “Someone's just trying to scare the shit out of both of us.”

*   *   *

There was only one word for Dev's house, and that word was
gorgeous
.

A lovingly maintained Victorian with intricate, cream-colored woodwork that resembled the delicate lace of a wedding gown, it boasted a wraparound porch studded by white wicker patio furniture and a glorious front garden full of Queen Anne's lace, daisies, red and orange poppies, and blue cornflowers.

“I keep expecting Snow White to come out and greet us,” Lyse said, shaking her head in wonder.

“It's just as unbelievable on the inside,” Daniela said as they walked up the driveway, passing through a wide-open gate leading into a large, grassy backyard whose centerpiece was a rusted iron table encircled by wrought-iron chairs.

Weeds grew thick and luxuriant around the table, giving the yard a wild, overgrown quality that made Lyse feel like she'd been transported into a magical fairyland. Adding to the overall effect was a Medusa-headed brass chandelier—almost the circumference of the table—hanging from the bough of a large silk floss tree that shaded the yard, each of its snakelike arms holding a tiny tea light underneath a delicate glass globe.

Lyse could imagine the backyard at night, the lit chandelier giving off an eerie, ghostly glow.

“The place has been in Dev's family for over a hundred years,” Daniela added, leading Lyse around the table and chandelier and toward a small garage/studio in the back that already had people milling around its door. A mix of both men and women, mostly in their twenties and thirties; they were loud and fraternal, red plastic cups filled with alcohol driving the chaotic, partylike atmosphere.

“What's going on?” Lyse asked. “I thought you said we were going to brunch.”

“It
is
brunch—but for the whole neighborhood. Dev and Freddy call it the Echo Park Weekend Bar,” Daniela said, “and we made it just in time for mimosas.”

As if Daniela's words had summoned them into being, Dev and a short guy with a hipster mustache and wavy black hair came out the back door of the main house, carrying aluminum trays loaded down with homemade French toast. The already assembled group of neighbors fell into an impromptu second line, following the duo across the yard to where a long, rectangular folding table was already set up against the garage, its top loaded down with plates, napkins, and cutlery.

“This is amazing,” Lyse said, as she and Daniela were caught up in the food procession.

When they finally reached the table, they found Dev putting a pair of metal tongs into each of the aluminum trays. She saw them and her eyes lit up.

“Hey, you guys!” she said, sounding tickled to see them. “Wanna come in and help with the syrup and fruit?”

“Sure,” Daniela said, and Lyse nodded.

The two of them followed Dev up the back stairs into the mudroom.

“This is incredible,” Lyse said.

“We've been doing this for a while and it just seems to grow and grow!”

They hit the kitchen, and Lyse realized Daniela was right. The place was just as incredible on the inside as it was on the outside. With its delicate wood floors, vintage O'Keefe and Merritt stove, and ceiling rack loaded down with copper pots, pans, and other cookware, the house was an architectural magazine spread come to life.

“Here, take this,” Dev said, handing Lyse a large metal container with the words
Real Maple Syrup
stenciled across its front.

“I love your house,” Lyse said, watching as Dev placed handfuls of plump strawberries into a large ceramic bowl.

“I grew up here,” Dev replied, and added raspberries to the already-overflowing bowl before foisting it into Daniela's hands. “It's been in my family for ages.”

“That's what Daniela was telling me,” Lyse said, keeping the container of syrup at arm's length, so Eleanora's shawl wouldn't get sticky.

“Want me to take anything else?” Daniela asked, her arms now full of berries.

“No, I think this'll do it,” Dev said, surveying her handiwork. “Time to finish feeding the masses.”

She picked up a shaker full of powdered sugar and indicated that they should accompany her back outside. Lyse followed Daniela, keeping her friend's back in view as they weaved through the crowd. Everyone seemed to sense that more food was arriving and parted so the women could place their offerings on the table.

She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to find the short guy with the hipster mustache—she had about an inch or two on him—standing behind her, holding out his hand. Up close, she saw how wickedly handsome he was. Smooth tan skin, soulful dark brown eyes, and expressive eyebrows that moved up and down when he talked.

“You must be Lyse,” he said, watching her wipe the syrup from her hands onto the front of her jeans. “I'm Freddy Cardoza, Dev's partner.”

Lyse grinned and shook his hand. “I'm sorry. I'm covered in syrup!”

“Don't worry about it,” he said, smiling back at her and holding her hand for a beat too long. “I like my ladies sticky-sweet.”

Okay, the man has more than just looks,
Lyse thought.
He has charisma, too.

He pulled her to him and gave her a kiss on both cheeks.

“Oh,” Lyse said, surprised by the kisses but deciding to go with it.

“You smell delicious,” he whispered in her ear before releasing her.

“Thank you . . . ?” she said, not sure how to reply to the flirtatious compliment. “I love your place. I'm really jealous of you guys.”

“Oh, please, you and Auntie E have the house my daughters adore,” he laughed, shaking his head.

“It's the koi pond,” Lyse said. “Sucks the kids in every time.”

“Well, it's really nice having you in the neighborhood,” he said, patting her shoulder. “Can I get you a mimosa?”

“Sure, I'd love one.”

“I'll be right back,” he said, and winked at her, tipping his porkpie hat.

She watched him go, wondering how Dev handled being with a man who was such a flirt. If Freddy had belonged to her, his behavior would've driven her mad with jealousy.

While she waited for him to return with the drink, she looked around the crush of bodies, amazed so many people could fit into one backyard. Everywhere she saw men and women talking over one another, passing food around, laughing. She didn't feel like joining in, and besides, she didn't really know anyone
to
talk to, so she just smiled and listened to the conversations swirling around her.

“I was thinking of reviving an old tradition, throw a little salon like the ones the illustrious Zeke Title used to have in the 1920s,” Daniela was saying to some man Lyse didn't know. “Seems like it would be lots of fun—Dev has to cater it, of course, and we can set up a little photo studio in the back. And I was thinking Aleister Crowley's birthday would be the perfect kickoff for the first one. He'd have adored something like that in his honor.”

Daniela caught Lyse listening and gave her a wink before returning to her conversation.

“Lyse?”

She turned at the sound of her name.

“Hey! Is Eleanora with you—” she started to ask.

But the question died on her lips when she saw Arrabelle's face.

E
leanora had always spent more time in the clearing than any of the others. She felt connected to it in a way that transcended its ties to the coven, as if there were something here in this sacred grove that called out to her secret soul. It was why she'd come this morning, to ground herself after a long and exhausting night.

The wind whipped at her hair, making her shiver, and Eleanora pulled the thick black jacket even tighter around her middle. She'd grabbed one of her heavier coats from the hall closet when she'd gone out, and she was glad of it as she stood in the open air with the cold biting into her skin, yanking at her coat as if it could tear the thing from her body.

She had no fight left in her to push back against Mother Nature. Her exhaustion made her feel old and used up, and it was in these raw moments that she longed to flee responsibility. To crawl under her house, make a little nest in the dirt, and curl up and die like one of Dev's old, toothless tomcats.

She was tired, and she wanted someone else to take the reins.

She wanted Lyse.

We trust only our own flesh and blood to look after the last Dream Keeper,
Eleanora thought, as the wind danced through the eucalyptus leaves, ruffling her hair.

When so many pretend there is no threat, our children and children's children are left to fight the battle for us all.

She and Marie-Faith had both called on the efforts of the ones they loved best.

“Keep them safe,” she said out loud, the trees her only witness. “If I could sacrifice myself twice for them and for Lizbeth, you know I would.”

Eleanora didn't hear the man approach. To her credit, though, he was silent as death as he wound his way through the underbrush. He moved with the calculated grace of someone who planned everything, leaving nothing to chance, and so he was only a few feet away from her, but outside the circle of protection, when some sixth sense told her she was not alone.

Before she could turn around, the voice was in her head. It was tarnished now by time and age, but the sound of it, the familiar New England cadence, transported her back more than forty years into the past . . .

“. . . Eleanora?”

She would not turn around. There were enough people in the train station; she could make a run for it and lose herself in the crowd if she needed to.

“Eleanora, please,” Mitchell called out to her, and the pleading quality of his voice broke her resolve.

The cacophonous stampede of travelers moving through South Station gave her a false sense of safety, drowning out her reservations, and she stopped in the middle of the crowded room and waited for him to catch up.

“Eleanora,” he said as he closed the distance between them, gently grasping her upper arm and turning her to face him.

He was thinner than she remembered, his face drawn with wo
rry.

“Can we talk? Please . . . ?”

He was already guiding her away from the masses, pulling her toward a quiet corner.

“How did you find me?” she asked.

“They wouldn't let me into the hospital to see you, so I've been watching your grandmother's place. I was hoping you'd come by.”

Even though he's been outside that house for days,
Eleanora realized
, he has no idea Mimi is laid out on the bed, waiting for someone to discover her body.

It was a gruesome thought.

“—I tried to stop them.” Mitchell was still talking. “You have to believe me. I wouldn't have let them hurt you—”

He was holding on to her arm, grasping at her skin with frantic fingers—but he dropped his hand, flexing his fingers nervously when he realized it was making her uncomfortable. She set her traveling case on the shiny tile floor—its contents the last remnants of her former life—and reached for her arm, rubbing the place he'd just touched. The skin felt hot beneath her fingertips and she shuddered, terrified that he would guess what she was carrying inside her belly just by touching her.

“I have no ill will toward you, Mitchell,” she heard herself saying in a calm voice. “I believe you didn't want to hurt me.”

He was nodding in agreement.

“Yes, truly. I would never hurt you.”

He reached for her hand, and she had to stop herself from yanking it away. She squirmed inside as he brought her fingers to his lips, kissing the delicate skin of her knuckles.

“I have to go,” she said; the feverish way he was looking at her, holding on to her, made her want to bolt.

She didn't know how she'd ever thought he was attractive. There was something wild and desperate in his eyes, and it repulsed her.

“I don't want you to go,” he said, using his grip on her hand to pull her even closer to him. “When we made love—”

She didn't want to hear it, hated that he'd ever touched her. Just the thought made her nauseated.

“Don't. Not here, please.”

He stopped, swallowing back a torrent of words.

“You belong to me now, Eleanora,” he said. “You lay down with me, and, in God's eyes, I believe we're joined forever.”

She wanted to scream, to claw at his eyes and drive him away. She knew the road he envisioned for her, had lived there the whole of her life, been subjugated to another's will and religion and cruelty—and she was determined that this son of a bitch would not do the same thing to her.

“I don't give a damn what you want,” she said, the rage she felt driving her words. “You don't own me, no matter how many times you lie with me.”

He was aghast, shocked by her tone of voice and choice of words.

“I don't understand,” he said. “I told you that I love you. What else do you want?”

For a moment, she was rendered mute by the question—but suddenly the answer was on her lips, fighting with a raw viciousness to rip its way out of her.

“I want to be left alone,” she said. “I want you small-minded, narrow-thinking people to leave me be. I don't belong to you, just like I didn't belong to my grandmother. I want the freedom to do what I like, the way I like, and I don't want to ever be judged again. Not by you. Not by anyone.”

The words came out in a rush, uncensored, and, even if she'd had a thousand years to fashion them, she would not have changed a single one. The truth spoke louder than anything she could ever contrive.

Mitchell took his hat off, running the brim through his fingers—something she remembered him doing the very first time she met him.

“I don't want to do any of that to you, Eleanora,” he said, looking down at his hands. “I just want to marry you.”

To her shock, he dug into the pocket of his suit coat and produced a small white plastic ring box. Holding it in the palm of his hand, he sank onto one knee and smiled up at her. She thought he resembled a hungry wolf, all sharp teeth and desperate eyes.

“Eleanora Eames,” he said, his shaking fingers flipping open the top of the ring box, “will you do me the honor of taking my hand in marriage?”

Eleanora looked around the waiting area and realized they were attracting attention. Two middle-aged women who were seated together on one of the nearby benches were watching them like hawks. An older couple, cheap suitcases at their feet, whispered together, throwing the occasional glance in their direction.

She decided she hated Mitchell even more for turning this into a public spectacle.

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head, not even looking at the ring. “I won't do this with you. Not here.”

She grabbed his arm, trying to lift him to his feet, but he was so much heavier than her and wouldn't budge.

“Well, where then?” he asked, misinterpreting her words.

“Not where. Not when,” Eleanora said, finally losing her temper. “I am not going to do this with you
anywhere
!”

She was getting too loud. Rage that someone like Mitchell could just waltz into her new life and try to destroy it before it'd even begun filled every molecule of her being.

“Please, Eleanora, be reasonable—” he was saying, but she ignored him.

“You're the unreasonable one! Watching my house, then waylaying me at the train station—”

They were getting more looks now, strangers' eyes riveted to the drama playing out in front of them.

“I don't understand,” Mitchell said, brow furrowing. “What do you want me to do?”

She rolled her eyes heavenward, hoping for some divine intervention, though she knew none would be forthcoming.

“I want you to go away,” she cried in frustration. “I want you to go away and leave me alone. Forever.”

He closed the ring box with a snap, eyes on something just over her right shoulder. She turned and saw a policeman heading their way—someone must've alerted him when they'd started yelling. Mitchell's eyes flashed like a cornered animal's, and he scrambled to his feet.

“This isn't the last you'll see of me,” he growled, spittle flying from his lips.

And then he was gone.

She was trembling when the policeman arrived at her side, his bulky presence the most reassuring thing she'd seen in days.

“Ma'am, are you all right?” he asked, concern weighing down his doughy features.

She nodded and picked up her traveling case.

“Yes, sir,” she said, forcing a smile onto her lips. “Just a boy from my hometown who has trouble with the word
no
.”

The policeman nodded.

“Well, if there's any further trouble, just come look for me,” he said, patting her arm.

She watched him go, feeling unsettled and very much alone as she looked around the waiting area and . . .

. . . she was in the middle of the clearing again, shivering. She wondered how long she'd been gone.

Long enough for him to sneak up on me,
she realized. He was so close she could almost taste him.

“I hear you're dying,” he said, his words a whisper inside the coil of her ear—even though he could not cross the magical barrier at the tree line.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” she said, and an anger she hadn't felt in years circulated through her veins like poison.

She turned her head to find he was not just close to her; he was beside her.

“How are you inside . . . No, you, you can't be—” she stuttered, but he only smiled.

“Your magic only works on someone who wishes you ill, and I love you,” he said. His right hand clutched a walking stick as he leaned toward her, its silvery tip forged into the shape of a lion's head. “I've always loved you, Eleanora.”

His voice was not the only thing that was the same about him. His eyes still glinted at her with the same feral intensity—only this time they were not filled with desperate hunger but the cold blue flame of power.

She took a few steps back, moving herself out of his orbit.

Why, after over forty years, is he here?
she wondered. She had neither seen nor heard from him in all these intervening years—what did he hope to accomplish by confronting her now?

“What do you want?” she asked. “I don't believe for a second you just happened upon me out here.”

Too many cigarettes had turned his laugh into a rasp.

“Of course not,” he said, laughter turning into a hacking cough. “I'm here, really . . . at the behest of someone else.”

She didn't have a clue what he was talking about.

“Aren't you at all curious who I've brought to see you?” he asked, goading her.

She didn't care one iota who or what he'd brought with him—and she said as much.

“I don't give a pig's fart what you're doing here, Mitchell,” she said, and turned to go—but he caught her arm, refusing to let her leave.

He was strong for an old man, and this surprised Eleanora. But she had a few tricks up her sleeve, too, and wasn't afraid to use them.

“Let me go,” she said, calmly.

He grinned at her, squeezing the delicate flesh of her upper arm in almost an exact repetition of what he'd done at the train station all those years before.

“Let me go,” she said, glaring at him. “If you don't let me go—”

“You'll do what?” he purred into her ear. “Call the police?”

He cackled, enjoying his little joke—but she'd had enough.

“I warned you,” she said, and smashed the heel of her shoe into his foot, digging into his suede loafer.