Serpent's Kiss: A Witches of East End Novel (6 page)

“They’re not dangerous. I swear. Forget I mentioned it,” she said.

“Ingrid, look at me.”

She looked at him.

“This is serious. There have been a bunch of burglaries in town, and we’re convinced it’s a group that’s not from around here, which sounds very much like these kids you’re describing.”

“You sound like a cop,” Ingrid said.

“I
am
a cop.”

There was really no way of explaining this properly, so she backpedaled. “They’re just a bunch of desperate kids who’re new to the area. They’re not from here, Matt, and they don’t know this culture—how things work.” This was all
kind of
true.

She was being honest. Her attacker had not been a homeless person at all but rather a group of pixies. The reason the stranger in the park had appeared tall and lumbering was because the five pixies had climbed one on top of the other’s shoulders and covered themselves in a long, draping coat—thus the bizarre gait. But the pixies
were
homeless, since they certainly were not from this world. So in a sense they were foreigners, refugees really. They were not allowed to use money, only barter, and in a pinch they resorted to theft. The pixies had kidnapped her—
stolen
her from the park—since that was the way they operated. But it was all very harmless. Pixie magic, while powerful, could be contained, and they had contacted her because they needed help. Still, she couldn’t exactly tell Matt that they were magical creatures somehow trapped in mid-world and had sought her help to find their way back home. Ingrid wasn’t sure exactly how much Matt believed in her magic; he still seemed a bit skeptical, unlike most of the townsfolk who had easily acclimated to the small enchantments that now pervaded daily life in North Hampton. She hoped it was just his careful nature and not a sign of closed-mindedness.

“They don’t mean anyone any harm. Please, let’s just forget about the whole thing,” she said. She found she didn’t much care for Matt’s tone, and he was making her feel as if she were in an interrogation room.

“Well, you’ll have to tell me where they are, so we can bring them in for questioning,” Matt said, looking piqued.

“Oh no, I sent them away. And they promised not to return or ever trouble anyone in North Hampton again.”

“Great!”

Ingrid did not like the sarcasm, and she saw that Matt had picked up on her displeasure.

“I’m just worried about you … for your safety,” he said. “I know you do some amazing—some people even say
miraculous
—things for people in this town, but you need to leave police matters to the police.”

“What do you mean ‘some people say miraculous’?” Ingrid asked, her nerves on edge.

“Come on now, you don’t really expect me to believe …”

“In magic?” she prompted.

“Well, yeah. I mean … there’s no such thing.”

“No such thing?” Ingrid snapped. “You’re sure about that?”

“Ingrid—did I say something wrong?”

Ingrid shook her head. Patronizing she could stand, but complete disbelief? She was shocked. If Matt didn’t believe in magic—if he couldn’t accept that she was a witch—what kind of future did they have together? If he couldn’t see her for what she was, truly, then there was no hope for a romance, or any relationship at all. Ingrid couldn’t change or hide who or what she was for him. If she could accept that she could love a mortal, then he would have to accept that he was in love with a witch.

“Detective Noble, while I’m grateful for your concern, I’ve taken care of myself for years, and it just so happens that I’ve done a fine job all on my own.” She heard how cold she sounded and instantly regretted it. Was it just moments ago that they were kissing across the table?

Now they were glaring at each other, and when Ingrid finally broke eye contact, she took her purse and rummaged through it for her wallet.

“I’ve got it,” he said.

She couldn’t find her wallet anyway. She nodded curtly. “Thanks for the drink. I’ll see you around.” She’d been looking forward to this date for weeks. How horrid that it had to end this way, with not even a friendly kiss on the cheek or a final handshake or plans to see each other again.

Matt stood up. “Ingrid—hey, come on. We’re supposed to have dinner.”

“You know what? I’m not hungry.”

He looked hurt. “At least let me drive you home …”

“No. I prefer to walk. It’s way before midnight,” she said. She stormed out of the bar, glad that Freya hadn’t seen her so she wouldn’t have to answer any questions.

Ingrid stormed away, furious with herself. She didn’t know what had happened back there, but she sensed that she had ruined any chance with Matt. And it filled her with an acute and unbearable sense of loss.

How many centuries would she have to wait for the kind of love that could wake her sleeping heart? Even though he had acted like a condescending
policeman
, Matt had mostly just showed how much he cared for her. But that didn’t matter now, because she was sure that after tonight he wouldn’t anymore. That was the thing that cut her through the heart: she’d lived a long time and met many different men, but she knew there would only ever be one Matthew Noble.

Joanna couldn’t believe it. Either Gracella had gone mad, or she had. Gilly watched, perched on a chair, as her mistress moved frantically around the room, setting things right again. Joanna had walked in to find the furniture in her study had been rearranged: her desk was no longer facing the view of the Atlantic the way she liked it, but rather it was placed below a tableau of a countryside landscape against the hunter-green wall, like some kind of practical joke. The love seat now occupied the spot where the desk had been, as if two lovers had sat there, staring out at the sea after performing the switcheroo.

It had been a long day and she had been looking forward to some nighttime pleasures—a bit of reading, some light sewing before bed. She only enjoyed rearranging furniture if it was her idea, and she liked the room the way it had been. This would not do.

It was not just that, but the books on her shelves had been rearranged as well, conspicuously out of alphabetical order with
Wizardry and Its Very Essence
placed at the front and
The Abracadabra of Real Magic
all the way in the back. Joanna had been hunting for a particular ancient and rare book of spells, which she’d always been able to spot very quickly because it was in a Ziploc bag to preserve its worn leather cover with the fading gold-leaf letters, delicate spine, and yellowing pages.

But now it was nowhere to be found. She’d have to use, well, magic to find it. She kept her wand inside a secret compartment of her bureau drawer when she wasn’t using it, but when she opened the lock, she found it was gone. This final coup was the most alarming. She turned the entire office upside down in an effort to locate it.

“Where is it, Gilly?” she asked her familiar, but the raven only cocked her head, pecked at her chest, and gave no response, which was also troubling.

“Well, I give up,” Joanna announced. She needed a break, and went off to find some comfort after the confluence of frustrating events in the kitchen. She’d baked several miniature pies for Tyler that morning, and she was looking forward to eating one, especially since she had skipped dessert.

Upon setting foot in the kitchen, Joanna gasped. The sight was more than she could bear. Just moments ago she had left the kitchen pristine, but now it was in disarray. Several of her pretty little pies lay half-eaten among crumbs on the kitchen counter and another on the table beside a half-consumed glass of milk. She took a huge breath to calm herself and, as she was doing so, Freya came out of the pantry.

Her younger daughter wore a lumpy leather jacket that she was attempting to zip up, but a telltale Lindt chocolate bar slipped out and fell onto the floor, followed by a bag of nuts. What on earth? Joanna stared at that lumpy jacket. What else was in there? A box of pasta? A bag of cookies?

The two women stared at the items on the floor, then looked at each other.

“Oh, hello, Mother,” Freya said, as if there was nothing out of the ordinary in her actions.

“So
you
are the one behind all of this,” Joanna said.

“Behind what?”

“Well, for one, the messy kitchen and my poor half-eaten pies.”

Freya came over to the table and let the items inside her jacket slide out, then began setting them upright. “Mother, I just got here, and I myself was wondering about the mess. I thought you and Tyler had a little party or something. It’s not like you to leave the kitchen like this.”

“So if it wasn’t you who made the mess or ate my pies, why, may I ask, are you stealing food?”

“Oh, these are just snacks to bring to the
Dragon
. You know, it’s late, and I couldn’t find an open market, and there wasn’t anything in the pantry to put this stuff in,” Freya said, jabbering.

Joanna retrieved a shopping bag from beneath the sink and began placing the foodstuff in it. She could tell her daughter was lying to her—probably not about the pies, though. Freya didn’t like coconut and key lime. No, she was lying about the snacks from the pantry. Freya talked fast when she was hiding something, ever since she’d been a little girl, like the time she’d told Joanna that her classmate’s hair was purple because she was a Goth and not because Freya had hexed her for stealing her purple crayon.

She knew enough not to point out Freya’s tell—it was a mother’s secret ammunition—but extracting the truth would be a delicate operation. “By the way, how are you and Killian doing? I miss that sweet boy. You should bring him around here more often,” she said.

“Everything’s great!” Freya replied too cheerfully, so that it sounded conspicuously false. “You really shouldn’t worry so much, Mother. And you look … I don’t know … as if
I
need to worry about
you
.” Freya walked behind Joanna and began to massage her mother’s shoulders.

The massage felt soothing, and Joanna realized how tense she had been. She was about to confide in Freya about the very odd, frustrating goings-on around the house that were making her think she’d gone crazy when the front door opened and Ingrid trundled in, shrugging off her coat and looking extremely upset.

She looked so pretty in her black dress with just a hint of red, her blond hair loose on her shoulders.
What possibly could be wrong?
Joanna wondered.

Ingrid placed her coat over her arm. “Hey, you two,” she said, forcing a smile.

Freya came and grabbed her by the shoulders, looking into her eyes. “Hey! Why are you here so early?”

“It’s nothing,” Ingrid said, but she looked on the verge of tears.

Joanna clucked her tongue. Something was obviously not great or fine, but if she asked, then she would never know. Now she had two tight-lipped daughters, which was nothing new, and the front door buzzer was ringing.

They all stood silently for a moment, until Joanna said, “I guess I better get that.” As soon as she walked into the hallway, she could hear her girls hurriedly whispering back and forth. It really pained her that they were so reticent to include her sometimes. What was it about herself that elicited such mistrust, or was it just the nature of all mother-and-daughter relationships?

Joanna opened the door to find Harold Atkins, her gentleman caller, beaming at her and closing a long black umbrella. A light rain had just begun to fall. It was nice to see his calm, amiable face after such a taxing evening.

Freya pushed past her mother to get through the door, holding the bag of groceries.

“This is—” Joanna began, but Freya was already rushing down the path, yelling good-bye over her shoulder. “I mean that
was
my daughter Freya.”

She and Harold shared a complicit smile.
Kids
.

“I was just driving by on my way home and thought I’d drop by to see if you got my message about taking you out to dinner. And since I was here anyway, I thought I’d check on Gilly. You said she was losing feathers and … ‘gloomy’ was it?” He twirled the umbrella, its tip planted on the step.

Joanna swung the door open. “Yes, yes, of course! Please come in! It’s raining. The house is in shambles, because … long story, which I’ll tell you over some pie, and we can talk about dinner and Gilly.”