The Lost Enchantress (2 page)

Until then my parents remained Obstacle Number One on my road to successful spell-casting. With January 20 rapidly approaching, I needed a foolproof plan to get them out of the house for the entire evening. I considered and rejected a dozen ideas before hitting upon the perfect solution.
Cats
. My Christmas present to them that year was a pair of front-row seats to see
Cats
in Boston. The tickets cleaned out my meager savings, but it was well worth it. I figured dinner, a two-hour performance, plus the fifty-minute drive each way would buy me more than enough time to do what I had to do.

As the night drew closer, Grand’s lessons focused on the spell itself.

One for seeing in this hour
. . . The prospect of glimpsing my one true love excited and terrified me in just about equal parts. But I was ready. I just hoped
he—
whoever and wherever
he
was—was ready for me. My mother had traded who she was—or could have been—for love, and I was determined not to make the same mistake. I refused to believe her warning that it was an either-or proposition. I fully intended to claim my power
and
find true love.

Of course, historically the odds were against me, something else my mother was quick to point out at every opportunity. When it came to romance, T’airna women had been plagued by broken promises, broken vows and broken hearts. The only man Grand had ever loved died on the battlefield without ever knowing she carried his child. And while I never doubted my parents loved each other, in their own stressful way, their relationship was more about passion and melodrama than genuine happiness and understanding. It was a bad-luck streak that stretched back as far as anyone could remember, and it was one family tradition Grand was reluctant to talk about.

I intended to change all that as well. No weak, close-minded, unadventurous soul mate for me. I wanted a man strong enough to accept and love everything about me, a man willing to understand and deal with the fact that the world isn’t always exactly as it appears on the surface. A man who believed in destiny as much as I did. And I couldn’t wait to sprinkle rose petals into the circle of candlelight and see his face.

For the record, I never stopped believing in destiny, or magic for that matter. I’ve simply stopped thinking about them and allowing them to influence the choices I make. Of course, when I say I’ve stopped thinking about them, I’m referring to conscious, intentional thoughts only. Memories are an entirely different matter and much harder to control. Memories are stubborn and subversive; they laugh in the face of willpower and determination, hunkering down, making a home for themselves in some tiny, out-of-the-way corner of your heart, always waiting for a quiet moment when you lower your guard so they can claim center stage.

I remember what happened with icy clarity. All I have to do is close my eyes and I’m back on Sycamore Street on that crystal cold January night.

It had been storming on and off all day, and I remember looking out the kitchen window at the snow-clad cedars strung like hulking snowmen across the back of the yard and, for the first time since undertaking the spell, contemplating the all-too-real prospect of frostbite. In keeping with tradition I would wear a white robe and walk barefoot through the snow to pluck a rose from the bush that grew at the very heart of my grandmother’s garden. Thoughts of my toes and how much I enjoyed having five of them on each foot were suddenly foremost in my mind.

As I watched the drifts grow higher, I recalled Grand’s instructions and wondered how I was going to manage to concentrate and focus
inward
when all I could see
outward
was snow, a fluffy, sparkly, icy white reminder that this was Providence, as in Rhode Island, as in New England, land of Robert Frost and Jack Frost and every other kind of frost known to man, a place where roses do not bloom in the middle of January. Not even roses wild and headstrong enough to survive being uprooted from the rugged terrain of western Ireland and carried across the ocean in the bottom of Grand’s trusty valise.

Not in the snow. Not as a rule.

“And whose rule would that be?” was her response when I nervously broached the subject.

Whose rule indeed?

That night, as always, Grand radiated self-assurance that was effortless, bone deep and as genuine as the brogue that still laced her speech. To me, her voice had always been like a magic carpet; all I had to do was close my eyes and listen to be whisked away to places other people couldn’t even imagine, to a world she alone could conjure. In the whole universe, only Grand could have convinced me that if I truly believed there would be a single, freshly bloomed white rose waiting for me in the garden that night, there would be. And that nothing, not a sky full of snow or the coldest New England winter on record or all the laws of nature and physics combined, would interfere.

As the day wore on, I began to worry about more practical matters, such as my parents coming down with a sudden case of severe common sense and deciding not to risk the drive to Boston. That would ruin everything. My father was especially restless, even for him, chain-smoking and pacing around the house, stopping every few minutes to glance out a different window. But in the end, he was the one who overrode my mother’s qualms, insisting that instead of canceling their big night out, they should get on the road early. I could barely keep from dancing in happy little circles as I stood in the doorway with Grand and Chloe and waved good-bye to them. My biggest worry was out of the way, and all I had left to do was shovel the path and count the seconds until the clock struck nine.

At last the appointed hour arrived and I stepped alone into the snow-covered backyard. It took an immense amount of sheer will to ignore the biting cold—not to mention scary thoughts of what was rustling in a nearby bush—and concentrate instead on the moment at hand. Among the zillion and one things Grand had drilled into me was that for the spell to succeed, I had to totally surrender to the intention of each individual moment. If I tried to hold on to the moment before or anticipate the one to follow, it would fail . . .
I would fail
.

And I flat-out refused to fail.

Intention, I reminded myself over and over, think intention.

That’s really what it was all about; four simple words that encompass the timeless mystery at the core of an enchantress’s power. Grand told me to think of it as a portal that would open within when the alignment of heart and head and hour was right. I had only one teensy problem with that scenario; I needed the alignment to be right on a very tight schedule. Assuming there was a rose to be found, I had to pluck it, get upstairs to the turret room where Grand and Chloe were waiting, cast the spell—with all the flawless intention, chanting and focusing required—and still have the house aired out and every last trace of incriminating evidence cleared away before my parents got home.

I paused at the top of the frost-kissed gravel path leading to the rose garden and drew a deep breath, fighting to clear my mind and overlook the snow squishing up between my toes. It was all up to me now. If something was going to happen, it would be because I willed it to, because I wanted it and wanted it badly enough to bring it about.

“Reality bends to desire. Reality bends to desire.”

I spoke the words aloud, slowly and emphatically and with my teeth chattering. I closed my eyes, and as Grand had taught me I imagined my thoughts gathering like a funnel cloud, which I then directed toward the path ahead. When I opened my eyes the snow was still there, but the sensation of stinging cold was gone. I took a step and the ground beneath my feet felt solid and warm.
I
felt warm.

It was true! That amazing realization propelled me forward, past the frozen frog pond and sleeping patches of foxglove and wild mint. I carried a white candle, anointed with coriander oil and encircled with the infinity knot I’d woven that afternoon, to light my way.

I remember that the knot was perfect. It was all perfect, and just like the day I’d discovered the spell, I knew even before I reached the garden’s innermost circle that the rose would be there. Waiting. Glowing as softly as the pale moon that had suddenly appeared and hovered between clouds directly overhead.

Hanging at my waist was a silver-handled athame, a family heirloom I used to cut the stem with a single stroke, as effortlessly as if I’d done it a thousand times before, and it was in that instant that I felt it for the first time, flowing around me and through me. Power. Pure. Dazzling. Mine. I could hear it, smell it, taste it.

Time flowed as well, carrying me up the stairs to the candlelit turret room, where with the same ease and grace I cast the sacred circle and did what I had been waiting so long to do, what I’d dreamed of doing, what I’d been born to do.

And that’s where my memory stops. Fade to black. I know I cast the spell and saw a vision in the flames. I know my parents arrived home earlier than expected, and that Grand and Chloe and I had to scramble to cover our traces and make it into our beds before they walked in. I know all that because I’ve been told; I just don’t remember any of it. Whatever memories there might have been are gone, burned to nothingness by what happened afterwards.

A matter of self-preservation? Or guilt? Maybe. Probably. I don’t know. I only know that if my life was a book, that long-ago night put an end to the chapter titled “Innocence.”

JANUARY

H
e parked in the shadows between streetlights and got out. He was wearing the usual: black leather gloves, black cashmere overcoat and a black look. The look, guarded and not quite a scowl, had been described as everything from dispassionate to demonic. On another man the effect might not have been quite so regally off-putting, but Gabriel Hazard wasn’t like any other man.

Physically he was just the tall side of average, his rangy build more bone than flesh, belying a fierce, sinewy strength that, combined with uncanny quickness and an aptitude for ruthlessness, made him a match for men twice his weight and girth. It was an advantage he was seldom called upon to substantiate. Most people were quick to pick up on his stay-the-hell-away-from-me attitude and smart enough to do exactly that. Men let him pass with relief; women were often a bit more reluctant, wondering what it was about him that made their pulse quicken and what it would take to unleash what their hormones told them was caged beneath those iceberg cheekbones, eyes as gray and bleak as winter skies, and chiseled lips that seemed to have forgotten how to smile.

He’d been told he was handsome,
too
handsome in fact, and though it had been years since he’d looked in a mirror, he assumed it was as true as ever. And he couldn’t have cared less. As far as Hazard was concerned, his face was simply one more weapon in his arsenal, to be used whenever and however it suited his purpose.

The door of the Mercedes S600 closed behind him with the solid thud befitting a car engineered to withstand attack by hand grenades and small arms missiles and things that go bump in the night. It was falling prey to those night things that most concerned him, not because he didn’t want to die, but because he didn’t want to live on anyone else’s terms.

Somewhere in the darkness a dog barked. Hazard instinctively tipped his face to the starless sky, letting the cold night air wash over him as he took the time to carefully absorb his surroundings. He didn’t like surprises. The dog was at least a block away and likely tethered since the barking hadn’t drawn any closer. The scent of burning wood was nearer. He closed his eyes and sniffed. Hickory, and much nearer.

He glanced around and saw smoke curling from the chimney of the house behind him. The lights in the house were on, the curtains open, and from where he stood he could see children scurrying about as a plump woman cleared dishes from the table. An equally plump man, his necktie loosened, newspaper clamped beneath one arm, appeared at the front window and peered into the darkness, frowning.

Hazard stood still, trusting his dark hair and clothing to render him one with the shadows. He had every right to be there, but he liked complications even less than he liked surprises. Having the police summoned to investigate a suspicious stranger lurking about would be a tedious complication of the sort he preferred to avoid. It would require talking to others and explaining himself, two things he generally abhorred doing. He waited patiently as the man surveyed the street in both directions and apparently satisfied that all was well with his little piece of the world, returned to his comfy chair by the fireplace, giving his wife’s round bottom a little love pat in passing.

The simple gesture set off a strong and unexpected twinge of yearning, and Hazard quickly turned away, cursing under his breath. God, he had no stomach for domestic bliss. And if he had ever yearned for a plump wife and comfy chair of his own, he’d long since gotten over it. Irritated with his little dip into sentimentality, he shifted his full attention back to the matter at hand, the reason he was out there freezing his ass off, his purpose in coming to Providence in the first place.

The quiet street, located on the city’s genteel east side, was lined with stately elm trees and painstakingly restored older homes. Older, that is, by American standards. Age was relative, after all. And the past had a way of losing its allure when you’d accumulated enough of it. He should know.