Witches of East End (4 page)

She made up her mind. She touched Ross’s beer glass and added just a smidge of gingerroot and lemon zest. Then she stirred it with the red straw from Becky’s cocktail. The pint of beer turned a bright shade of pink for a split second. Now, this was
definitely
against the rules, this little concoction she had made, this little love potion. Sure, she had practiced a little magic before, here and there—that boy back in New York, that vampire’s familiar she had healed, for instance. But that was in the East Village, where she had been fairly certain what little, insignificant, inconsequential magic she had performed had been artfully concealed and absorbed by the city’s own kinetic energy.

This was something quite different, different even from the little nudges she gave the police to help solve crimes. This was the first real love potion she had created in . . . well, when the number of years was so big, who was counting? Besides, it was a shame to let such a good couple go to waste, and she shuddered at the thought of what might be if she did not: that terrible argument, a child growing up without parents, one dead, the other in jail. Freya increased the potency of the drinks she was about to serve. It didn’t have to happen. All they needed was a little help to get over the bump. They just needed a little reminder of why they had been together in the first place. She set the martini in front of Becky and the beer in front of Ross. “Cheers!” she told them, holding up her own glass.

“To our health,” Becky mumbled. She was probably embarrassed to have revealed so much to Freya earlier.

“Bottoms up,” Ross called to Becky from across the bar. He took a huge pull from his glass; and for a moment his face turned gray and it looked as if he were going to be sick, or throw up. Freya felt a fluttering of nerves—what if she had forgotten to mix it just right? What if she had poisoned him somehow—what if she had forgotten the correct amount to put in the elixir? She rushed to his side, hoping there was still time to serve him an antidote, when the color returned to his cheeks and he took a deep breath. “What’s
in
that?” he asked Freya.

“Why? Is there something wrong with it?” she asked, trying not to feel too alarmed.

“There’s nothing wrong with it! It’s awesome!” he declared, and downed the whole thing in one huge gulp. When he was done, his eyes seemed to light up, and he looked across the bar at his wife with a face full of wonder, falling in love with her all over again. Becky returned the smile tentatively, and in a few minutes the two of them were giggling, then howling with laughter, while Natasha looked confused and surly. Then Ross excused himself from his date, walked over to his wife, and gave her a back-dipping “Times Square–World War Two has ended” victory kiss. Natasha stomped off in a huff.

Freya sighed in relief. A few minutes later, she was smiling like a Cheshire cat. Her potion had
worked
. She still knew exactly how to make them. In an instant, the music on the jukebox suddenly pumped to life: Axl Rose screeching a love song: “Sweet Child o’ Mine.”
She’s got a smile that it seems to me, Reminds me of childhood memories
. . . The music began to fill up the night, lecherous and passionate, making girls grab their boys’ hands to lead them to the ad hoc dance floor in front of the jukebox. Dan and Amanda began to dirty-dance, and even the reverend and his wife took a spin. In the corner, the Baumans were making out so heavily—was that Ross’s hand up Becky’s shirt?—they should really think of leaving; it was getting a tad too heated. Even the mayor sat at the counter with a dreamy look on his face.

Freya drummed her fingers on the counter, swaying to the music. Sal had been right. It had felt like winter in there for a moment. But the frost had melted now. Of course, she still felt terrible about what happened with Killian. But a little magic went a long way.

chapter five

Sister Talk

Y
ou didn’t!” Ingrid said, looking up from her bowl of cereal and quickly putting the letter she had been reading back into her pocket.

“I did!” Freya said gleefully, too gleefully, Ingrid thought, feeling a twinge of jealousy at her sister’s exuberance as she picked off a few grapes from the bowl to feed her pet griffin, a part-eagle, part-lion hybrid, the one magical concession from their past that the Council had allowed, only because there was no way to separate a witch from her familiar without destroying either one. Truly Oscar was getting too big for the nonentity spell she’d placed on him centuries ago; he was almost the size of a Labrador, but he had the soul of a pussycat.

“And nothing happened?” Ingrid asked doubtfully. “Oh, Siegfried, I hear you, too. But you don’t like grapes,” she reminded the black cat.

“Not a thing!” Freya crowed, rooting around the cupboard for flour. She had just returned from her graveyard shift at the bar. It had been a long, busy night, one of their best in recent memory. “I feel like pancakes, do you want some?”

“I guess. So what are you going to do?”

“What do you think? I’m going to do it again! It felt
good
,
Ingrid. I felt . . . like I was me again . . . you know?” She began cracking eggs in the bowl, looking around and admiring the newly clean kitchen. Things were so much nicer in the house now that the Alvarezes were taking care of it. Joanna had really taken to the little boy, too. It was cute. They all found him adorable. Tyler was an interesting kid, wise beyond his years. He could beat any of them at chess and could already add and subtract large numbers in his head. One day he had told them with a solemn face that it took fifty-seven steps to get to the beach from their house. Most of his diet consisted of dessert, which made him perfect for Joanna, who had yet to discover a cake she did not like. Ingrid brought him chess books from the library and Freya chased him around the garden. The house was happier with the Alvarez family inside it.

She noticed Ingrid surreptitiously reading her letter again. Her sister had begun receiving letters over the summer. They always arrived in a plain white envelope with no return address. Whoever sent them, Ingrid did not say, and Freya did not ask. Since moving back home, the sisters kept an easy peace. Freya did not ask Ingrid why she had spent her last several years as a humble library clerk, and Ingrid did not ask why Freya had dropped out of NYU and sold her bar in New York. If they felt like telling each other, they would. They shared confidences like clothes, but respected each other’s privacy.

It was funny how at home they fell back on their old habits, taking their usual places at the familial tree. Ingrid worked days, Freya took the late shifts, and they usually met for breakfast, at the beginning of Ingrid’s day and the end of Freya’s.

After a few seconds she flipped the pancakes. She didn’t need magic to know they would taste fantastic: light and buttery with a nutty sweetness. She stacked two plates and brought them to the table. She drizzled her pancakes with maple syrup, while Ingrid ate hers with fruit.

“Did Mother tell you about the dead birds on our beach the other day?” Ingrid asked.

Freya nodded, forking her pancake. “Yeah. What’s the big deal?”

“She’s not sure. She thinks it’s an omen.”

“Uh-huh. Remember when she thought my old English teacher was a warlock who was out to get us after he accused me of plagiarism in eighth grade?”

Ingrid snickered. “Poor Mr. Sweeney, it’s a good thing she’s not allowed to or Mom would’ve hexed him!” she said, enjoying the sisterly solidarity. One of the greatest pleasures of their lives was talking about their formidable mother. That subject could never be exhausted.

“What Mom needs is a date,” Freya said, feeding Siegfried from her plate. “She’s got to get over Dad at some point.” They hadn’t seen their father since the restriction had been handed down, which was one of those subjects they never talked about. Bringing up their father only made their mother angry all over again. It was a shame what had happened between their parents, but there was nothing they could do about it. Dad was gone, Mom didn’t want to talk about it, end of story. Freya tried not to hold it against her mother, or her father, since he dropped out of their lives and never even tried to contact them afterward.

It was easier that way, just like it was easier to pretend there had only always been two children in the family. It was too difficult and sad to think about her missing twin brother, and aside from lighting a candle every year on his Feast Day in February, they never mentioned him. As for Dad, there was no candle and no remembrance, only a void, an empty seat at the table. “So what do you think? Mom and Sal? I could make it happen.” Freya smiled naughtily. “He’s got a crush.”

“No. Don’t do that to Sal. Mom would eat him for breakfast. You’ve got to stop thinking everyone’s problems can be solved by falling in love,” Ingrid said, looking uncomfortable and pushing away her plate.

“Huh,” Freya sighed, getting up from the table and beginning to stack dishes.

“You should be careful. You might have gotten away with making a potion this once, but who knows what will happen next time?” Ingrid warned. “You’re going to get in trouble if you keep doing it.”

“Maybe.” Freya nodded. “But I don’t care. I just don’t care anymore. And until they actually come down here to tell me to stop, I’m going to keep on doing it,” she announced. “I’m sick of living with my hands tied behind my back!” She paused, letting the hot water run over the dirty dishes. Somehow the pristine kitchen and the presence of the Alvarezes inspired her to clean, something she had never done before. “But whatever you do, don’t tell Mother.”

“Don’t tell Mother what?” Joanna asked cheerfully, breezing into the kitchen and smiling at her beautiful daughters, Gilly flying by her shoulder.

“Nothing,” the two of them mumbled. For a moment they were kids again and had just finished burying Freya’s wretched zombie gerbil in the backyard. The ground had kept shaking for an endless amount of time, it seemed. Ingrid had found one of Joanna’s old books, the ones they weren’t supposed to touch, which their mother had hidden away when the restriction was passed, and had finally hit upon the right incantation to stop Freya’s wayward spell.

“Hmmm . . .” Joanna said, looking from one to the other with skepticism. “Why do I have a feeling no one ever tells me anything around here?”

chapter six

A Knot in Her Belly

I
ngrid was thinking of her sister’s newfound zeal when she arrived at work that morning. She realized that she had never seen Freya so happy, not in a long time. Not just happy, there was something else. Freya looked more vibrant somehow, she was more
present
. Living without magic had caused them to fade a little; without even noticing, they had become as drab and gray as the mundane world around them. Ingrid latched her bicycle by the front gate and let herself into the dark library. Passing by Tabitha’s empty desk, she felt another prick of frustration. For years Ingrid had kept silent, had let science and medicine do their work, but now she felt a reckless courage stirring in her soul. She couldn’t stand to see her friend in so much pain anymore. So much unnecessary pain.

Ingrid looked around fearfully. What was she thinking? She wasn’t her sister, daring and courageous. Ingrid remembered all too well how she had been left to starve in that cell, the jeers from the mob, how terribly frightened she had been, alone and hated. If she did this, she would be breaking the agreement that allowed her to remain in this world.

But what did Freya say that morning?
I’m sick of living with my hands tied behind my back.
Well, so was Ingrid. She had had it with being useless and insignificant.

When Tabitha arrived for work Ingrid took her aside. “Tab? Can I have a sec?” She led Tabitha to the back office, where they stored the archival material. “You have to trust me, okay?” she said, as she switched off the lights. The room was bathed in a greenish darkness that came from the window film.

“What’s going on?” Tabitha asked a bit nervously. “What’s gotten into you, Ingrid? You’re like . . . possessed.”

“Just stand there,” Ingrid instructed. She knelt on the floor and began to draw a pentagram around the perimeter of Tabitha’s feet. The white chalk outline glowed in the dark room.

“Is that a—?”

“Shush!” Ingrid ordered, removing a white candle from her pocket and placing it in the center of the five-pointed shape she had made. She lit the candle and mumbled a few words. Turning to Tabitha, she said, “You trust me, don’t you? I’m trying to help you.” They were colleagues but friends as well, and Ingrid hoped Tabitha would trust their friendship enough to allow her to do this. She continued to work in a serene and thoughtful manner, but her heart was leaping in her chest. She was doing it—she was practicing witchcraft again. Magic. Freya was right, it was as if something that had been deeply buried in her soul was coming alive again, as if she just discovered she could breathe underwater all along. Ingrid felt dizzy and giddy. She hadn’t done anything like this in . . . longer than she could remember. She waited for a thunderbolt to strike. But there was nothing.

With the witch sight from the pentagram she took a good long look at her friend, until the junior librarian squirmed under the penetrating gaze. The pentagram revealed what Ingrid had always suspected. There was something blocking Tabitha’s energy, a darkness in the core, a silver-colored mass, tight and constricted, knotted, like a fist or a tumor. No wonder she couldn’t get pregnant. Ingrid had seen them before, but nothing quite this deadly. She placed a hand on Tabitha’s belly and yanked it out, almost falling backward in her attempt. But she got it out, all right. The malignancy dissipated as soon as it had been removed from a physical host.

Tabitha just stared at her as if Ingrid had gone insane. She hadn’t felt a thing; it looked as if Ingrid was just waving her hands about and babbling. “Are we done now?”

“Not quite,” Ingrid said. Removing it was only the first step. She flicked the lights back on and blew out the candle. “You also need to do something about your hair,” she said.

“My hair! What do you mean?” Tabitha looked skeptical.

Ingrid realized, in all the time she’d known her, she’d never seen Tabitha wear her hair down. Tabitha’s hair was brushed back from her forehead so tightly it looked painful, and then it was knotted and woven so that it was almost as thick as rope. Ingrid noticed other things, too: Tabitha’s clunky oxfords were tightly laced. Her sweater (it was chilly indoors with the air-conditioning) was tied with ribbons instead of buttons. The woman had more knots on her person than a sailing ship. If she kept it up, there was a possibility that the silver evil could form again. The darkness fed on constriction; it was attracted to it, like moths to flame.

She whispered fiercely, “Try it for once. Wear your hair down. And get rid of those shoes. And that sweater. Wear slip-on shoes. One of those cardigans that open in the front. No zippers. No buttons. Nothing but free-floating fabric. Free. And no knots.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Just try it for a couple months. I read somewhere that it might work, it’s like a karma thing.” These days New Age wisdom was an easy enough explanation for a little bit of white magic. Tabitha told her she would consider it, but she left the storage room shaking her head.

Ingrid brushed off signs of the pentagram and went back to work, her mind still racing. Of course, wearing flowy fabrics didn’t cut it on its own. She had to fight fire with fire, or knots with a knot of her own. When Tabitha wasn’t looking, Ingrid took some of Tabitha’s hair that had shed on her office chair. Now all she needed was one of Chad’s. . . . Then she thought, Tabitha kept an afghan in their car. . . . Chad had dark hair, so it would be easy enough to find one of his since Tab was blond. During her break, Ingrid let herself into Tabitha’s Camry and found what she was looking for. Back at her office, she threaded the two strands together, making a tiny, insect-size knot, while she hurriedly chanted the right words for the charm.

Her heart thrummed within her chest, and goose bumps prickled her arms as her fingers worked quickly, twisting and turning. This wasn’t magic, she kept telling herself. It was just a few words. A tiny little knot. No one would ever have to know. This was even more fun than removing that blockage; instead of merely cutting out the garbage, here she was
creating
something. Ingrid felt the magic bubbling inside, the thrilling rush that came from harnessing and directing a wild and unimaginable power to her bidding, and she felt her cheeks turn red with excitement. She had missed this more than she could admit.

“What are you making?”

The sound of the voice shook her and the spell broke. Ingrid quickly put the knot away in her pocket. “Matthew Noble! You surprised me.” She didn’t answer his question.

“It’s Matt, I keep telling you.” Matthew Noble smiled. He was a senior detective with the police department and even at thirty still looked like the college athlete he had once been, tall, with light brown hair, a pleasant Irish face, pale skin, sunburned nose, clear blue eyes, wearing his uniform of rumpled sports jacket and tan slacks. She could sense something in the way he looked at her—too frankly and too, well, appreciatively. He was certainly good-looking, but she wasn’t interested—not at all—and it was becoming something of a nuisance, his crush on her. It made her uncomfortable. Especially since he never did anything about it. If only he would ask her out so she could crush his crush. Yet he seemed satisfied with merely looking at her and needling her for books. She doubted he ever read them. He didn’t seem the bookish type.

“Sorry to bother you, but there was no one at the front desk. And I thought you might have a book to recommend.” When he smiled his teeth actually shone.

“I sure do,” Ingrid replied, thinking quickly. “Here,” she said, pressing J. J. Ramsey Baker’s latest into his hands. Ha. See what he thought of that! Serves Matthew Noble (did they live in
Our Town
? Could his name be even more corny?) right. At least she had found a way to put his attraction to her to good use. “If you like the book I’d love it if you could recommend it to a lot more people.” Maybe that way she could keep it on the shelves and the sensitive author wouldn’t have a temper tantrum when he found it kicked to the curb, she thought, as she stamped his library card and logged the transaction in the computer.

“Sure will.” Matt nodded, putting the book away without even glancing at its cover. He looked as if he were going to say something more, then decided against it. Ingrid watched him leave, noting his broad shoulders and easy glide, then went back to her weaving. Before the end of the day, she slipped the little knot of hair in Tabitha’s purse.

No magic here. Just a lucky knot to help a friend, that was all it was, Ingrid kept telling herself. No one would ever know or find out.