“It was self-defense!” Catrina insisted.
I looked at Mila. It was her view I wanted to hear.
She didn’t hesitate a beat. “I agree with Catrina. Thorna suffered the consequences of her own actions. You bear no blame for her death.”
I let out my breath. I had already believed as much on an intellectual level, but it meant the world to hear Mila say it. Now I could let go of the moral guilt that had been gnawing at the back of my mind. Yes, I directed a curse at a person who tried to harm me—and she was now dead. But it wasn’t my fault.
As a rule, I still wasn’t especially keen on the idea of curses and hexes. But if I’d learned anything over the past few weeks, it was that in magic, as in life, things were rarely black and white. Instead, there was a whole lotta gray.
* * *
I was having the same philosophical thoughts at Denise’s memorial service a few days later. Poppy had arranged a lovely private ceremony on the bluffs behind the Fynn Hollow High School. After scattering the ashes, she unveiled a large three-dimensional artwork she’d created as a tribute for Denise. Bordered in multicolored mosaic, the piece featured shimmering silver stars and golden moons against a purple backdrop. Poppy invited each guest to contribute a trinket or a personal note, which she fastened to the piece. When it was my turn, I brought out the slender, purple ribbon from Denise’s datebook. As I added it to the artwork, I noted how it was like a miniature version of the violet ribbon I’d wrapped around the maypole. Wherever Denise was now, I hoped she could feel the joy and delight of May Day.
Poppy told us she’d obtained permission to install the artwork in the lobby of the high school. That seemed like a perfect place to me—especially considering the sweet epitaph Poppy had inscribed in the center of the piece. Beneath Denise’s name and the dates of her birth and death, the flowing, cursive words declared:
A few people lingered on the bluff at the conclusion of the service. Wes and I meandered, hand in hand, through the tall grass and wildflowers. A stiff breeze ruffled my hair and my dress, but the warm May sun felt so pleasant I didn’t want to leave.
As we circled back to where we’d started, Erik walked over to us. He shook our hands and thanked us for coming. His manner struck me as oddly formal, considering the unusual experiences we had shared. Then he cleared his throat, and I could tell he had something on his mind.
“Keli, I, uh, don’t think I ever thanked you properly for rescuing me from the, uh, burning barn. You risked your life for me. I can’t thank you enough.
And I . . . I’m just so thankful you weren’t hurt. I feel responsible for the danger you were in . . .” He trailed off, raking his fingers through his windblown hair.
Wes squeezed my hand and let it go. “I need to go talk to Poppy for a minute,” he said softly. As I watched him saunter away, I marveled at how lucky I was to have Wes for a partner.
Turning to Erik, I smiled and shook my head. “I’ve managed to put myself into danger more times than I’d like to admit. You have no reason to feel responsible for that.”
“I don’t know. I feel like I should have known, or at least suspected . . . I mean, I had no idea! I only dated Thorna, like, two or three times before I met Denise. I’d forgotten this, but Denise once told me that Thorna had implied she and I were a serious couple. Denise and I had already hit it off, and she was determined to make a go of it. She was all prepared to steal me away from Thorna.” Erik laughed self-consciously. “It sounds silly now. And I guess I treated it as a joke at the time, because I never really thought I was in a relationship with Thorna. I had no idea she was so crazy!”
“If it’s any consolation, you’re not the only one she duped. And at least now you know Denise never cursed you.”
“Yeah. It’s bittersweet, but I am glad to know she still loved me.” We fell silent and watched the cottony clouds float across the vivid blue sky. “Anyway,” Erik said, after a moment. “Thank you for everything. I’m glad I had a chance to know you.”
“That almost sounds like a good-bye,” I said, somewhat startled.
“Actually, I haven’t told anyone yet, but I received a job offer in Springfield. I think I’m gonna take it. Get a fresh start, you know?”
“Congratulations, Erik. That’s good news!” I reached out and gave him a spontaneous hug.
“Thanks. I’m gonna miss this place. I’m sure I’ll be back to visit.”
I smiled at him, wondering if we’d ever really meet again. In spite of the circumstances, I was glad I’d gotten to know him, too. “Don’t be a stranger,” I said, punching him softly on the arm.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
In the days following Thorna’s death, my life had taken on a new level of hectic. The fire at the Beltane Festival was big news even before people learned about its connection to the Fynn Hollow murder. It didn’t take long for the stories to start swirling, especially on the Witches’ Web. Then, because of my account of Thorna’s confession, the cops searched her house and found a host of incriminating evidence—from a diary-like grimoire outlining her plans to a terrarium filled with belladonna.
When the Sheriff’s Office issued a statement officially naming Thorna as the murderer, I hoped people would forget all about my involvement. I should have known better. I wound up in the spotlight even more than before. Everyone wanted to hear about my experience with the “bad witch” and how I escaped from her “evil clutches.” I was flooded with interview requests from all sides—from print, radio, television, and even Internet news media. I declined them all. But the attention didn’t stop until something else grabbed the headlines. It wasn’t so much a new story as an addendum to an old one: the Fynn Hollow armored truck robbery.
It was the confessions of Billy and Viper (both of them!) that had everyone talking. The two young men took full responsibility for their crime and stated they wanted to make amends. I wasn’t sure what had caused their change of heart, but I suspected Denise had something to do with it. When I had told Billy her spirit wanted the truth out, part of me believed it to be true.
Ironically, the pair chose not to disclose Denise’s involvement in the theft. In fact, they didn’t mention her name at all. I couldn’t say I blamed them. Protecting her reputation was the decent thing to do. In telling their story, they also omitted the part about the money spell—which also seemed like a good call to me.
Reporters weren’t the only ones ringing my phone off the hook. In the aftermath of the fire, I also heard from plenty of friends, acquaintances, and clients. I even received a call from Neal Jameson. After I’d learned that the breach of his confidentiality did happen in my office (albeit through a hidden camera), I felt a measure of responsibility. At a minimum, I’d stopped expecting to receive an apology from him. Imagine my surprise when he practically begged for my forgiveness. I was sitting in my home office when he called out of the blue.
“Keli, I was way out of line,” he said without preamble. “When I found out my intention to buy Red Gate Hollow had been leaked, I jumped to conclusions without thinking. I had absolutely no evidence to suggest you did anything improper.”
“Actually, I don’t blame you for assuming—”
“But you should blame me. This impulsive nature of mine has been more of a curse than a blessing. As it happened, it was a good thing my plans were scuttled.”
“I don’t understand,” I said, trying not to be distracted by his use of the word curse.
“It was impulsive of me to try to buy that property for my friend without discussing it with her first. When she caught wind of it, she was—well, let’s say she was far from grateful. She’s the type of person who labors hard for everything she earns and likes to make her own decisions.”
Who wouldn’t? I thought. Out loud, I said, “I’m glad it all worked out, Neal.”
“If you’re not too annoyed with me, I do have another matter I could use your help on.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, another property transact
ion. When can I stop by your office?”
“My office? Er, how about we discuss it over lunch next week?”
* * *
I couldn’t avoid my office forever. While I could accomplish a fair amount of work from home, I had to go back to my rented office space eventually. Not only was it my official place of business, but I also had files there and mail to pick up. Finally, I bucked up the courage and made the five-minute drive downtown. It was Monday morning, two weeks after May Day.
As I unlocked my office door and pushed it open, I prepared myself for stale air and dusty furniture. I wasn’t prepared for the enormous May basket in the center of the coffee table. What the—?
The sight filled me with apprehension. Besides the fact that all the flowers were dead, there was the small matter of the locked door. No one had a key to my office besides myself and my absentee landlord.
Then there was the familiar-looking plain white card sticking out of the basket.
With a resigned sense of inevitability, I extracted the card and held it up to the light. I wasn’t a bit surprised to see the neat, black cursive writing—exactly like the writing on the card that had accompanied the fairy figurine. This time the message was slightly more aggressive.
Well done, Miss Milanni. Another mystery solved.
Good luck solving this one.
All of a sudden, my fear turned to ire. Very calmly, I walked over to the supply closet and selected a blank manila folder. I inserted the white card in the folder and snapped it shut. Then I grabbed a black marker. After a moment’s consideration, I labeled the folder “Giftster.”
My anonymous gift-giving nemesis was quite the trickster.
After making sure there was nothing left in the basket besides crumbling, dried-up flowers, I dropped the whole thing in the garbage. Then, narrowing my eyes and pursing my lips, I circled my office like a panther.
Where can I hide a witch bottle in here?
* * *
“I have to say, as stressful as it can be sometimes, I do enjoy the freedom of being my own boss.”
“I’m liking it, too,” said Wes. “We didn’t used to get to enjoy afternoons together like this.”
“Mm-hmm. I never fully appreciated the advantages of the flex time you’re allowed at the newspaper.”
“Here’s to flexibility,” said Wes, raising his beer bottle toward me.
“To flexibility and freedom.” I clinked his bottle with mine and took a gratifying sip. We were sitting on our newly finished deck, looking out over a backyard that grew lusher by the day. It felt a little decadent to take a break like this at 4:00 on a Monday afternoon. But I didn’t feel too guilty. In defiance of the nefarious giftster, I had put in a few productive hours of work at the office—including a lengthy phone call with Carol’s ex-husband’s attorney. Using all my powers of reason and persuasion, I convinced him that his client, as well as the children, would be better off with a renegotiated custody arrangement. A bitter courtroom battle would have produced uncertain results and certain negativity. Ultimately, he admitted his client was having second thoughts about fighting for full custody. We worked out a settlement I knew would make Carol very happy.
I was feeling happy myself when I hung up the phone. This was the part of my job I liked best—helping people resolve their problems. As a side benefit, I also gained a healthy perspective on my own problems, which weren’t so bad after all.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Wes reached out and tucked a wisp of hair behind my ear.
“I was just thinking about how fortunate I am, all things considered.”
“You and me both, babe.”
He took my hand and turned it over, exposing my wrist and the freshly inked tattoo emblazoned on my skin. One of the reasons I’d left work early today was to meet Wes at his favorite tattoo parlor. “I’m still a little shocked you did this,” he said, as he lightly stroked my forearm with his thumb.
I grinned. “Me too! But I have no regrets.”
The idea of getting a tattoo had been circulating in the back of my mind ever since I’d drawn the ankh on my chest. Symbolism was important to witchcraft, so it seemed fitting to mark myself with a symbol of my beliefs. Of course, there were several to pick from. Besides the Egyptian ankh, I could have chosen a pentagram, like on the necklace I often wore, or a triquetra, like the one tattooed on Mila’s inner wrist. Or I could have gone with something more innocuous, like the stars and moons favored by Denise.
Yet, at the same time I was contemplating a permanent representation of my Wiccan identity, I also seemed to face challenges to that identity at every turn. I had encountered a lot of Pagans recently who seemed to hold values at odds with my own—including a willingness to use dark magic and, yes, dreaded curses. Then there was that newspaper article connecting me to the Fynn Hollow witches. The resulting lost clients and judgmental attitudes of people like Crenshaw had upset me more than they should have.
With those cheerless thoughts swirling in my mind over the past weekend, I had gone for a morning run on a tree-lined path. It didn’t take long to shed the negativity. As often happened, I drew energy from the trees and let my doubts be carried away on the wind.
It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. The conviction came to me as if conveyed from the earth beneath my feet and the sun shining upon my face.
I looked at the tattoo again, feeling pleased with my choice. Now I would always carry with me the sign of the Triple Goddess: two crescent moons, waxing and waning, on either side of a full moon. The three lunar phases matched the three phases of womanhood—maiden, mother, and crone—and would be a constant reminder of sacred feminine power and the magic in every season.
“And you even let me hire Poppy to come over and photograph the process,” Wes continued. “Does this mean you’re a public Wiccan now?”
I shrugged. “My beliefs aren’t really anyone else’s business. I just wanted to support Poppy’s art, that’s all.”
“Oh, is that all?”
I shrugged again and grinned. “Partly.”
Wes eyed me thoughtfully, making me wonder what was going through his mind. The trill of a songbird drew my attention to the flower garden.
“I wonder if my sunflowers have sprouted?” I leaned my arms on the railing of the deck and peered across the yard. “I think I see a green shoot!”
“Do you want to go look?”
I leaned back. “Nah. I’m sure they’re growing. I can check on them later.”
“There’s always something stirring beneath the surface.”
I glanced at him in surprise. “You sound like a poet. Or a philosopher.”
His eyes twinkled as he edged forward. “Or maybe I’m starting to think like you, and seeing magic all around us.”
I smiled, meeting him halfway for a kiss. “Ah, yes. Magic and mystery. It does make life exciting, doesn’t it?”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, I am exceedingly grateful to my family for their love, support, and unwavering belief in me. Thanks, especially, to my parents and sisters for reading my manuscripts and providing their honest feedback, and to my husband and daughter for their all-around awesomeness. Many thanks also to my agent, Rachel Brooks, my editor, Martin Biro, and the entire Kensington team for all their talent, guidance, and dedication to this series.
Finally, a great big “thank you” to fans of the Wiccan Wheel Mysteries. Your enthusiasm and engagement make writing these books that much more fun.
If you enjoyed May Day Murder,
be sure not to miss all of
Jennifer David Hesse’s
Wiccan Wheel series,
including
SAMHAIN SECRETS
It’s that haunted time of year,
when skeletons come out to play.
But Edindale, Illinois, attorney Keli Milanni
discovers it isn’t just restless spirits
who walk the night . . .
Keep reading for a special excerpt.
A Kensington mass market and eBook on sale now!
“You know there’s no such thing as ghosts!” My words came out in a raspy whisper. I was trying to be forceful enough to get through to the hysterical woman on the other end of the line, while avoiding the attention of the small crowd of businesspeople milling about in front of the converted barn. I failed on both counts.
All eyes looked toward me with blatant curiosity. Among them were those of the park district supervisor, the head of the Chamber of Commerce, and the senior partner at my law firm, all of whom were awaiting the start of their VIP tour through the Fieldstone Park haunted barn. Every year, Edindale’s town leaders recruited local businesses to create spooky displays and a funhouse-style maze inside the emptied-out storage barn. This was the law firm’s first year participating. As one of the newest partners, I was roped into playing a costumed volunteer. As if that weren’t embarrassing enough, now I’d unwittingly placed myself in the spotlight.
With my cell phone pressed to my ear, I looked for an escape route. Instead, I saw Pammy Sullivan, one of the associates at the law firm. She broke off from a small group that included our boss, Beverly Olsen, and made her way toward me with a gleam in her eye. An incorrigible gossip, Pammy probably just wanted the scoop on my strange phone call. On the other hand, maybe Beverly had sent her over to chide me for taking a call right when the tour was about to start.
I offered an apologetic grimace and squeezed out from behind the makeshift ticket booth. Scanning the park for a quiet spot, I landed on a cluster of maple trees beyond the pavilion. As I made my way through the throng, past picnic tables filled with laughing kids and rowdy teenagers, I kept my head down and listened to my client fret on the other end of the line.
Scratch that. She was beyond fretting. She was freaking out.
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