Spellbinder: A Love Story With Magical Interruptions

by Melanie Rawn

  —since Holly McClure had taken her Measure.

  Was that it? Or had her own spell been directed back at her? Merde, what if it had all gone wrong? Was Holly that powerful? Was Bradshaw? All the little forgettings and irritations—had that been only the beginning?

  Grinding her teeth, she seized her current lover’s face between her hands and forced him to look at her. His surprise mirrored hers: she hadn’t even realized that a new man had come to her. Not even a man—the boy, Scott, son of a Fundamentalist Christian Reverend, the jewelry on his ears bloodily shining by the light of Noel’s flaunting fire.

  “Fuck me like you mean it,” Denise growled. After an instant’s frozen shock, he did. His eyes turned wild—incense smoke, she told herself, wishing it would take her as thoroughly. Maybe then she wouldn’t have to look at Noel. His silvery-blue gaze was focused, cold, and not quite sane. He loomed over her where she lay on her back amid the silk and sweat and spilled semen. He snaked his long fingers around Scott’s throat from behind—delicately at first, then more deeply, and just as the boy gasped and arched and spent himself in Denise, Noel snapped his neck.

  “Behold the Sacrifice,” he murmured as the boy crumpled to the stones. “Life force, psychic power, arcane energy — all released by death at the supreme moment of existence. All mine.” He bowed to the altar, then turned to the congregation with his left hand extended in cnrnu, in the shape of horns, saying: “Fratres et sorores,debitores sumus carni.” Brothers and sisters, we are debtors to the flesh.

  Another man started forward for his turn, tottering on drug-addled legs. When the boy did not move, the newcomer blinked several times, then blurted, “Is he—?” Stumbling backward: “He’s dead!”

  “Yes,” Noel confirmed with a nod and a secretive smile. “He is. Ego vos benedictio in Nomine Magni Dei Nostri Satanus, Ite,missa est.” I bless you all in the Name of our Great God, Satan. Go, you are dismissed.

  Shrieks carved through the firelit chamber. The celebrants hurtled, naked and horrified, up the stairs, staggering into each other, and flames fluttered like silk flags in the wind of their flight. Only one person remained behind, the girl Serenity, who knelt beside the boy and begged him to talk to her, to wake up, to be all right.

  Denise was as paralyzed as the night her Measure had been taken, unable to flick an eyelash. Noel stuffed his hands in the pockets of his robe, watching with interest as the girl pleaded with the dead boy. The shift of his robe showed Denise that only now was he erect. When he turned pale eyes on her, she had an instant’s perfect terror that he was about to use that erection on her.

  “Don’t worry,” he reassured her, his smile curling crookedly. “They all saw it, they all witnessed it, and they all have something to lose if they talk about it.”

  And so, she realized, did she.

  The incense drugs purged by the adrenaline rush of fear, she lurched to her feet, snagging up her black silk robe with one hand. “Stay away from me,” she hissed, backing toward the stairs. “You sick, twisted bastard—don’t you ever come near me again!”

  “But you make such an inspiring altar,” he murmured, laughing at her without sound. “I can’t wait to read about this in your next novel.”

  Thirteen

  DINNER WITH THE LACHLANS: Evan knew Holly was dreading it. So was he. But there was no way to avoid it and he’d put it off as long as he could—for damned near three months, in fact. Father, sister, brother-in-law, two nieces and a nephew, and three widowed aunts escaping Boston’s July inferno. God help her—and him.

  On their way out the door, her phone rang. She let the machine pick it up, cursing under her breath when it turned out to be her publisher.

  “Holly, my precious sweetness, save my wretched life and check your e-mail the instant you get in — please please please!”

  She looked at Evan, who shrugged.

  “He sounds pretty desperate,” she said. “I’d better go see what he wants.”

  Five minutes later she was back, fuming. “Are you ready for this?” she demanded. “Walter wants me to go to Kenya! Ben Wolaver — you don’t know him and be thankful for it, thinks he’s the greatest thing since movable type — he’s got pneumonia. Who the hell gets pneumonia in summer?”

  “Ben Wolaver, evidently. What’s the gig?”

  “Two weeks of seminars in Nairobi and Mombassa. Now, there’s a climate I really want to experience in the middle of July!”

  “They have air-conditioning,” he remarked.

  “At that fancy hotel they’re dangling in front of my nose—you damn betcha they have air-conditioning. Plus a big fat honorarium, all expenses paid, anything I want—yeah, they’re making it really sweet.”

  “Gonna go?”

  “Hell, no! There’s a wedding to plan, and an engagement party, and—” She frowned at him as they got into the elevator. “Why do you want me to go?”

  “Didn’t say that,” he parried.

  “Not in so many words.”

  “It’s your work. And you like teaching. You turned down an artist-inresidence for this summer because of me,” he reminded her.

  “I wasn’t doing you any favors. I hate Chicago.” As the elevator doors opened, Holly tossed him the car keys. “Okay, what? Are the jitters setting in?”

  “No.” He gave her scowl for scowl. “What, you think I’m gonna ask you to marry me, then send you a text message to say it’s over from twelve thousand miles away?”

  “Well, what am I supposed to think?”

  He waited until they were on the street, the BMW purring like a pleased panther, before saying, “Just that you might want to take some time, think it over.”

  “Are you saying you want time to think? Are you having doubts? No bullshit, Evan, I need the truth.”

  “Holly, I swear I don’t have a doubt in the world—except maybe about what kind of husband I’m gonna be to you—”

  “You’re not your father, I keep telling you. When are you going to listen?” Her voice gentled and she brushed a caress to his hand. “You could just as easily be like your grandfather, the one you’re named for, whose wife called him a chuisle.”

  “I hope that’s how it’ll be. Don’t go to Kenya if you don’t want to, but don’t turn it down on my account, either. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

  “No, it’s not. What is it you’re not telling me?”

  “Like I said. I want you to be sure. I can be pretty irresistible when I’m in the immediate vicinity—” He tried a grin; she wasn’t buying. “Holly … I don’t want to feel like I’m holding you back or holding you down—”

  Her temper exploded. “That’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said! Did it escape your notice that I didn’t cancel my European trip? You don’t interfere with my work. I’d never allow it.”

  “I know,” he said, not fully successful at keeping the wryness from his voice.

  She was silent for a few moments. Then: “Do you remember that first week, when we were at dinner and Pete called you out on a triple homicide?”

  “Yeah.” He frowned again, bewildered. “So?”

  “You didn’t want me to come. Once we were there, you ordered a cop to take me home. It wasn’t because the scene was horrifying — it was, but you didn’t want me there because you wanted to keep me separate from that world.”

  He thought it over. “I didn’t want you touched by all that filth. I was pretty sure you weren’t gonna faint or anything — it’s just such a shit-hole I deal with sometimes, Holly, you’re above all that.”

  “No, you want me to be above all that. You’d do the same thing if I was a waitress or a secretary. When you talk about your cases, you keep things back. Like about the priest. Usually I don’t mind — you tell me what you need to, what I need to know so I can understand. But I’ve never deluded myself that I’m any help to you. Our minds work differently. We both use our training, what we know, what our instincts tell us, but you’re in the here-and-now—and I spend my working life ce
nturies in the past. Maybe—maybe there’s only one place we both belong: the world we make between us. It’s ours, and nobody else gets inside it.”

  He drove in silence for a while. “Every night I see people goin’ home to their families. I want that. I always have. It’s expected, part of the life story—you know, what you’re supposed to do with yourself. But I do want a home, Holly. I want kids with you. A world that’s separate from everything else, where nobody can get at us, nobody can find us—I didn’t know how much I wanted it, until you.” He smiled ruefully. “Is there anything else about me that you know and I don’t?”

  “The day we stop surprising ourselves is the day we start to die.”

  “Did you write that?”

  “Not yet—but I will!” She smiled back. “So. Kenya. You want me to go.”

  “I want you to do what you want to do because you want to do it. Not because of me.”

  She repeated deliberately, “You want me to go.”

  “I guess maybe I do, some. Mostly I don’t, but—”

  “But you’ve got this idea in your head that it will prove you’re not holding me back or holding me down. And they accuse women of being irrational!”

  As he parked the car and pocketed the keys, he was wondering how he could ever find words to explain that as much as he loved her, his very apprehension of her being gone was what made him want her to go.

  It didn’t make any sense. Except it did, in a convoluted way. He wasn’t used to depending on anyone. Childhood had taught him that relying on someone else for love, for comfort—a safe haven—was dangerous. Yet inside their world, his and Holly’s, was his life. He didn’t fool himself that he contributed much to that world. Her apartment, her things inside it; her arms wrapping him safe; her words making him clear to himself. Her eyes, to see himself in.

  When she got back from Kenya (he knew she’d go; the opportunity was too good to miss), he’d marry her. After this one last test. Not of her; of himself. To see if he could conquer the dread of being without her.

  THEY WALKED INTO THE RESTAURANT at 7:25. Evan’s beeper went off at 7:29. He borrowed her cell phone and went outside while she was escorted to their reserved table. When he came back, he looked angry enough to chew the stainless steel bar.

  “I’m gonna kill Carlos Hermangildez. He was supposed to cover for me tonight. He broke a finger playin’ softball this afternoon. Softball! He couldn’t hit a beach ball with a two-by-four.”

  “Go,” she said.

  “I can’t just leave you here to explain—”

  “They’re already on their way. Go. I’ll make your excuses.”

  “Holly, let’s just leave a note with the—”

  “Are you out of your mind? Even if they expect something that rude from you, it’d look terrific for me to stand them up. Evan, go. It’ll be okay.”

  He shook his head, smiling slightly. “Did I ever tell you—”

  “—that you worship and adore me? That I’m the love of your life? That I—”

  Leaning down, he kissed her lips. “That I’ll wrap this up as quick as I can and come rescue you. Just don’t turn your back on my old man—he likes big Irish butts, too.” And with that and a wink he was gone.

  IT WAS GETTING ON FOR ten when Lachlan finally returned to the restaurant. Holly was at a booth in the bar with a brandy, a cigar, and an ashtray. Her back was to him, shoulders a little less square than usual, russet hair coming loose from its upsweep. She reached to rub the back of her neck, and he saw her sigh deeply before drinking from her brandy.

  Rough evening, huh? I owe you big-time for this one, lady love.

  He paused to order a drink, and when he turned back toward her table, a tall, trendy man with carefully sun-streaked hair was trying to hit on her. Lachlan took one long, angry step, intending to shove the guy’s tie down his throat—and then made himself approach slowly. He’d never watched her react to other men’s advances before. This might be interesting.

  “So who’s the fool who left you here all alone?”

  She didn’t even look up. “He’s six-four, two-fifteen, and standing right behind you.”

  The man laughed—and half-turned, and saw Evan. Who smiled, all teeth.

  “Uh—sorry—”

  Lachlan made a shooing gesture with his hand. The man fled.

  Holly was regarding him with brows arched above slightly unfocused eyes, and before he could speak, said, “Hi, sailor. New in town?”

  “As a matter of fact, yeah. You come here often?”

  Blue eyes strafed him head to toe. “I could come just looking at you.”

  He damned near choked. Rallying, he slid into the booth opposite her. “I thought you were spoken for—you know, six-four, two-fifteen?”

  “Oh, him.” She contemplated the glowing end of the cigar. “He did leave me here all alone, in point of fact.”

  “Definitely a fool.”

  “It could have been worse.” She was speaking very precisely, her words almost clipped—which told him she’d had a helluvalot to drink. “If he’d stayed, he would have wrecked a very nice evening with his sister. She told me all about him, and I told her all about him, and we agreed that he really is the biggest asshole ever to walk this sweet green Earth.”

  Shoulda known, he thought wryly. “What about the rest of the family?”

  “Haven’t met them. That’s why I’m glad he wasn’t here. ‘Pissed off’ wouldn’t even begin to describe it.”

  “What the hell happened?”

  “Various and sundry for the kids. The father—”

  “—was too drunk to go out in public.” He rubbed his forehead, trying to avert an incipient headache. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not. Maggie and I had a good time. I like her. She likes me, too—at least, she said I wasn’t as impossible for you as she thought I’d be.”

  “After I finish killing Carlos, I’m gonna kill my sister.”

  “Speaking of homicides, what went on tonight?”

  “Gangbangers,” he said shortly. “Federal warrant, my name on the file.”

  “Ah.”

  Grateful that she didn’t push for details, he asked, “How’d you know it was me just now? You had your back turned.”

  “Lovah-man,” she drawled, “Ah could pick y‘all outta a full house at Yankee Stadium with mah eyes squeezed shut. Ah do believe it’s called ‘chemistry’?”

  “And here I thought you were some kinda Witch or something.” He grinned, finished off his drink in two long swallows, and got to his feet. “Let’s go. Unless you’re still waitin’ for the other guy.”

  She looked him down and up, then concentrated her gaze below his belt. “Looks like ‘bout eight inches to me, when it gets all riled up.” She stubbed out her cigar. “Y’all’ll do. C’mon, sailor.”

  THE NEXT MORNING LACHLAN LET Holly sleep in, waking her around noon with a large cup of coffee. She opened bloodshot eyes on him and croaked out, “Caffeine!” But before he could hand her the mug she paled, and her freckles turned green, and she bolted for the bathroom.

  He waited a decent interval, wondering how Maggie was feeling today. Then he called out, “Holly?”

  “Go away.” She returned to bed and he plumped pillows behind her, trying not to laugh as she gulped coffee and glowered at him. “I hate you,” she announced.

  “Wasn’t my fault you drank like a fish last night.”

  “Fish don’t drink.” She paused, rubbing her temples. “At least, I don’t think they do. You might as well tell me—did I do anything felonious?”

  “You don’t remember the fight?”

  “Nice try, Lachlan. I’ve never hit anyone in my life.” She paused. “Except for a guy in high school who goosed me. I don’t know which of us was more astonished when I backhanded him.”

  “Not you in a fight, me in a fight. With the guy you were trying to pick up. After he and I got into it, you started makin’ book on who’d win.”

  She downed mor
e coffee, then said, “How much did I make when you beat the crap out of him?”

  “How d’you know I won?”

  “Because there’s not a mark on you. Q.E.D.” Placing the coffee cup on the night table, she squinted at him. “So? Where’re my winnings?”

  “You lost.”

  “Huh?”

  “I gotta tell ya my feelings are hurt. You bet the bartender two hundred bucks that I’d lose—and me your fiance and the love of your life and everything—”

  All at once a pillow slammed into his head. “You lying bastard —” With another groan, she collapsed. “Just kill me now, okay? Have mercy.”

  “Go back to sleep. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

  “No I won’t. I’ll be dead tomorrow.”

  “I ain’t into necrophilia, babe.”

  She raised her head cautiously and squinted at him. “Huh?”

  Jeeze, she was articulate today. He’d have to remember that: whenever he wearied of the river of words, a bottle of vodka made a mighty fine dam.

  “Dinner?” he reminded her pointedly. “Champagne? Engagement ring? Fucking until dawn to celebrate? Like I said, I ain’t doin’ it with a corpse.”

  “If you don’t go away and leave me alone, I’ll get out my bolline and make sure you never do it again with anybody.”

  “HEY, BEAUTIFUL,” HE MURMURED TO her as the maître d’ escorted them to their table. “Did you know every man in the place is lookin’ at you?”

  She shook her head, smiling slightly. “They were glaring at you, Evan. You’ve got more hair and a better backside than any of them.”

  “Guys don’t think like that.”

  “You don’t, because you don’t have to. You’re the one with the great backside, after all. And besides that, every woman in here was staring at you. Except for a very few who were looking at me—wondering whether you’re with me because I’m rich or because I’m good in bed.”