Spellbinder: A Love Story With Magical Interruptions

by Melanie Rawn

  Not his problem. Not his jurisdiction. Not until Denise’s trial, and the name Elias Sutton Bradshaw showed up on her witness list—along with Holly Elizabeth McClure and Lydia Rachael Montsorel and Katherine Drummond Ramsay, and —

  “Your Honor?”

  He straightened quickly. “Yes? What is it, Marshal?”

  “Pete says there’s a pretty ugly crowd outside. We should get this over with and send everybody home.”

  “Or to the nearest TV studio,” he appended acidly. “There’s more than enough time to make the six o’clock news.” Rising, he settled his robes around him. “The NYPD ought to be here, I think.”

  “Done,” Lachlan assured him. “They’re sending four cars immediately.”

  “Which means in half an hour, if we’re lucky.”

  “Well, yeah. But if we space the departures right, things oughta stay fairly calm.”

  “I want the Reverend escorted.”

  “Pete and I already tossed for it. I lost.”

  “My sympathies.”

  FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, DESPITE ALL Lachlan could do by way of verbal persuasion to get him into his car and gone, the Reverend was on the courthouse steps before a phalanx of microphones, with a crowd of at least two thousand below him. There’d been enough time elapsed since Fleming had entered the building to allow everyone to get sufficiently worked up and nasty. Banners and signs touted every conceivable point of view on the subject of witchcraft, waved by persons who had been shouting at each other for at least an hour.

  Lachlan didn’t like this one little bit. Neither did the NYPD uniforms assigned to crowd control. Thankful that he didn’t have their job, he moved toward the Reverend.

  “Sir, if you’ll just —”

  “I can’t ignore this opportunity to speak.”

  “They’re not interested in listening,” he pointed out, exasperated. “They just want to yell. Reverend, you really need to get out of here before this gets serious.”

  “Perhaps I can calm them down. I must try, Marshal.”

  And before Lachlan could say anything more, he stepped up to the mikes. Most of the crowd quieted; Fleming threw a little smile at Lachlan, who didn’t share his optimism.

  “My friends, the quest for justice is not yet fulfilled, but I promise that justice will be done concerning the murder of my son. God’s justice, if not the law’s.”

  The yelling was nondenominational: people brandishing banners for Satan shouted just as loudly as those whose signs proclaimed Christ. Lachlan shook his head and peered beyond the crowd to get a glimpse of the Reverend’s limo.

  “I do not call myself Baptist, or Methodist, or Episcopal, or any of the other names that label churches. I am a true Christian, for I am a doer in Jesus Christ. Christian means someone who is Christ-like, not one who believes in Christ — for if that were true, my friends, if someone who believed in Christ was a Christian, then Satan would also be a Christian—for the Evil One believed in Jesus enough to tempt him! My son knew this, and my son challenged himself to be similarly tempted —”

  Evan tapped one of the Reverend’s lawyers on the shoulder. “Which limo?”

  “He doesn’t have one.”

  “How’re you gettin’ him outta here?”

  “He came in my car —”

  “Which goddamned one?” Lachlan snarled.

  “The white Caddy over there.”

  “— these witches who, in the foul rite of worshipping Satan murdered my son! These whores, these murderers—seducers of innocence, despoilers of righteousness, depraved and immoral fornicators!”

  Lachlan fixed his gaze on the white Cadillac, gritting his teeth while Fleming termed the woman he loved a whore.

  “I know that many witches says that they do not believe in Satan, and thus cannot be Satanic. But I say unto you, my friends, there are only two forces at work in this world: good and evil. Good is obedience to the words of Jesus Christ. Evil is disobedience. It is that simple! Jesus saith unto us, ‘I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life: no man cometh to the Father, but by me.’ If you do not serve Jesus, you serve Satan. There is no evading the issue, no middle ground.”

  Cheers; angry shouts; Lachlan counted the NYPD uniforms and wished there were a dozen more present.

  “Tolerance and open-mindedness do not enter into the discussion. Tolerance of wrong and wicked paths is not allowed. Open-mindedness regarding so-called other ways to God is not allowed.”

  Make that two dozen NYPD uniforms. Two minutes to hustle him down the steps, Lachlan estimated. Just give me two minutes before all hell breaks loose —

  “Witches took my son,” said Fleming, lowering his voice. The crowd had to shut up to hear him. “They stole him, they attempted to corrupt him, they abused him, and when finally they could not persuade him to their wickedness, they killed him. They are of Satan. But I say also that you must pray for Christ to show the witches that the Truth, the Way, and the Life are through Jesus, and none other. I say unto you now, any who have taken even one step down dark paths, pray with me!”

  An elegant, manicured hand lifted, sunlight fracturing into a million separate rays from the diamond of his Yale Divinity ring, and the long fingers curled as if reaching for the sleeve of God Almighty — moreover, as if that sleeve were within Fleming’s reach, and his reach only.

  “Precious Lord, there are those here present who have disobeyed Your Word. I now ask You in Your infinite mercy to cleanse them in body, mind, soul, and spirit. In the name of Jesus Christ, I disentangle all those here who are truly penitent from any and all evil curses, afflictions, talismans, charms, potions, psychic powers, sorceries, enchantments, hexes, and spells that have been put upon them. My brothers and sisters in Christ, may Almighty God bless you with deliverance. May He bring you salvation, healing, prosperity, and happiness. Amen, and Amen.”

  “And may you rot in the hell you invented, you self-righteous asshole!” someone shouted.

  “Curse God and die!”yelled someone else.

  Videotapes of the ensuing chaos were flawed by the jostling of the camera crews by enraged citizens. Some very shaky footage caught Deputy Marshal Evan Lachlan grabbing Reverend Fleming’s arm and shoving him down the courthouse steps; another shot showed how the Reverend stumbled, and how Lachlan held him upright by sheer strength. None of the cameras saw what Lachlan saw: the cold silvery glint of a gun, pointed right at Fleming.

  Every news broadcast that evening clearly showed the Reverend beside a white Cadillac, turning to shout something at the crowd—and folding into the leather seat like a book snapped shut as Marshal Lachlan slugged him in the stomach.

  Sixteen

  EVENTUALLY HE BECAME AWARE THAT he had to pee. Too much beer. Shoulda stuck to Scotch—the buzz came faster, lasted longer, and he didn’t have to go siphon his bladder as often.

  It seemed a long, long way to the bathroom. Stuff was all over the place. Stupid stuff. Coffee table, rattling with beer cans and Scotch bottles when he bumped it with a shin. Chair — what the hell was it doing here, instead of the kitchen? And boxes all over, labeled in fat black marker letters that he couldn’t quite focus on. Why so many boxes? Oh, yeah, he was getting ready to move. He couldn’t recall why.

  His bladder was about to burst. He couldn’t remember where the toilet was, either. Stupid, he’d lived here for years, but he couldn’t quite —

  A wave of dizziness hit him, and he propped a shoulder against a wall. Digging into his arm was something that proved to be a light switch. That would help. Harsh illumination flooded the room, and he staggered to the toilet and unbuttoned his Levi’s. When he was finished, he turned—and suddenly, hideously caught sight of himself in the mirror on the back of the door.

  Jesus Suffering Christ. It wasn’t possible.

  He looked like some big, dumb, lard-assed Mick with a two-week beard and bloodshot booze-soaked eyes.

  He looked like his father.

  Caution: objects in the mirror are closer than they
appear.

  He ran a hand over his belly, hating the liquor-bloat. Hating the bleariness of his eyes and the circles beneath them and the sick pastiness of his skin and the sour, filthy taste in his mouth.

  Hating himself. With pretty good reason. But what did it really matter? Nothing mattered. His career was over, gone, shot down in flames. His whole life shot to hell—no future —

  Holly.

  He had watched British Air take her away from him at his own insistence while telling himself he was the biggest fool ever born. He’d left a note in her luggage that said three things: I love you. I miss you. Come home and marry me, lady love.

  He wasn’t that man anymore. Dark hair, hazel eyes, big nose — yeah, all the same. But not her Éimhín — not anymore.

  A half-smoked cigarette had burned out on the sink ledge, leaving a yellow stain on the porcelain. He had no idea when he’d left it there. Or the matches. Subconsciously trying to burn the place down? Thickheaded fool. He lit up the stub, hands shaking.

  He wanted her so much. He wanted never to see her again. As he was trying to decide which would hurt worse, he heard a key in the lock and the sound of the door opening. And smelled—even above the stench of beer and Scotch and cigarettes and his own acrid sweat—the sultry sweetness of her perfume.

  SHE USED HER KEY AND entered silently, fairly certain what she’d find. He was supposed to move into her place next week, and so his apartment was packed up. The living room had been denuded of most furniture and all decoration, save for the photo of him and his parents at his NYPD Academy graduation. This sat on the coffee table—a silent taunting surrounded by a repugnant litter of bottles, beer cans, pizza boxes, and full ashtrays. Yes, pretty much what she’d expected.

  But as he came into the living room, cigarette dangling from his lips as he buttoned his jeans with clumsy fingers, she discovered things were even worse than she’d feared. He hadn’t shaved in more than a week. Or showered, by the smell of him that assaulted her nostrils from all the way across the room. The booze showed in his eyes, in the unhealthy pallor of his skin, in the belly curving against his T-shirt. He registered her presence without surprise, taking the cigarette from his lips and gesturing expansively to the sofa—a move that nearly made him lose his balance, he who was always so lithe.

  “Oh. You’re here,” he remarked. “How nice. Have a seat, baby.”

  His voice, despite quantities of alcohol, was sharp as shattered glass. She’d seen him mildly tipsy, cheerfully plastered, and owl-eyed inebriated—but never liquor-sodden. She hadn’t suspected he’d be an ugly drunk. He slumped gracelessly onto the sofa, legs splayed, and ran his fingers back through his hair, exposing the long widow’s peak for a moment before the lank, dirty strands fell across his brow.

  Holly sat cross-legged on the floor within reach of the coffee table, and leaned over to snag a pack of smokes and a lighter. “Mind?” He answered with a shrug. She lit a cigarette, breathing in deeply. Ten years since she’d quit smoking. The rush prickled every hair on her head. Exhaling, she looked up at him through the white cloud and said, “Susannah called.”

  “Nice of her. Everybody’s nice these days, didja notice? Everybody wants to call and talk.”

  Holly took off her cardigan and tossed it aside. The overnight Nairobi-to-Heathrow flight had been ferocious; Heathrow to JFK was worse. Her body had no idea what time it was. Jet-lag clotted her wits just when she needed them most.

  There was a sneer in his voice as he said, “Shouldn’t treat cashmere like that—oops—sorry, baby, I forgot. You can afford a hundred of ’em.”

  “A thousand,” she retorted, and he inclined his head in sarcastic apology.

  “I’m not being a good host,” he said. “Not very nice of me.” He leaned over for an open can of beer. “Want one?”

  “No, thanks.” After another drag on the cigarette, she said, “I hear you’ve been something of a jerk.”

  “Evan hauled off and let him have it right in the gut, in front of about two thousand people—plenty of ’em reporters.”

  “You could say that.” He finished the beer in two long swallows, crumpled the can in one large fist, and tossed the abused metal over his shoulder. It hit the wall and then the floor, with a tinny rattle that told her this was where he’d been throwing cans for days now. “And now that you know I’m not in an alcoholic coma, you can leave.” He waited for a reaction. When she gave him none, he grinned all the way across his face and jeered, “What, no bright backchat? No amusing banter? C’mon, writer-lady, break out the million-dollar vocabulary, make me a scene.”

  Holly pulled in a long, controlled breath. “You stupid, arrogant prick.”

  He nodded agreeably. “Yeah, that’s me.”

  “You punch out some other prick, you get suspended —”

  “I’m not just on suspension, baby.” Sitting up with an effort, he stubbed out one cigarette and lit another. “I’m busted. I’ll be lucky if I get me some files to shuffle for some rinky-dink police force in Chicken Scratch, Nebraska.”

  Susannah hadn’t mentioned that. No wonder. After a moment she rallied. “If so, I hope you ask for a good, sturdy chair.” She looked pointedly at his waistline.

  “Aw, gee, I thought you liked my belly,” he whined.

  “When it was you, yes. Not when it’s booze and self-pity.”

  This brought a snarl. “What the fuck would you know about it?” He put his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray and, elbows on knees, dug his fingers through his hair. “Christ Almighty—just get outta here, okay? You weren’t here before, I don’t want you here now —” All at once he grabbed an empty bottle and flung it against the opposite wall. The shatter made her flinch. “Where the fuck were you?”

  “I’m sorry, Evan,” she said quietly.

  “Yeah, everybody’s sorry.” He flopped back into the sofa. “Everybody’s sorry,” he repeated. “The big boss-man marshal said ‘sorry’ when he took away my badge and my piece for sluggin’ that motherfucker. Well, I’m not sorry. He deserved it. I’d do it again.”

  She heard the hollowness beneath the defiance, and bit her lip.

  “I’m s‘posed to be grateful they’re not prosecuting my ass.” He paused to open another beer. “Hadda pull the goddamn phone outta the goddamned wall to get people to stop tellin’ me they’re sorry. And the newspaper people — Jesus Fucking Christ. At least they didn’t say they were sorry. They just wanted to know why I slugged the Rev in the gut with no procov—provocation.”

  “I’m sure you were provoked,” she began.

  “Bet your sweet Irish ass I was, baby. And now that you’ve said you’re sorry, too, you can get the hell out.”

  “For somebody who’s expecting me to say something about ‘for better or for worse,’ you’ve got one hell of an attitude.”

  “This is the worst it gets—and it never gets any better, don’t you understand that?” The dragon’s eyes were black. “I don’t have a career. I don’t have a life. Aw, what the fuck,” he said with a pathetic attempt at shrugging it all off. “That’s what I get for having an Irish temper. Anyway, whatever. You’re well out of it.”

  “I take it you’re trying to dump me.”

  “Before you can dump me? Yeah. You betcha, baby.”

  He never called her that — “babe” was an occasional, casual endearment, but this was entirely different. He was trivializing her, turning her into just another conquest, somebody he called “baby” because he couldn’t quite remember her name. She decided she hated being called “baby.”

  “Why would I dump you?” she asked, stubbing out her cigarette and lighting another — without benefit of match or lighter. He blinked at that, and she gave him a sharp little smile. “Oh, I’ll admit you look like shit and smell worse, and you’re having yourself a fine old wallow—which is fairly loathsome, but you’ll get over it.”

  He rose unsteadily, looming over her, frowning, eyes kindling with anger. He swayed slightly, reeking of sw
eat and liquor and cigarette smoke. “You can knock it off now, Holly. Just—cut the crap and get out. I’m nothin’ you’d want —”

  “You are everything I want,” she said softly, unable to help herself.

  Suddenly all the fight went out of him and he slipped to his knees before her. She had never seen his moods change so fast. His hands almost touched her, then shied back, fingers curling tight into his palms. “Holly — darlin’ Holly —” His eyes glistened. “You can’t want me. Not now.”

  “Who the hell are you to tell me what I can and can’t want?”

  “This isn’t the bargain you made. I’m not who you were gonna marry.” He gestured to himself, the room around him. “You said ‘yes’ to somebody who had a career, a life, a future—it was bad enough before, the differences between us—but at least I had something to offer you. Now—I got nothin’. Absofuckin’ -lutely nothin’. I’m not gonna let you chain yourself to a nothin’ like me.”

  She told herself it was the booze talking, the shock, the impotent rage—anything but Evan Lachlan saying these words.

  “What about my life?” she demanded. “The one I’m supposed to live with you?”

  “Ain’t gonna happen. Face it, Holly—you’d be a fool to want what I am—what I’m gonna become.”

  “What might that be?”

  “My father.” His laugh was curt and ugly. “Old, fat, drunk, walkin’a beat his whole goddamned life, heart attack at forty-nine—gives me ten years, more or less, before they retire me and I sit around gettin’ fatter ‘n’ drunker an’ whinin’ about the good ol’ days. That’s my future, baby.” He waved his hand aimlessly.

  She got to her feet, standing over him where he slumped on the carpet, and swore she was going to slug him if he called her “baby” just one more time. “Am I to understand you don’t much like the idea?”