Spellbinder: A Love Story With Magical Interruptions

by Melanie Rawn

  “Oh, no!” Kate dropped to her knees beside Denise, feeling frantically at her throat for a pulse. “Simon—”

  The Healer and the Apothecary huddled over her, straightening out her limbs twisted all awry, exclaiming angrily at the bleeding scratches. They hadn’t a clue, and Holly knew it. She said, “It was her Measure.”

  Both looked at Noel’s corpse and saw the small frayings of the doubled cord crossing his chest.

  “Can we stitch it together?” Simon wondered. “Elias, you’re the expert —”

  The Magistrate shook his head. “I don’t know. I only saw a Measure used once.” He visibly shook off a memory. “The man died.”

  Holly delved in a pocket and came up with her needle. “If you’re going to try, you’ll need this.”

  “But what will we use for thread?” Kate fretted as she accepted the needle.

  “It’s not magicked or anything,” said Evan from behind Holly, “but it’s available.” He stepped around her, not touching her, and tugged at a loose bit of cashmere, unraveling a good length before nipping it loose with his teeth. “I’ll untie him.”

  He seemed most intent on watching Kate and Simon at work. Holly refused to let it hurt her. She had to give him time.

  “It’s over?” the Reverend asked suddenly.

  Holly nodded. “It is.”

  He exhaled a long sigh. “Thank the good Lord God.”

  “Would you take it amiss if I said ‘Amen to that’?” She smiled at him. “I know what you saw tonight wasn’t exactly Sunday service, Reverend Fleming.”

  “Not quite,” he replied. He gazed for a moment at the corpse, freed of the Measure that was now in Kate’s busy hands. “I can’t understand what this man wanted. Deeply as I abhor such an act, if death was his goal, why didn’t he commit suicide?”

  “He wanted to die, but to die as a god.”

  “And thereby find eternal life?” Fleming shook his silvery head. “Those he called upon were evil, and thus a threat to the life given us by the Almighty—”

  “Who looked upon Creation,” Holly murmured, “and saw that it was good.”

  “Precisely,” said the Reverend. “Association with wickedness rejects God’s Holy Work. Had Noel called out to Christ Jesus, he would have been saved.”

  “To defeat death, he had to become Death.” She spread her hands helplessly. “There may be some sort of logic in that, but damned if I understand what it is.”

  “Belief is belief because you believe it, not because you can prove it.”

  “Reverend,” she said, “as different as our beliefs are, we do agree about that. But can there be only one path? Life is a journey toward knowledge—of self, of the world, of Deity—and if we don’t challenge ourselves to seek and to know, doesn’t that betray what we’re meant to be? Isn’t the journey the important thing?”

  “It could be argued that this was what this man was doing,” he pointed out. “He made Death into a divinity, and sought after it. I would say that the striving does count, if it is toward the Light.”

  “Yes, I see what you mean, and you’re right.” She chuckled. “Did you ever think you’d hear a Witch tell you that?”

  There was a twinkle in his eyes as he replied, “There’s hope for you yet.”

  “Oh, but that’s exactly it!” Holly exclaimed. “That’s what Noel didn’t have! It isn’t ‘Where there’s life, there’s hope,’ it’s exactly the other way around!”

  “‘Where there is hope, there is life.’ I must admit that you are right—and I may steal that for my next sermon.” He gave her a smile. “Nevertheless, I know that the way shown to me is the true path. I pray that you will find enlightenment.”

  “Enlighten me about something, Holly,” Elias said smoothly, coming up in time to hear the Reverend’s last few words. “Why is Noel dead?”

  “That’s an excellent question,” she said, using a phrase beloved of all those who need time to think up an answer. The Magistrate’s sarcastic eyebrows let her know that he knew she was stalling, so she stalled some more by looking around the cellar. Lydia, Simon, and Kate had departed. Leah Towsley stood by the stairs, arms folded across her chest, unsympathetic gaze fixed on Judge Bradshaw. Alec and Nicky walked the Circle, extinguishing candles, and soon the only light left was the dying smolder of Holly’s fire on the altar. Evan was over in the shadows by the table. Ian lifted Denise to carry her upstairs; she was wrapped in her coat, barely conscious, her eyes dull greenish slits in her white face. Martin followed them, cradling his Sword.

  “Will she be all right?” asked Reverend Fleming.

  “I haven’t the slightest idea,” Elias said frankly. “We’ll do what we can, of course. Holly, I’m waiting.”

  Inspiration had not made its face to shine upon her.

  She freshened the fire a little with a casual gesture, and Fleming’s eyes narrowed with an expression that hinted that had he been Catholic, he would have crossed himself. “You might want to head back upstairs now,” she told him. “We’re finished here, or almost, anyway.” There was still that bench to deal with—she wasn’t sure if Noel’s death had broken its spell.

  Fleming took a last look at Noel, shook his head once more, and started for the stairs. Elias eyed her again.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you reinforced that suggestion a little.”

  “Maybe he just likes redheads.”

  “Holly?” Alec touched her elbow. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine. Tired.”

  “Aren’t we all? Elias, what do you want to do about Noel’s body?”

  Before she could stop herself, Holly said, “There can’t be an autopsy.” “Why not?” He was looking at her again, and she gulped.

  “Well, the thing of it is —”

  Holding up a stone raven, Nick approached and asked, “Anybody want a souvenir?”

  “Holly—,” Elias warned.

  “Take one,” she invited. “After all, you’re named for the Prophet Elias, and ravens fed him in the desert.”

  “If I have to ask one more time —”

  “All right, all right! It was heart failure. Which had the virtue of being true. Sort of.

  Alec looked her in the eyes. “Oh, really?” He never let her get away with anything.

  “He hasn’t got a heart anymore,” she said bluntly. “It’s gone. It was—taken. I know there’s no hole in his chest and no blood and no visible reason why he’s dead. But he is, and that’s why—and there can’t be an autopsy or they’d ask all kinds of questions we can’t answer.”

  “‘We’?” Bradshaw asked.

  “We,” Evan confirmed, and Holly nearly jumped out of her skin. “You may have noticed, Your Honor, that technically we’re all accessories—and anyone who wants to sort out who’s before the fact and who’s after, be my guest. Alec, you want to help me with this?”

  Alec took Noel’s shoulders and Evan, his feet. “The bench,” he directed. “But don’t touch it unless you want to get stuck to it. I don’t know if it still works, but let’s not chance it. When I say ‘Drop him,’ let go completely. Okay?” A few moments later Noel hung suspended over the stone bench. “Now!” Evan said, and they dumped him onto it with a thud of flesh. Holly shivered. He looked just like that painting of Marat, dead in the bathtub. Evan dug into a pocket of his jeans and brought out a small plastic evidence bag.

  “What the hell is that?” Alec asked.

  “Once a cop, always a cop—even when being a cop is useless. This is wood from that table over in the corner. Forensics would almost certainly ID it as the splinters in Susannah’s knee. Are we all eye to eye about who’s guilty?”

  “Case closed,” said Elias. “Court adjourned.”

  “Good. Nick, gimme that goddamned bird.” This and the plastic bag he let fall onto Noel’s chest. “And if you quote Edgar Allan Poe at me, I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

  “Actually, I was considering it—but not the one you have in mind.”
r />   “‘Dream within a dream’?” Evan suggested.

  Nick shook his head. “‘Thank Heaven! the crisis—/ The danger is past, / And the lingering illness / Is over at last—/ And the fever called “Living” / Is conquered at last.”’

  “There’s another one,” Alec murmured. “Not Poe, just as appropriate, but perhaps more than he deserves. ‘Death makes angels of us all, and gives us wings where we had shoulders smooth as raven’s claws.”’ He glanced around as if waiting for someone to place the quote. “Jim Morrison.”

  Elias walked slowly around the bench. “I’ll do the honors,” he said, kindling new fire to the black candles. They blazed up like flamethrowers, circling the corpse, plucking at it, soon to ignite it and burn the evidence to ashes.

  “Can we get out of here now?” Alec asked. “Cremation tends to smell a bit.”

  They climbed the stairs to the foyer, where the others waited. The sky had lightened to pearl gray through the high windows. Soon sunlight would refract off the hundreds of crystals in the chandelier, casting rainbows over the walls and floor.

  “Finally!” Martin exclaimed. “We were about to send a search party.”

  “You were right, Elias,” Nick said suddenly. “This place does have a weird feel to it. Like something’s waiting. Alec, are you sensing anything?”

  “I think I’m still glutted from what went on down there. Not to mention I feel a migraine coming on—”

  “Where’s Denise?” Elias asked.

  Martin gestured to the open door. “Kate and Simon took her outside—she seems to be coming around. No telling if there’s any permanent impairment.”

  “We can only hope,” Ian muttered, then had the grace to look abashed. “Umm—Lydia went with them. Are we finished?”

  “We can only hope,” said Marshal Towsley. “Your Honor, if this kind of thing goes on a lot, I hope you won’t mind if I ask for hardship duty pay.”

  “No, Marshal,” the Magistrate told her. “This night was … unique.”

  Alec arched a brow. “We can only, et cetera.”

  “‘The night is far spent,”’ Reverend Fleming said suddenly, “‘the day is at hand: let us therefore cast off the works of darkness, and let us put on the armor of light. Let us walk honestly, as in the day … .’” He smiled slightly, and before Elias or Alec could pull their usual tricks, said, “Romans. And I’m ashamed to say I’m not certain of the chapter or verse.”

  “Ego te absolvo,” Holly responded, winking at him. Maybe he really did like redheads; he winked back.

  Evan led the way toward the front door and breathed in a huge gulp of unsullied sea-scented dawn air. As Holly lengthened her stride to catch up with him, a bit of uneven paving snared her toe and she fell flat on her face.

  “Oh, for—!” Evan strode back to where she sprawled, gathered her up and stood, wobbling a bit.

  “My hero.” She rubbed her knees, already sore from crawling across the cellar.

  “Hero with an incipient hernia.” He carried her toward the door. “You weigh a ton.”

  “Yeah, that’s my gallant knight in tarnished armor,” she retorted, and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He chuckled, then bent to kiss her. When he drew back, she asked, “What was that for?”

  “Just makin’ sure.”

  “Of what?”

  “That I’d rather kiss you than breathe.”

  “Oh,” she replied in a very small voice. A moment later: “Evan? Can we go home now?”

  He angled his head to look at her. “You mean Virginia, don’t you?”

  “Just for a little while. Would it be all right?”

  “We can spend the next fifty years there if you want. I think we should raise the kids on the ancestral acreage.”

  She gaped at him. “How did you—?”

  The old stones of the house began to rumble. Evan swore and tightened his grip on her, running for the threshold. Splinters of wood, shards of window glass, chips of plaster, fragments of stone rained down. Holly choked on clouds of dust and dirt, her attention drawn upward as the chandelier chimed and rattled, swinging in erratic arcs. Metal whined as the anchoring plate wrenched from its bolts.

  Evan was constantly and creatively cursing. She heard Nicky’s voice shout a frenzy of what had to be Rom spellchants, and Alec’s roar of their names. The sun had cleared the surrounding treetops, its thin November light angling through the wide-open door.

  “This place does have a weird feel to it. Like something’s waiting—”

  Waiting for them, or waiting for the sunlight to prompt it? She would never know—and if they weren’t through that door in the next five seconds, neither she nor Evan would ever know anything again. He stumbled, breathing hard, his arms locked around her. And she realized she wasn’t really frightened at all. He was here; she was safe.

  The ringing crash of the chandelier was a faint clamor compared to the tumult of stone and glass and metal and wood that instantly followed. Deafened by the noise and blinded by swirls of powdered debris, Holly’s senses contracted to three: the warm smell of Evan, the dry taste of dust, and the secure feel of his arms around her—and the chunk of something hard and heavy that smashed into her left arm.

  He staggered to his knees, not letting her go, and wet grass tangled in her fingers. They were outside. She coughed and sneezed, blinked teary eyes, and hid her face in the warm hollow of Evan’s throat. Her ears stopped ringing in time for her to hear Nicky’s voice, his accent thick with relief.

  “Not a scratch on either of them,” he said, and Holly didn’t see any use in correcting him; it was just a bruise.

  “Thanks, Nick,” Evan said shakily.

  “I had nothing to do with it. It was Holly. Your St. Michael medal.”

  He sighed, a long descending note, then joggled her a bit in his arms. She looked up at him. “Told ya you’re magic,” he teased, and his dragon’s eyes danced.

  Nick left them to each other, and Holly shifted in Evan’s embrace.

  “Stay put,” he ordered.

  “Okay. It’s your chiropractor’s bill.”

  “Speaking of magic,” he said as he rose to his feet again and carried her toward Alec’s Mercedes, “are you going to tell the Rev why you shook his hand?”

  “WhyI—?” She blinked. “I guess I did, didn’t I?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Evan, I didn’t!” She wrapped her arms more securely around his shoulders.

  “I really didn’t. I think it’s like when I’m writing, and I’ll put in some detail that seems like a throwaway, just local color or whatever, but then twenty chapters later I realize I was subconsciously setting myself up for something important and didn’t realize it while I was doing it, and—”

  “Holly.”

  “Yes, Éimhín?”

  “Lady love.”

  “What, my lord?”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  Epilogue

  “COME ON,” HOLLY SAID, taking Elias’s arm. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  They left by the kitchen door, hurrying past the chicken coop to escape the suffocating smell of hot feathers, and headed for the paddocks. The August heat had been ferocious all afternoon, but as shadows lengthened the air began to cool.

  “So how d’you like Woodhush Farm?” asked Holly.

  “I wasn’t sure what to expect,” he admitted. “Ramshackle Rustic, Colonial Overkill—and you could’ve been wearing anything from overalls held together with twine to jodhpurs and a hacking jacket.”

  She laughed. “It’s just an old Southern homestead. Couple dozen horses, a few cows, chickens, cats—and Evan’s big old mutt burying hot dogs in the irises.”

  “I’m surprised you got Lachlan to agree to live here. I would’ve thought ‘You Belong to the City’ was his theme song.”

  “Scratch an Irishman, find a peasant underneath. This spring he actually volunteered to h
elp Aunt Lulah with the vegetable garden.”

  “How’s he like country life?”

  “He’s getting used to it.”

  “You know what I meant, Holly. Has he recovered from last Samhain?”

  “Well, he’ll always have the scar on his chest. I think I finally figured out why. Breath, blood, flesh, bone—I forgot ‘skin.’ And the medal doesn’t protect him from accidents, either. He broke a toe out in the barn this May, and you should’ve seen the bruises the first time he fell off a horse. I spelled against enemies, you see. Not mishaps.”

  “But aside from the toe and the bruises—?”

  She climbed over a split-rail fence and waited for him to follow. “He had trouble sleeping at first. Dreams, of course—we both had nightmares for months—but he kept saying it was so quiet here. He was used to traffic, sirens, people yelling, and here there’s nothing but owls and the wind, maybe a horse whickering in the paddocks … .”

  They passed a group of mares with their yearlings, then climbed a rise where a small graveyard spread within a white picket fence. There were about fifty marble headstones, a little fleet of white sails on an eternal voyage through snowstorms and sunshine … never going anywhere.

  “That was the first of us to live at Woodhush,” Holly said, leaning on the fence, pointing to the nearest headstone. “Thomas Flynn. His great-granddaughter married a McClure.”

  Bradshaw read names aloud. “Sarah Amaryllis, Elizabeth Sage—Petunia Pearl?”

  “Over there’s the one I pity most—Clarissa Tulip Bellew, who was called Lippy all her life. Probably accurate, too,” she mused. “All the Bellews could talk the hind leg off a donkey and still have breath to cuss out the parlor maid for setting the silver wrong.”

  “I’ll refrain from the obvious remark about familial characteristics,” he told her. “What made you decide on Rowan?”

  “Evan went through all the family names and liked that one best. The rowan is a very magical tree, you know—sacred to Brighid, used for runes and divining rods, and the berries even have a tiny pentagram on them.”