Spellbinder: A Love Story With Magical Interruptions

by Melanie Rawn

  “The Witch Wood,” Elias murmured. “Susannah Rowan Lachlan—its a good name.”

  She glanced sidelong at him. “I can’t believe you actually thought she and Kirby might be yours.”

  “Until you sent the pictures, I wasn’t sure. You have to admit the timing was a little dicey.”

  “Nonsense. They were early. Twins often are. And a good thing, too, or I wouldn’t have any back left. Six-and-a-half pounds each!”

  “Oh, they’re Evan’s all right,” Elias said. “Susannah’s got his hairline, Kirby has his nose.”

  “I know. Poor little guy.”

  He grinned at her. “There’s always rhinoplasty.”

  She opened the iron gate and started picking weeds off the graves. He crouched down to help.

  After a while Holly asked, “Did Marshal Towsley ever remember anything?” “Not that I can tell. We’ve never really talked much about it. I’m not sure what there is to remember.”

  “How very unsubtle a hint. What do you. remember about that night?”

  “It’s the feelings that have stayed with me, and the shame of feeling some of them. The rage, mostly. Hating Noel. Wanting to kill him. It was rather a shock to find I couldn’t give him exactly what he wanted.”

  Holly nodded. “I find myself agreeing with Reverend Fleming—it seems an unnecessarily complicated way to commit suicide. But I guess Noel just didn’t like being human. That’s the only way I can explain it to myself. Being human and therefore mortal, he saw Death as his enemy. And it terrified him.”

  “He asked the crucial question all of us ask eventually: What happens when I die? And look at his answer, Holly. To become a god, to be immortal and powerful and free of the fear —”

  “How could anyone live like that? He couldn’t endure being human, knowing one day Death would come for him and he’d have no power against it—I can’t imagine what it must have been like, to exist in such appalling fear, to be so completely devoid of joy.”

  “Susannah told me once that it doesn’t matter what your faith is, as long as it provides comfort and keeps you in touch with the better part of yourself. As long as it helps you to celebrate what it is to be human. To find the joy in living, to create something meaningful of your life.”

  “I miss her.”

  “Me, too.”

  She gathered up an armful of weeds and threw them out into the field. “Let’s go down to the springhouse.”

  She led the way downhill to a bend in the creek, and they were silent until Elias observed, “You’ve been incommunicada since Christmas. Any chance you’ll rejoin the real world anytime soon?”

  “Oh, Elias,” she smiled, “this is the real world!”

  “A century ago, maybe.” He kicked at a rock.

  “And a century from now, if we’re all lucky,” she retorted. “My kids will make their mud pies with dirt their ancestors farmed. So will my grandchildren and their grandchildren, I hope. What could be more real than that?”

  “You’re hiding,” he accused.

  “I did my hiding in New York.” She opened the door of the springhouse and went to a cupboard for a quart Mason jar of clear liquid. “You couldn’t make it to the wedding, so you didn’t get your party favor,” she teased. “This is some of the very last batch of the late Widow Farnsworth’s ‘shine. Uncle Nicky says that in Hungarian, this stuff is called keri’te’sszaggato’—literally, ‘fence-ripper.’”

  He accepted the jar warily. “No smoking for twenty-four hours after imbibing?”

  Holly nodded. “And no imbibing anywhere near an open flame.”

  “Must’ve been a hell of a wedding.”

  “It was. We should probably be getting back. Lulah likes to begin just before sunset.”

  “What made you choose Lugnasadh for the—what shall we call it? Not a christening.”

  “Just a blessing, Elias. Nothing more complicated than that. I chose tonight because the twins are two months old as of this morning. And also because I can almost get into some decent clothes again!”

  THE GUESTS WERE FEW AND, with the exception of Evan and possibly the twins, all Witches. A baptism would occur when the Lachlans went to visit his relations at Thanksgiving, but tonight’s was a gathering upon which any church would frown.

  Then again, it was Lammas, Holly reflected as she gathered Kirby from his crib. Cousin Clary called it that, rather than Lugnasadh, with a wink. “Loaf Mass” in the Catholic calendar, celebrating the harvest; another co-opting of a much more ancient holiday. It was the most popular date for the movable feast of St. Catherine, when in some villages the burning Catherine Wheel of her martyrdom would be rolled down a hill—remnant of a rite in which the flaming disk representing the sun-god in his decline.

  Evan cuddled Susannah in the crook of his elbow, tickling her cheek with one finger. Daddy’s Little Girl, Holly thought with fond amusement. She couldn’t wait to watch him go completely apeshit once boys started hanging around. “I’m the sheriff in these parts, I carry a gun, and I know how to use it. Have her home by ten or else.”

  She’d been apprehensive, but he was honestly enjoying his new job. Cousin Jesse was a year from retirement, and had taken to Evan like pen to paper. After the Lachlans moved here permanently in January, the men had spent two days a week driving every road in the county, checking in on all the residents, getting them familiar with Evan as their new deputy sheriff. By now he was finished handing off his case files (Wyatt, Dillon, and McCloud were now administered by others) to the Marshals Service in Richmond, so he didn’t have to commute a couple of times a month anymore. This was his third law enforcement agency, and, he swore, his last.

  He was, contrary to all her apprehensions, happy here. He was satisfied with his work, and he loved the house, which they had to themselves. Lulah had moved into the old overseer’s cottage by the creek with every evidence of relief. “Kickin‘me out of my own home? Don’t be more dim-witted than Nature made you, boy. You think at my age I want to be cleanin’and tidyin’ that big old barracks? No, this’ll do me just perfect. I’ll be close enough to spoit the children, and a far enough walk so you won’t get on my nerves.”

  As for the noise and excitement and adventure of New York City—who needed it? Holly didn’t. Neither, it seemed, did Evan. She gazed at him now, tall and sun-browned, cuddling his daughter. Yes, this was real.

  He was wearing his wedding present, an antique gold stickpin set with a blue-green raindrop emerald. It had first been worn by William Alexander McClure at his marriage to Delilah Rose Mayfield in 1866. Evan had positioned it at a rakish angle in the lapel of his tuxedo jacket. He wasn’t wearing a tie—indeed, he had on jeans and a white cotton shirt, and the inevitable ostrich-hide cowboy boots.

  Her own wedding gift was on the little finger of her right hand: a gold signet ring engraved with the Lachlan crest. Around the shank was carved her name in Irish Gaelic: Cuilenn Eilís MacLeòire Lochlainn. She hadn’t been kidding when she’d told Elias she could finally get back into some of her clothes, though the DKNYs and Armanis were not only still out of the question, they were packed away. Levi’s and shorts, summer dresses, workshirts, T-shirts: these were all she needed. This evening it was a yellow blouse, black trousers, and her mother’s pearls. She hadn’t bought a stitch of clothing in months—except for nursing bras.

  The table, covered by a linen cloth embroidered in yellow and orange, was decorated with wheat sheaves, lavender wands, a vase of full-blown white roses, and a corn dolly. Pitchers were full of lemonade, various teas, and Cousin Clary’s applejack and elderberry-flavored mead; brass serving plates held five kinds of bread; earthenware bowls contained fruit salad, three-bean salad, and Evan’s experiment with the tomatoes, green peas, and onions he had grown himself.

  Alec and Nicky, Clarissa and Jesse, Lulah and Elias: these were the sponsors, or patrons, or godparents, or whatever term one wanted to use. They had come bearing gifts and magic to celebrate the Sabbat and welcome the twins. Holly s
wayed lightly back and forth with her son in her arms, ostensibly to soothe him, fully aware that Kirby Nicholas Alexander Lachlan was a child who never required soothing. His sister might be screaming at the top of her lungs, and all he ever did was cast an annoyed glance in her direction and go back to sleep. He was sleeping now, black hair curling around his cheeks and forehead, missing the honor of having his very first Circle called by a Magistrate around the dining room table that tonight served as altar.

  East, North, West, South. Guardians invited; candles lit. Smudge sticks of lavender and sage and rosemary, sent by Kate, wafted sweet smoke through the air.

  Elias said, “To the Shining God we offer thanks. To the Goddess of Plenty we give homage. For the harvest they have nurtured, the beauty they have provided, and the children who join us in their first celebration, we honor them on this night of Lugnasadh.”

  Alec smiled at Holly and Evan, saying, “We’ve all gone Irish for this, so here’s my contribution.” Placing two silver-banded amulets on the table—one moonstone, one matachite—he went on, “May you have the hindsight to know where you’ve been, the foresight to know where you’re going, and the insight to know when you’re going too far.”

  “You can pretend to be as Irish as you like,” Nick said. “Me, I’m Rom—and as everyone knows, tshatshimo Romano: ‘truth is expressed in Romany.’ So, to go along with these—” He set two small leather drawstring bags on the table. “—Kon del tut o nai shai dela tut wi o vast, or, ‘He who willingly gives you a finger will also give you the whole hand.’ Watch your fingers, little ones.”

  “Sound reasoning,” said Clarissa as she took her place. “But I’ll stick with the Irish. Leprechauns, castles, good luck, and laughter, lullabies, dreams, and love ever after.” Her gifts of small pillows stuffed with herbs were laid on the table.

  Lulah’s turn came next. “These were some of my brother’s favorites, the man who was these children’s grandfather. May you never forget what is worth remembering, or remember what is best forgotten. May you get all your wishes but one, so you always have something to strive for. May the saddest day of your future be no worse than the happiest day of your past.” She tucked two folded child-size quilts among the other gifts.

  “My cousin Margaret,” said Jesse, “who was these children’s grandmother, learned this one from our grandmother. It goes, ‘A sunbeam to warm you, a moonbeam to charm you, and a sly Irish angel so nothing can harm you.’” Two bottles of Irish whiskey were his gift. “Not until you’re twenty-one,” he said, shaking a finger at the children. “By which time this should be smooth as a barbershop shave.”

  At last Elias came forward and said, “A Magistrate is supposed to take the part of baptizing priest at this point, and outline the basics of the faith. Thing is, there’s no one right way, no single correct path. Whatever you choose to create of your lives, you have worthy examples in your parents. If you live with integrity and honor, and keep getting back up if you stumble and fall, you’ll do just fine.” He rested long, gentle fingers on each child’s head. “May the strength of Three be in your journey: the strength of your mother, and of your father, and of your own soul. So mote it be.”

  LATE THAT NIGHT, WHEN CLARISSA and Jesse had gone home and everyone else had gone to bed, Holly and Evan went upstairs to check on the twins.

  “Sleeping like the sweet darling little angels they aren’t,” she observed.

  “Look at all this,” Evan muttered. “A whole zoo of stuffed animals and enough clothes to stock an outlet mall.”

  “Your pardon, sir, but who came back from D.C. last month with two fuzzy little baby-panda toys? This isn’t to forget the two pairs of pint-sized cowboy boots. And are you ever going to tell me the truth about where you got those awful things?”

  “Nope.” He grinned; she growled; the rocking chair purred.

  “Brigand, you stay out of here or I’ll tie your tail in a knot.” Holly marched in, snared the cat, and tossed her toward the door. She landed nimbly, twitched her luxuriant white tail as if daring a follow-through on the threat, and stalked off. After making sure the baby monitors were switched on, Holly kissed both children and returned to the doorway. “You’re wearing that silly look again.”

  “I’ve earned it.” Circling her shoulders with one arm, he guided her next door to their bedroom. “How bad a hangover do you think His Honor’s gonna have tomorrow?”

  “Epic.” She snorted. “His own fault. He’s the one who opened the jar and spiked the lemonade.”

  “I was expecting he’d give the kids something a little less normal. A gift certificate for a swingset and wading pool isn’t exactly Witchy.”

  “I thought it was sweet.” She watched as he unbuttoned his shirt and rubbed reflexively at the scar on his chest. It had become a habit, and it reminded her of something Bradshaw had said earlier. “By the way, he thinks you must be going crazy here.” When Evan arched an inquisitive brow, she explained, “City boy all discombobulated in the country. No Starbucks within seventy-five miles.”

  “No locks on my doors, either. No smog, no mob hits to clean up, no whackjob taxi drivers, no gridlock, no wondering what’s in the water this week, no neighbors hollering at two in the morning—” He grinned. “Are we sensing a trend?”

  “I did worry about it, you know.”

  “So did I.”

  “You never said—”

  “I didn’t want you to fuss.” He sat on the bed to haul off his boots. “It’s slower here, yeah, but there’s a rhythm to the place, like New York has a rhythm. I just had to keep listening until I heard it.”

  Holly rested her hands on his shoulders. “And what do you hear, a chuisle?”

  He smiled. “People who don’t live as fast, because they’re not afraid of not living enough.”

  “So you’re okay with staying here? Really okay, I mean?”

  “Lady love,” he said in a tone of infinite patience, “have I ever said anything to make you think I’m not? Am I the type of guy who’d keep his mouth shut about something like that? And are we ever gonna get to bed tonight?”

  “In order: No, no, and whenever you’re up for it, Sheriff darlin’.”

  Author’s Note

  TO THOSE WHO ARE DISAPPOINTED that this isn’t another book—The Captal’s Tower or an offering in the Golden Key or Dragon Prince universes—well, what can I tell you? Life happens. So does clinical depression. If it happens to you, and I earnestly hope it doesn’t, get help. When I was able to write again, I wanted—needed—to do something entirely different from anything I’d done before. This book certainly is that. Spellbinder is a considerable accomplishment for me: it wouldn’t exist if I hadn’t sought therapy.

  My Aunt Gena once complained that the names in my novels were weird. I asked if she’d believe in a world that had dragons or Mage Globes and guys called George. I never expected it to be so difficult to name people in my own world and time. When choosing contemporary names, one runs into the problem of “If I call this guy George, then every George I’ve ever met will think I’m writing about him.” (Although one ought never to overlook the Author’s Unique Revenge aspect, which is when you casually mention that if so-and-so isn’t nice to you, you’ll put him in your next book and make him the palace eunuch.) No one in this novel is anyone I know. What I ended up doing was stealing names from my ancestors, with several exceptions—one of which is “Scott Fleming” (not his real name), winner of a convention charity auction. I hope he thinks the money he paid was worth it!

  In case you were wondering: the subtitle of this novel was cribbed from Dorothy L. Sayers’s Busman’e Honeymoon: A Love Story with Detective Interruptions (pretty cheeky of me, huh?); the tale of the fur-lined tent is true (my father really hated the cold!); Laranja is performed with Grand Marnier and coffee at Armand’s Restaurant in New Orleans; and finally, for anyone interested in my line of descent from Mary Bliss:

  Mary Bliss m. Joseph Parsons

  Joseph Parsons m. Eliz
abeth Strong

  Noah Parsons m. Mindwell Edwards

  Thankful Parsons m. John Deane

  Rhoda Deane m. Willam Powers

  William Powers m. Elizabeth Cutter

  Benjamin Powers m. Martha Stevens

  Elizabeth Rebecca Powers m. Philetus Leroy Fisk

  Claude Ernest Fisk m. Stella Alderson

  Alma Lucile Fisk m. Robert Dawson Rawn

  Many thanks to: Russell Galen and Danny Baror; Beth Meacham; Mary Anne Ford, world’s bestest best-friend; Laurie Rawn, my one and only Sister Unit; Caislin Weathers; Gena and John Lang (on the occasion of their sixtyfifth wedding anniversary) for being my Aunt Gena and Uncle John; Jane Endries and Beverly Haskin for reading early drafts; the denizens of the bulletin board (http://www.MelanieRawn.com); the good folks at Jitters on Route 66 for triple-shot mochas and endless iced tea; and all the various Busbys, Browns, and Johnsons for being such wonderful neighbors to the Crazy Writer Next Door.

  Most of all, always, Mom and Daddy. I miss them more than I can ever say.

  Melanie Rawn

  Flagstaff, Arizona

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

  SPELLBINDER

  Copyright © 2006 by Melanie Rawn

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book,

  or portions thereof, in any form.

  A Tor Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

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  New York, NY 10010

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  Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

  eISBN 9781429932103

  First eBook Edition : June 2011