His eyes shot back to hers. “What did this athame look like?” he asked.
She gaped. “Lovely. Not ‘I would never hurt you’ or ‘that’s the most ridiculous dream ever.’ No, it’s ‘What did the murder weapon look like?’”
“I would never hurt you, Lena. And that dream is clearly either an aftereffect of whatever happened to you last night or some kind of pregnancy-induced nightmare. But I would never ever hurt you. Now what did it look like?”
“It was golden. Maybe real gold. Double-edged. Engraved with symbols I didn’t recognize.”
“I remember you telling me about the athame way back when.”
She remembered exactly when. Wondering if he did, as well.
“I remember you telling me that it’s the symbol of the witches’ god. And of fertilization. A phallic symbol, and it’s never supposed to be used to cut anything physical.”
She blinked in absolute shock. “You do remember.”
“So it kind of makes sense, doesn’t it? In some kind of Freudian way,” he said. “I mean, mating, pregnancy, the male and the female, the dagger as a phallic symbol, you know?”
“The chalice and the blade. The womb and phallus. You’re right, Ryan. That’s probably exactly what it was.”
“See? I’m not so ignorant about your Craft after all.”
“Guess not.”
He nodded, taking her warm, fuzzy robe from her bedpost and holding it open so she could slide her arms into it. “Is the athame used for anything else?” he asked. “Besides the Great Rite, I mean.”
She frowned. “Why so curious?”
He only shrugged. “I just am. Can’t I be curious about the nightmares and religious practices of my baby’s mother?”
She was still frowning at him when her stomach gurgled again.
“Never mind. Come on, let’s go eat before my steaks get all dried out and my baby faints from starvation.”
“Steaks?”
He walked right beside her, taking her arm as they started down the steep old staircase as if afraid she would fall. The oven timer sounded just as they hit the bottom step. “Perfect timing,” he said. “There are also baked potatoes with sour cream, and what appears to be fresh broccoli, straight from your vegetable crisper drawer. Fresh being a relative term, given that it’s January in New York State. Probably shipped in from Brazil or somewhere.”
“That sounds like absolute heaven,” she said, smelling all the yumminess in the air as they headed toward the dining room. “Is Bahru coming?”
“God, I hope not.”
“Ryan...”
“Sorry. I know you like him.”
She drew a deep breath to reply, then just gave up and slid into a chair at the dining room table, which he’d set. It really bothered her that Ryan distrusted Bahru so much, as little sense as that made, given that she’d dreamed the guru had turned into some red-eyed demon zombie or something.
But that was just a dream.
Ryan’s dislike and distrust of the holy man were real. She knew that part of the reason it bothered her so much was because it seemed like a judgment on her own beliefs, her own spirituality. Bahru was like her, a mystic, a man who walked far from the beaten path, a spiritual seeker on a constant quest for understanding and enlightenment. Every time Ryan dissed him, it felt like he was dissing her.
While she sat, he picked up their plates and took them into the kitchen with him. Minutes later he was setting Lena’s in front of her, bearing a New York strip that was still sizzling, and she forgot to care what he thought about Bahru.
“Been a long time since you broiled me a steak,” she said.
“Yeah, it has. Or since you made me blueberry waffles for breakfast.”
“You were having those way too often anyway,” she told him. “Heck, if I hadn’t left, you’d probably have a belly to compete with mine by now.”
His gaze strayed to her belly, which was so large that her chair had to remain a solid foot away from the table. “You carry it well, Lena.”
“Pssh, nobody could carry this well.”
“No, I mean it. You’re...you’re more beautiful pregnant than...than ever. I can’t put my finger on it, but...it’s there. It’s real.”
“If you tell me I’m glowing, I’m going to throw my food at you.” She looked down at the steak, picking up her silverware, ready to dig in. “Well, maybe just the broccoli.”
He laughed as they both started to eat. And it was nice. It was really nice.
Don’t go getting all comfy with him, her inner voice warned. He’s no prince, he’s a player. He showed you that. He was very, very clear and honest about it. Don’t get your hopes up that this is going to turn into some domestic bliss scenario like a fifties sitcom. It’s not. That’s not who he is.
They ate, and they talked, and they cleared up, then loaded the dishes into the dishwasher, and even that was nice. Would have been perfect, if she hadn’t been so sure it couldn’t be.
And then he said, “I put all those books up in the attic. The ones my father left you. Your mom thought that was the best place.”
“Yeah, until we get the library done.”
“Library?”
She smiled. “That’s right. I take it you haven’t had the grand tour yet, have you?”
“No. Not yet.”
The house was huge, almost too sprawling. So she led him through the ground floor first, mostly because it was a way to distract herself from wanting to cuddle up on the sofa and watch a movie together, or spoon around him in bed like they used to.
Well, she supposed he would have to spoon around her, given her current shape, but still...
Lena thought the long, narrow room off the formal dining room had probably been meant to house a buffet table. But it was also tall, and lined now with the framework for floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Lena and her mother had done the work themselves, and all that remained was to finish the shelves and slide them into place, and then it would be a perfect library.
Next she led Ryan up to the second floor to see the baby’s room.
When she opened the door and flipped on the light switch, he just stood there in absolute silence for a moment. There were cans of paint and spackle, trays and ladders, and the floor was covered in drop cloths. It was nowhere near done, of course.
“Obviously we’ve still got a lot more to do,” she said as he looked around. “There’s a chandelier all made out of shoes from different fairy tales that we need an electrician to install, and we still need to paint and decorate, add furniture, curtains.”
“Carpeting?” he asked.
“I’m thinking not. It would be nice—warm and soothing—but also a haven for dust mites and allergens. I’ll keep the wood.”
“Smart.” He looked up at the bedroom doorway and spotted the old-fashioned glass baby bottle filled with swirls of colored ribbon, pretty stones, shells and a couple of tiny yellow feathers. It was hanging from the outside of the door frame. “Now that’s interesting. Did you make that?”
“Mom and me, yes.”
He peered closer, examining the items inside the bottle. “I’m guessing there’s more to this than just a decoration.”
“It’s a witch’s bottle. It’s...sort of like a HEPA filter for energy. Traps anything bad, keeps it out of the room.” He lifted his eyebrows. Don’t you dare ridicule this, she thought. “In the old days it would have been filled with rusty nails and spiderwebs, but you know, it’s the energy that counts. The intent, the focus you put into it while making it.”
“The ingredients don’t matter so much, then?”
He was asking a good question, with real interest in his eyes. Go freaking figure.
“The ingredients do matter. They carry an energy all their own. But tangled ribbon can r
epresent spiderwebs quite effectively, if you’re thinking spiderwebs while you’re tangling it.”
“I see.”
She was so pleased that she could barely keep from grinning. “We haven’t even bought a crib yet. We’re a little behind schedule in here.” She pulled the door shut as the phone started ringing and opted to grab the extension in her bedroom instead of racing—or rather, waddling quickly—downstairs.
“Hey, Lena, it’s Betty. Your mom left her favorite scarf here. Can you tell her so she doesn’t drive herself crazy looking for it?”
“Sure, I’ll tell her as soon as she gets home.”
“What do you mean?” Betty asked. “She’s not home yet? Lena, she left two hours ago.”
An icy chill of foreboding raced up Lena’s spine, and she turned, her eyes instinctively meeting Ryan’s.
* * *
Selma was driving slowly and listening to James Taylor on the radio when she spotted the unmistakable light of a balefire in the woods. Their woods. Hers and Lena’s. All right, she supposed it could have been an ordinary campfire. But she could tell from the shadows that there were people standing around it, moving in time, so it had to be some kind of ritual.
Which was really odd. She and Lena, along with the friends she’d just left, were the only locals she knew of who would be prone to dancing around balefires in the woods by dead of night, especially this time of year.
Well, this was Havenwood property, so she supposed she had the right to investigate. She pulled the car over and shut it off, then got out and hugged her coat a bit more tightly around her body. She hadn’t worn gloves, and while the winter had been noticeably mild so far, it was still a January night in upstate New York, which meant it was cold. Her slipperlike shoes had never been intended for traipsing through the woods, much less when there was snow on the ground.
She moved carefully downhill, heading toward the light of the fire. The shapes of the people who stood around it were still just black outlines, but she could hear the murmur of voices now. No faces, not yet. And she couldn’t tell what they were saying, but she clearly heard at least one member of each gender.
A shiver of unease whispered over her nape, and she paused, glancing nervously back at her car, suddenly thinking this little investigation might not be the best idea. Selma never ignored her intuition, and she decided this was no time to start. She should never have come out here.
She pushed aside the needle-covered limb of a pine and took one last look toward the fire, which was snapping and dancing unattended now. Where had all those shadow-people gone?
Suddenly a pair of powerful arms snapped around her body, jerking her backward and pinning her own arms to her sides while one hand covered her mouth. She twisted and struggled, but it was no use. And then something sharp pierced her upper arm, and her entire world went dark.
7
Ryan stood in Lena’s bedroom doorway, read her look and frowned. “What is it?”
She covered the phone with her hand. “Ryan, would you please look outside and see if Mom’s car is out there anywhere? Maybe by the guesthouse? Betty says she should have been home by now.”
Nodding, he headed across the hall into the guest room—his room, he mentally corrected. Going to the window, he pushed back the curtain. “No, I don’t see it anywhere. How long ago did she leave?”
“Two hours, and it’s only a twenty-minute drive.” Lena spoke again to the woman on the phone. “We’ll track her down, Betty. I’m sure she’s fine. Thanks for calling, though...Yes, yes, of course we’ll let you know. I’ll have her give you a call as soon as we find her.” She hung up the phone, and Ryan could see in her eyes that her confident answer had been completely false. She was worried.
He was glad he was there but couldn’t help wondering what Lena would have done if he hadn’t been. In fact, what would she have done all along if an emergency came up and there was no one around to help out? Clearly she had a caring neighbor in Dr. Cartwright, and she’d mentioned his wife more than once. Selma was obviously her chief ally, but damn, sometimes you needed more than that. A man, to be sexist about it. A young, strong man.
Meanwhile, the immediate problem was that her mother had taken the only car.
He was going to need a vehicle out here, that was for sure. He’d driven the rental truck, but that needed to be turned in tomorrow. He thought about that as he helped Lena climb up into the truck and started the engine. With a twist of a knob the headlights cut through the darkness, and then he headed down the driveway toward the guesthouse.
“You think Bahru might have seen her?” Lena asked.
“We might as well ask. Then we’ll retrace her route. You know where her friend’s house is, right?” She nodded. “Is there more than one way to go?”
“No, it’s pretty much a straight shot, two turns, not really any alternative way to get there that I can think of, so if she’s had engine trouble or a flat tire or something like that, we should find her.”
“Good.” Confident words, but he knew she was worried. He stopped the truck in front of Bahru’s cottage and climbed down. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.” Then he slammed the door and headed up the front steps to knock.
No answer.
He knocked harder, then cupped his hands around his face and peeked through the glass. “Bahru! You in there?”
No reply.
Giving up, he headed back to the rental truck and got in. “I think he’s out.”
“Out where? Where would he go?”
Ryan shrugged. “He might have gone into town for supplies. I doubt he had any groceries or anything.”
“Ryan, they roll up the sidewalks at six around here. Eight on weekends. It’s after nine. Plus it’s five miles into town and he’s on foot.”
Ryan met her eyes. “I suppose he might be hiking, or more likely sitting in the snow meditating, maybe communing with an owl.”
“Yeah.” Lena lowered her eyes, but she looked troubled, and he got the feeling she was keeping something to herself. “Yeah, that must be it.”
“Hey, what is it? Don’t tell me you’re starting to mistrust the deep and spiritual Bahru? I thought that was my job.”
“Of course not,” she said. “I just...I don’t like not knowing where Mom is.”
“We’ll find her.” He covered her hand with his, and his throat got tight when he realized hers was shaking a little.
She lifted her chin, met his eyes. “I’m so glad you’re here tonight, Ryan.”
“I was just thinking the same thing,” he admitted.
They drove in silence back down the long, curving driveway to the main road, and then turned left. In only a short time they were stopping again, because Selma’s car was parked along the shoulder, right beside a big patch of woods.
He pulled the truck over, but he didn’t like what he was seeing. No flat. The hood wasn’t up. And, worst of all, there was no one inside the car.
“Why would she have stopped here?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Do you have a flashlight or—”
“My phone has one.” He pulled the cell from his pocket, glad he’d grabbed it, even though reception was spotty out here. Activating the flashlight application, he climbed down, about to tell Lena to wait. Too late. She was already getting out. He rushed around the truck to help her, but she was already standing on the road by the time he got there. And then they both headed to the car.
He shone the light around inside. “Keys are in the ignition.”
“I don’t understand it. Bring that light here,” Lena said, and pointed at the ground.
Footprints in the dusting of snow led around the front of the car, and then off the road, through the ditch and into the woods.
“What the hell?” Ryan asked.
“Mom?” L
ena started down the hill, following the tracks. “Mom? Where are you?”
Ryan caught up to her, touching her shoulder. “Lena, why don’t you take your mom’s car back to the house and call the police, maybe a few neighbors? In the meantime I’ll search the woods.”
“But—”
“It’s dark, the ground is wet and uneven. You could get hurt out here. Come on.” He took her by the arm and helped her back up the slope to her mother’s waiting car. “Go on. I’ve got this. Go home, send help. Okay?”
“Okay, yeah, you’re right. We need more people and some real flashlights. But I’m coming right back as soon as I call.”
She met his eyes, squeezed his hands in what he thought was gratitude, and then hurried to her mother’s car and got in.
* * *
She had phoned Sheriff Dunbar and Doc Cartwright, located two flashlights—one of those long, heavy ones that could double as a billy club, and a tiny yellow one that was bright for its size—and written a note that she’d left on Bahru’s door. Now she was driving her mother’s car a little too fast on her way back to Ryan.
Suddenly her mother staggered out of the weeds along the roadside and into the beam of Lena’s headlights. She hit the brakes hard. The car skidded sideways on the snowy road, coming to a stop so close to Selma that she was sure she was going to hit her.
But she didn’t. She slammed the car into Park, her heart racing, then wrenched the door open and ran to her mother, who just stood there staring at her, a vacant expression in her eyes that Lena had never seen there before. Blinking, tipping her head from one side to the other, Selma said nothing. Her red curls, shorter than Lena’s, were a mess, full of twigs and debris. She had mud on her hands and all over her coat, and her poor legs were streaked with it. Her light fabric shoes were soaked.
“Mom, what happened? What happened to you?”
Selma stared blankly and then shook her head. “I...I don’t know.”
Daughter of the Spellcaster Page 11
