He had a handful of pink carnations. “I’m here for Helena.”
Ursula bit her tongue. She stepped aside, allowing him to witness a blushing Helena sashay down the stairs.
“We’ll be out late!” she said as she passed Ursula, enveloping her in a cloud of cinnamon and sugar.
And like that, Ursula was alone. She too felt the elemental shifting beginning underfoot, but to her, it arrived as memories crowding in, dark ones. But then, shot through the middle of those like a silver promise, she remembered a man, someone who had been able to hold most of the shadows at bay. She grabbed her coat and slipped into the night.
***
She watched him outside his bay window. He reclined in his easy chair, sipping a beer and paging through the newspaper. The TV flickered on his face. His wife sat stiffly on the couch, a book open on her lap. It appeared to be a Bible.
Ursula was hypnotized by the scene for several minutes. She hadn’t visited the house in three decades. When she couldn’t stand the waiting, she went to the front door and rang the bell.
Michael Baum, Meredith’s husband, answered it. His bland face slipped into white shock. “Ursula?” He glanced over his shoulder. “Is everything all right?”
“I want you, Michael.” Her voice was measured. “I want what we used to have.” It had been glorious, their six months together. The sex had been good, but it was the way he’d made her feel precious that had kept her coming back.
He stepped outside the door and closed it behind him. His eyes were sad. “What we used to have?”
She kept her cool stare on him.
“Ursula, it was an affair. It’s over. We can’t go back.”
Still, she didn’t move.
“Go home,” he said, as if she were a stray animal. He opened his mouth to say more, thought better of it, and retreated into the house.
She stood for a breath of heartbeats, and then returned to her car to seek out the plumber. No one answered his door, and she didn’t know whether to be grateful or angry. She had nowhere to go but to her cottage, though the tightness at her throat was growing unbearable. Outside her own door, she almost stepped on a fat snake lolling in the sun. It was all she could do not to scream. They were the one creature she couldn’t stomach.
She stepped gingerly around the reptile, muttering a protection spell, and entered her cottage. She was reaching for a botany book when a knock came at the door, heavy as a reaper’s blade. She jumped, the accumulated tension of her day coming to a head. She collected herself, willing her heartbeat to slow. She was safe in her moss-covered workshop. Probably, it was just a client with a question. But then why did the air suddenly seem too close?
She moved toward the door.
And then she stopped, scolding herself for being so silly but unable to go any further before she heard the voice on the other side. Inhaling deeply to calm herself, she addressed the knock. “Yes?” she called through the door. A blue moon cooled the sky overheard, spilling into her cottage windows.
A pause followed. Had she imagined the knock?
“Let me in, or I’ll huff, and I’ll puff, and I’ll blow this place down!” The voice belonged to a stranger, and the laughter that followed was uneasy.
Ursula flinched. All the day’s misfires seemed to be coming down to this moment. Whoever was on the other side of the door was bringing bad with him. Her hand went to her throat, which it always did, of its own accord, when she was scared. She stepped to the entrance, her hips bumping against cluttered tables. Her movements were jerky, her reluctance to open the workshop door a living thing. But she’d never turned anyone away from her cottage and she wouldn’t start tonight, not with the blue moon bearing witness.
When she finally pulled open the door, the hinges groaned, spilling the liquid yellow of the full moon over the threshold. August’s musky, green smell kissed the tender skin of her neck, shivering her. A tall figure stood backlit in her doorway.
He was not big, but he had a presence. It might be that he was brutally handsome in a way that made Ursula think of sex and knives, or the cowboy hat tipped over his raven eyes, maybe even the guitar slung over his back like a promise, but no, those were distractions. It was his energy, black, angry but smiling on the surface, squirming under his smooth, tanned skin and puffing out his flesh.
Stomach in her throat, Ursula’s mind raced to her daughters and her granddaughter. She hoped fervently for their safety, a ridiculous thought. All three were removed from this. Still, cold oil slid down her spine. She’d had clients come to her from all walks of life, some who made poorer choices than others. She didn’t judge as she mixed the anti-anxiety tincture for the woman she knew beat her children, or question the man who came to her straight from his prison release and requested a sleeping draught that would work where all others had failed. Her job wasn’t to choose or control, but rather to give what was asked of her. Something about this man, though, rattled her.
“What can I do for you?” Ursula asked. Her heartbeat was uneven, but her gaze behind rimless glasses remained cool. The force on her neck grew tight, a boa constrictor.
His lazy smile grew wider, his expression cocky, almost sensuous. He was used to getting what he wanted. “Well, you don’t look like a witch at all! You look more like my mom.” He laughed and held out his hand. “Name is John. I’m new to town. I have a little problem and was told you’re the one to see.”
She took his hand, just to be sure. When their flesh touched, his strong grip swallowed hers, the dead-cold worms of his sickness crawled up her arm. Dropping his hand, she whispered a warding spell, and the myopic, seeking grubs that had been squirming from his body to hers clenched and fell, squealing and smelling of burning hair. For a haunted moment, she thought of her father, and his curse, but she dismissed the fear and the sick pounding of her heart. The snakes had already come and gone once since his death, in 1985, and nothing had come of it. The dying man’s words held no power.
Swallowing the sour spit in her mouth, she stepped to the side. Probably, the man was unaware how much evil lurked inside him. Ursula tried for pity and failed.
“Have a seat,” she said. She couldn’t shake the thought of Katrine and Jasmine and her precious granddaughter, Tara, as she listened to what he’d come for.
The Catalain Book of Secrets: Acceptance Potion
Our spirits come into our bodies in full acceptance. As we grow, we forget that we are of the elements. If you are not feeling accepted, either in your own skin or by those around you, a simple acceptance potion that you drink at the new moon can reconnect you to your birthright.
Potion:
1 part geranium
1 part blue tansy
1 part neroli
Combine all three ingredients in a blue jar. Suspend it over a fire of rosewood. Drop frankincense and sandalwood into the rosewood fire, and recite the following spell three times:
I am of fire
I am of air
I am of earth
I am of water
I am whole
Let the fire burn itself out naturally. When the blue glass is cool to the touch, apply the potion to your wrists. You will return to your state of self-acceptance, and subsequently be accepted by others exactly as you are.
Chapter 23
Katrine
Katrine parked her borrowed car outside the newspaper office, feeling like a fool. Heather Lewis was probably not even inside, and if she was, why would Katrine want to spend time with her? The woman had made it her life mission to ruin Katrine’s high school career, and in her down time, had picked on Jasmine. She probably ate kittens for breakfast. Yet, who else did Katrine have to go to? Certainly not her family when her own sister was the one who’d sent her away. She barely knew Ren. The closest thing she had to a friend in this town was her tormentor.
She sighed and exited her car. This is the beauty of having nothing to lose.
She smiled at Stephanie, the receptionist. “Heather in?”
>
“Of course! Fightin’ the good fight.” She tipped her head toward the hallway. “Go on back.”
Katrine paused just on the other side of the open doorway, took a deep breath, planted a smile on her face, and popped in.
Heather jumped, guiltily clicking something closed on her computer screen. “Katrine! Back already. How’d the interview go?”
Katrine felt sixteen years old all over again. “Fine, I guess. Hey, you want to go to the Rabbit Hole with me and catch the band? I’ll buy you a drink.”
A peculiar expression crossed Heather’s face, somewhere between confusion and gas. “You’re asking me to go out?”
Katrine began to turn. “Forget it. It was stupid.”
“Wait!”
Katrine stopped and glanced back at Heather.
“I have a lot of work to do,” Heather began.
“Like I said, it was dumb. I—”
Heather held up her hand. “I’m lying. I don’t have any work to do. I was online searching for photos of John Stamos.” She had the good grace to look mildly ashamed. “You remember that actor? I had the biggest crush on him. This is what my life has come to, by the way.”
The unexpected honesty threw off Katrine’s guard. She was dumbfounded to feel the hot salt of tears streaking her face. My own sister sent me away, and I think she was right. I could have broken the spell and come back earlier if I’d wanted to bad enough. The crying grew deeper.
Heather made her way around the desk, grabbing a handful of tissues.
“Hey, hey hey. No need to cry, though I have this effect on people. I’m a load of fun at parties.” She paused with her hand outstretched, then put her arms around Katrine. “It must be quite a change to come back to Faith Falls after London. Probably you have reverse culture shock. As in, you left culture, and now you’re stuck here.”
“You ever have problems with your family?” Katrine asked, her breath hitched. She let Heather’s floral perfume envelop her. “Problems so big that you don’t think there’s any starting over?”
“Oh, honey,” Heather said, grabbing Katrine by the hand and pulling her out the door. “Let me buy you a drink.”
***
“Gawd, he’s hot.” Heather took a swig off her third rum and diet cola, staring rapt at the leader singer of the 32-20 Blues Band as he belted out honey-smooth promises in his deep, husky voice. His incongruous cowboy hat only added to his sexiness. “And there’s something wicked about him.”
“Too wicked,” Katrine said. He had been making eyes at her since they’d arrived, which had been about half an hour after Katrine and Heather had gone back to Heather’s place to get cleaned up.
He was sexy, certainly, but the more she watched him, the more Katrine sensed something odd about him. It felt like he was looking through her, almost puncturing her glamour in a way no one had before. Plus, there was something about his eyes that made her shorthairs stand at attention. They were jeweled, like the eyes of a snake. Looking straight into them was unsettling.
Besides, she was having too good a time with Heather to think about men. The woman knew everyone in town and was not afraid to gossip. The only topic that was off-limits seemed to be her divorce. Katrine was playing her cards closer to her chest—Adam was the only outsider she’d ever told the truth about the Catalain magic, and she certainly wasn’t going to reveal what she’d just learned about Jasmine—but Heather commiserated with Katrine’s feeling disconnected from her mom and sister.
“Too wicked? Is there such a thing?” Heather held her nearly-empty drink up to the waitress, signaling for another. “You want a refill?”
Katrine glanced at her red wine, her first and only. “Sure. Why not?” She caught the waitress’ eye herself, noticing a familiar face at the bar. It was an Asian woman in her 50s, and she had a bit of a blue glow around her, suggesting that she’d visited Ursula at some point. Katrine placed her as the owner of the Great Hunan, and turned her attention back to Heather, who was swaying in her seat as the band started playing a sexy, sultry song with a drum beat that thumped pleasantly in Katrine’s lower stomach.
“You know my mom hates your mom.”
Katrine raised an eyebrow. “The usual?”
“If you mean because my dad and your mom had an affair, then yes. Is there anyone in this town your mom hasn’t slept with?” Heather put her hand over her mouth, but it was to cover a burp. “Sorry if that was too harsh.”
“She definitely gets around. What about your mom? What’s she like?”
“Imagine if Imelda Marcos, Hitler, and Tammy Faye Bakker had a threesome. Their love child would be my mother.”
Katrine spit out her mouthful of wine. She couldn’t help it. “She can’t be that bad!”
“Worse. So maybe you should think before you whine. Someone always has it crappier than you do.”
Katrine thought of Ren, and the perspective he’d given her on her heartbreak without even knowing he’d done it. “You’re right. Want to dance?”
“Love to. Just don’t block my sight of that hot guitar-playing wizard.”
Katrine returned her glance to him and shivered. His cowboy hat was slung over his eyes, and despite her trepidations, the way he smiled at her when he caught her look made her tingle. She couldn’t tell if it was because she felt appreciated or hunted, but in either case, she was beginning to fantasize about what sort of lover he’d be—rough, she bet—when the Asian woman with the blue glow was suddenly blocking her view of him. She was dancing with a woman with gorgeous dreadlocks who was also shimmering with a blue glow. Katrine was used to seeing the shadow of her mother’s magic around town, but had never seen it so focused. It was almost like they were trying to come between her and the band. And then there was the glow around the singer in the cowboy hat, only it was purple, like someone had thrown a cup of blood into the blue glow her mother’s magic left.
Katrine moved so she could see the singer better. There was something captivating about him, something underneath that pulsing purple glow. He was damn good-looking, with those long-lashed jewel eyes so dark they appeared black and a cocky mouth that tilted in a way sure to make his audience feel like they were in on something. She was familiar with his type, and was done with it. Still, she felt her hips grow looser and was considering dancing closer to the stage when she was jostled so hard that she spilled part of her drink. She glanced over to see the Asian woman dancing next to her.
“So sorry,” the woman said.
“That’s okay,” Katrine responded, shaking the wine off her hand. Her eyes were immediately drawn back to the guitar player, as were nearly every other woman’s in the bar. The band switched songs, and suddenly, Katrine felt herself locked into the tractor beam of his stare, his lips moving as he sang just for her, the two of them locked together in a wall of sound, bodies gyrating around them. The band transitioned from blues to something a little faster, dripping with sex, driven by a grinding, dirty guitar riff. A woman toward the front of the bar actually moaned.
“Did you hear that?” Heather asked, hands in the air and lost in laughter. “I think she just came! See what happens when you don’t get out of a small town? A little blues music turns everything into an orgy.”
But Katrine couldn’t hear her over the spell now being woven around her ears, dancing liquid through her blood on a warm bass beat, pulsing with the sex-soaked rhythm of the drums, circling, circling with guitar, and driven home hot on the words of the guitar player. He was singing about the best woman he ever met, his eyes locked on Katrine’s, and for a moment, irrationally, she wanted to be that woman. She found herself dancing toward the stage, a fish on a line, moving her hips to match the beat that was building toward climax, feeling every lick of the guitar on her flesh.
“Katrine?” Heather grabbed her wrist, her face puzzled. “Where are you going?”
Katrine pulled her wrist loose, the thick, hot music filling her ears and guiding her toward the stage. The guitar player’s smile grew
wider, and he tipped his hat lower over his eyes and began to grind with the beat. Another woman moaned, but he had eyes only for Katrine, hungry, glittering.
She would have made it to the stage except the Asian woman was back, this time colliding with such force that she knocked the drink fully out of Katrine’s hands, spilling red wine down the front of her dress.
“Oh! I’m so clumsy!” She looked upset enough to cry. “I wreck your dress!”
The music grew quieter, dryer, now just notes and words, the spell broken.
Katrine shook her head, dazed. The woman with dreadlocks, who had been dancing nearby, rushed over to Katrine’s side. “Shoot, I hate it when that happens! Wine, right? Let me help you get it off. I used to work at a dry cleaner.”
She led Katrine toward the bathroom. Heather followed, dancing the whole way.
“He’s all yours,” Katrine said, nodding over her shoulder toward the band. Feeling back to herself, she made a vow to find out what kind of red wine they served here. It must be powerful stuff. “I’m done with trouble.”
Across town, in the closed and locked old Stearns Bank, the spectacled rabbit darted out of the grandfather’s clock, chiming midnight.
Underground, the massive, hibernating ball of snakes shifted uneasily.
Chapter 24
Tara
Tara’s own muffled scream woke her. She was sitting upright when her eyes snapped open, blankets as tight as a noose around her, blood roaring in her ears, breath shallow and harsh. Blinking rapidly, she made out shapes: a chair holding her favorite childhood doll. Her dresser, found at a garage sale and redone by her mom. The window to their backyard, the one she’d swung in since she was a toddler and only just recently grown too big for.
The Catalain Book of Secrets Page 11
