Witches of East End

by Melissa de la Cruz

  “Marie, what’s wrong?” she asked. If something had happened to Tyler the director would not sound so pleasant, she told herself. If he had hit his head or hurt himself badly Marie would sound a bit more panicked, wouldn’t she? Joanna wished she had Ingrid’s talent for seeing into the future. What was going on? Why was the school calling her now? Gracella had dropped the boy off at nine and Joanna was meant to pick him up at two. She was going to show him how to make indestructible soap bubbles today with the help of a fortifying spell.

  “Darling, I don’t want you to panic, but there’s something wrong with Tyler. He hasn’t fallen or hurt himself, but he won’t stop crying. We’ve tried everything to calm him down, and I’ve tried both his parents but they’re not picking up. You were listed as another emergency contact. Would you mind . . . ?”

  “Oh my goodness! Of course! Hector and Gracella are in New Jersey helping his brother move. I’m responsible for the child. I’ll be there right away.”

  Joanna’s heart was beating so rapidly and her legs were trembling so hard that it was a moment before she realized she was flying. Somehow she had conjured a broomstick from her rake and had taken off to the skies, still wearing her bucket hat and her gardening clogs. She zoomed high above the tall trees and the gabled houses, taking care to shield herself under a canopy of clouds from any eyes below. Now, this was definitely against the rules, but she did not much care; it had been as natural as breathing. Once she had allowed magic back into her life it was as if it had always been part of it. Why wouldn’t Tyler stop crying? What was wrong? Marie had been kind enough to try to mask her concern, but Joanna read a note of real fear in her voice.

  Tyler never cried. He was the most cheerful kid Joanna had ever met, merry in an old-fashioned way, with his twinkling eyes and adorable munchkin face. Of course he was far from perfect; like many four-year-olds he threw the occasional massive tantrum, especially if one tried to feed him something outside of his four favorite food groups. He ate only apples, tunafish, goldfish crackers, and dessert. He sniffed the bread his mother made for his sandwiches to make sure it was the proper kind, as he wouldn’t eat it otherwise. Joanna could already feel her heart clench at the thought of anything happening to the boy.

  The Sunshine Preschool was located in two low-slung beach cottages surrounded by a metal gate. Whenever Joanna picked Tyler up, he was always holding some kind of art project that he’d made—macaroni stuck to a paper plate or a new toilet-roll creation—and there was a cheerful weekly newsletter with surplus attachments: photographs or videos of the children in the sandbox. It was a clean, safe, and happy school, and Tyler enjoyed going there. She forgot the code to the security door and waved a hand so that it swung open quickly. There was no time; she wanted to see the boy now. Joanna told herself not to panic even as her mind began to race with apocalyptic scares. There were so many diseases that could affect children nowadays, a whole host of incurable flus and mysterious ailments that could attack a developing immune system. As she ran she began to imagine the worst: swine flu, meningitis, staph infection. Marie was in her office and stood up as soon as she saw Joanna. “He’s all right—still crying. I hate to alarm you but I thought it was best if we called . . .” she said.

  At that moment one of the teachers, a large, sweet Jamaican woman who was Tyler’s favorite, walked in with the wailing boy in her arms. His whole face was red and he was sobbing, big fat tears falling down his chubby cheeks. He pointed to his right ear and howled.

  “I’m so sorry, we’ve tried everything,” the teacher apologized. “A couple of kids have come down with a nasty virus that’s kept them out of school the past couple of days. Tyler probably caught it.”

  “It’s probably an ear infection; they’re very painful,” Marie said knowledgeably. “We thought it a bit premature to call an ambulance, as he was not vomiting or running a fever, but perhaps it’s best to take him to his pediatrician.”

  “Of course, of course,” Joanna agreed, taking the weeping boy in her arms and kissing his wet cheeks. “Tylerino,” she said gently, “it will be all right, baby.” She bid a hasty good-bye and thank-you and was out the door, her clogs clippety-clopping down the pebbled path.

  The doctor’s office was just a few blocks away, which was a good thing since in her haste Joanna had forgotten she did not have a vehicle. The nurse shepherded them to an examination room as soon as they arrived. Tyler was still crying, softly now, exhausted wheezes and sniffs. His shirt was drenched in sweat. Joanna held his hand tightly and hoped against hope that Marie was right. That this was a mere cold, a virus that had run awry. The doctor, who had cared for both of the girls in their youth, examined Tyler and gave his verdict. Of course, the girls had never been sick, not once in their entire lives. As immortals, they were immune to disease.

  “Looks like a bad case of otitis. It’s been going around,” he said, as he put away the tongue depressor.

  “What’s that?” Joanna asked, hugging the boy close.

  “Ear infection.” He wrote a prescription on his pad for a regimen of antibiotics. “Make sure he takes all of them. Are you his legal guardian? I’ll need a signature of consent for the medicine.”

  Joanna felt a rush of relief flood her. “No, I’m not but I’ll get it to you as soon as possible. They should be back in town by tonight.” Tyler finally stopped crying and was now sniffing and blinking. The nurse gave him a sticker, as well as a teaspoon of Children’s Tylenol for the pain.

  “Ice cream?” Joanna suggested, kissing him on the cheek.

  The little boy nodded, too tired to speak. Joanna hugged him close. Tyler was going to be okay. She had never felt so grateful for mundane medicine.

  chapter twelve

  Library Fines

  When Ingrid arrived at work the next day, there was a message in her e-mail in-box. She stared at the computer screen. She had sent the photo of the design key only yesterday afternoon and already he had replied. She had expected it, but it still surprised her to hear from him so soon.

  <>

  Yes, she got his letters. She was almost tired of reading them, really, although she wondered how she would feel if they stopped coming. If a week went by and no letter arrived, would she be happier or sadder? She massaged her temples. She shouldn’t have responded to him. Her mother and sister would never approve. But this wasn’t about her or them or even him. There was something in those ornately decorated design keys. Something important, she could feel it, something that she had forgotten, and he was the only one who knew how to decipher it. The only one who could help her unlock the mystery of the code. She wrote him back.

  <>

  The reply was instantaneous.

  <>

  She sighed and did not send a response. It was time for her “witching hour,” as Hudson called it. The line in front of the main desk was out the door. Some of the women had been there since before the library opened. They had been waiting patiently all morning, some perusing the shelves, some reading books, most content to merely stand and wait. The impressive results from Ingrid’s work kept pouring in: the nightmares that stopped, the strange aches and pains that were cured, the rash of positive pregnancy tests.

  Becky Bauman, who had recently reconciled with her husband, was one of her first clients. Becky took a seat across from Ingrid’s desk.

  “How can I help?” Ingrid asked.

  “I don’t know if this is the right place to ask or if you can help. I just . . . I feel like our place is haunted. I get the weirdest feeling at night, like there’s someone there. Ross said I should come here even though he’s never felt it. But I’m quite sure there’s another presence in the house. The lights go on and off. The television tu
rns on at odd times. Do you believe in ghosts?”

  “No,” Ingrid replied slowly. Ghosts did not exist, but she also knew that what humans referred to as ghosts—phantom specters and wraiths seen in shadowy light as well as other supernatural phenomena—was usually due to proximity to the edge of a seam, where the physical world and the world of the glom came so very close that those on the other side would be able to sense the presence of another world just beyond their sight. The edges of the seam were supposed to be held by a powerful binding spell Joanna had set long ago when they moved to North Hampton. It seemed only natural, Ingrid supposed, that spells would lessen and weaken with age, although it had never happened before. She fashioned Becky a talisman that would help keep the boundaries tight and get rid of the pesky paranormal inconvenience—no more blaring televisions at three in the morning, in any case.

  Ingrid attended to the usual mix of unexplainable grievances until an unexpected visitor arrived in her office.

  “Hey, there.” Matt Noble entered the office. He was so tall he looked funny sitting on the little stool across from her desk. “So I hear that you can help people.”

  “I do. What brings you here, Matt?” Ingrid asked, smoothing her skirt and not quite able to look him in the eye. She was irritated with herself for acting like a flustered old maid around him.

  Matt leaned forward on the desk and she forced herself to look into those clear blue eyes of his. “I have a problem . . .” he said huskily.

  “Which is?”

  “I like this girl, see. I really like her. She’s smart and pretty and sweet and she really seems to care about people. But she doesn’t seem to like me in return.”

  Ingrid tensed. “I see.”

  “So I guess. . . . How do I get her to say yes when I ask her out?” His eyes sparkled and there was a hint of a smile forming on his face.

  She frowned. Ingrid did not like when people made fun of her; she had a sense of humor but she didn’t like a joke when she was the punch line. It was so obvious he was talking about her, and if this was his way of asking her out on a date, he should really know better. Let him down gently, Ingrid told herself. The poor guy was obviously in love with her, and she would not want to hurt his feelings. She wasn’t completely heartless.

  “Listen, Matt, you’re a great guy but I . . .”

  “Man! You really think Caitlin won’t go out with me?” he interrupted.

  It took Ingrid a second to recover, but the moment flashed by without the detective noticing. He was talking about Caitlin. Her coworker. The one who didn’t even read books. Ingrid thought back to when they had hired the girl. It was right about the time that the handsome lawman began his regular visits to the library. So in all that time he was interested in Caitlin, not Ingrid. She’d been so mistaken it was embarrassing. So why had her heart dipped a little when he had spoken her coworker’s name? It’s not like she cared whom he liked. Really, she was incredibly relieved. She gave him a tight smile. “Actually that sort of thing isn’t my arena. Romance, that is. You’re better off seeing my sister at the North Inn. Ask her to make you a drink from her fancy new cocktail menu. Tell her the same thing you told me and maybe she’ll help you.”

  “Is that right?” he asked.

  She nodded, and briskly ushered him out of her office. She looked at her watch. She had meant to work for only an hour but it was almost two thirty and she hadn’t eaten lunch yet. Freya had made her a tuna salad sandwich on wheat bread. Like everything Freya made it was usually delicious, but for some reason today it tasted like sand.

  Oh, well. So I was wrong. He likes Caitlin. Who doesn’t like Caitlin? Everyone in town liked Caitlin, who didn’t take books seriously and didn’t give lectures on missed library fines and proper care of manuscripts and bore people with talk about old houses and design. Caitlin didn’t engender mean nicknames like “Frigid Ingrid,” nor did people think she was aloof or strange for having a line of people clamoring for charms and spells. She was just a nice, normal girl, pretty if rather boring, the kind of girl whom Ingrid could never be, had never once been.

  After her tasteless meal Ingrid went back to her documents, determined to give Matt Noble no more thought.

  chapter thirteen

  Aftershocks

  Come back here, woman,” Bran growled, pulling Freya back into bed.

  “I’m late for work already, stop.” She laughed, trying to put her shoes on as he nuzzled her neck. His warm hands encircled her waist and she gave up, kicking off her sneakers and letting him pull her back under the covers.

  She had refrained from his touch since that night by the fireplace, too shamed by her thoughts of Killian. She had faked headaches, begged off due to exhaustion. But she knew he would not be denied today. Bran was leaving again that afternoon. The separation would be brief—only a few days in Stockholm this time, for which Freya was glad. She didn’t think she had it in her to be a foundation widow, and although she understood the good work he was promoting around the globe, she missed him.

  He pulled off her T-shirt and kissed the valley between her breasts, and she ran her fingers through his soft brown hair. “Don’t go,” she whispered, almost to herself.

  Bran looked up at her worriedly. “I don’t want to, believe me. I’d rather be here with you.”

  “I know. Don’t mind me.” She shook her head and looked away, toward the open window. Bran’s room faced north, and she could just glimpse the dock where the boats were anchored below.

  Bran sighed and leaned down to lick a pink nipple. She dutifully whimpered and clutched his hair, pulling him closer, and with her other hand she reached for him, finding him hard and ready, and guided him inside. He entered her then, and she clung to him fiercely; and as they bucked and panted together, he covered her face with kisses and she sucked on his tongue as hard as he pounded into her. But for once Freya’s heart wasn’t in it. Maybe it was because she was despondent that he was leaving again, or because she was trying very hard to make sure her mind did not wander off somewhere it should not, but she couldn’t enjoy herself; she was just going through the motions. Killian had spoiled everything, but it wasn’t Bran’s fault, it was hers.

  They dressed and left the house. As they were walking out the door, he stopped, almost tripping on the hallway rug. “I forgot something,” he said, running back up the stairs.

  “Your passport?” Freya called. She found it resting on a side table. “It’s down here.”

  “And my ring.” Bran nodded as he came back, holding up his gold crest ring and slipping it on his finger. He accepted his passport with a kiss.

  “What’s up with you and that ring, anyway?” she teased.

  “It was Father’s,” he said. “It means a lot to me. It’s the only thing I have left from him.” Freya nodded, abashed. She knew Bran and Killian had been orphaned in their youth.

  He dropped her off at work, and she was bursting with excuses and apologies when she arrived at the North Inn, knowing the Saturday-night crowd would be keeping everyone on their toes. But instead of the usual mayhem she was surprised to find the music silent and everyone crowded in front of the tiny television.

  “What happened?” she asked Sal, as she stowed her purse underneath the counter. She squinted up at the screen, which showed a helicopter view of the Atlantic coast. There had been some kind of explosion, deep beneath the sea, not too far from the shore. An earthquake maybe, experts weren’t sure yet, the local anchorwoman was saying. But now there were all these dead fish floating around, and some kind of silvery-gray gunk was seeping out into the water. Experts had ruled out an oil leak, as they were miles away from the nearest pipeline.

  “Look at that,” someone said, as the camera pulled away to show a dense mass growing in the blue-gray waters of the Atlantic. “That can’t be good.”

  Now a scientist being interviewed on the local news was saying it was some kind of natural disaster, most likely an underground volcanic explosion that had released an oil-like
toxin into the sea. He warned that the gray, tarry substance would not only threaten the surrounding wildlife and their habitat, but that it wasn’t safe to fish or to eat fish or seafood of any kind that came from the North Hampton waters. Also, until further notice, no one should swim in any of the local beaches until the toxin was examined.

  “Yikes,” Freya said, to no one in particular, while the crowd in the bar began to murmur nervously among themselves.

  “What I’m wondering is . . .” She heard a clear voice next to her, and was surprised to find Killian Gardiner sitting on a bar stool, watching the television and sipping his beer. He didn’t seem to notice her either, as he only had eyes for the screen.

  “You didn’t finish your sentence,” she prodded. It was the first time the two of them had spoken since the night of her engagement party, and she tried to keep her voice normal. She blushed to remember the other night—if he had truly seen her with Bran. And if he still thought about what had happened between them on Memorial Day.

  “I’m wondering . . . how long has it been in the water?” He barely glanced at Freya as he gulped down the rest of his pint and left the bar without another word.

  All weekend the disaster was all everyone in town talked about, and on Monday morning even Ingrid and her staff at the library were feeling jumpy about it. While North Hampton had its share of hurricanes, it was a lucky kind of place: no brushfires in the summer like in Malibu, no flash floods; it wasn’t on a fault line. The underground earthquake and the resulting gray muck felt like an unlucky break, a jinx, a pox upon their little oasis. The library had one old television set in the back office, which they kept tuned to the news stations. They showed the grayish mass growing in the water, nearing the North Hampton shores. Whether the earthquake had kept clients away, Ingrid wasn’t sure, but for once she was able to take her lunch hour outside the library. A familiar face was waiting for her when she returned.