Witches of East End

by Melissa de la Cruz

  Freya put her hands to her mouth, horrified to think of the terrible fate that had befallen the girl. Until Forseti spoke she had been hoping that Molly had somehow skipped town on her own, had merely run away.

  “So, Derek confessed. But what about Freya? What does it have to do with her?” Ingrid demanded.

  “His lawyer is arguing that Derek was a victim. That he had no control of his actions, they were a reaction to Molly taking one of Freya’s magical potions,” he said. “If they prove he was a victim of your witchcraft, then his charge gets bumped down to third degree. No intent, just misdemeanor; with a first-time offender, he might do a year.”

  “What about me? Is that what they think, too? That I killed the mayor?” Ingrid asked.

  The bulky lawyer nodded. “Yes, they think they can prove your charm drove the mayor to take his own life.”

  “This whole thing is preposterous!” Freya laughed. “Dark magic? Are they insane? They’re going to argue that in a court of law? What century are we living in?”

  He sighed and held up his hands to signal that he wasn’t finished. “Corky Hutchinson’s father is a retired judge with some pull with the DA’s office, and the Adams boy’s parents have hired a real expensive sleazebag, bringing up case law that hasn’t been invoked in centuries. But just because it hasn’t been used doesn’t mean it doesn’t stand. There’re a lot of antiquated laws on the books. And don’t forget, in Salem, they hanged nineteen of us without cause.”

  That took the fight out of Freya for a moment, while Joanna began to sniff and Ingrid clasped her hands together. It was just as it was before. The only difference was that Forseti was wearing a more expensive suit. This was Salem all over again. A small town in hysterics. Accusations from high-ranking families in a tight-knit community. Witches on trial. Magic the root of all evil. What humans did not understand they were always afraid of. The Beauchamps had believed that the people of North Hampton might be different; they were wrong.

  “What’s the worst they can do?”

  “If they prove their case, which I’m not saying they’ll be able to, you’ll both be convicted of being accessories to murder, which is a felony, and, depending on what they can prove, could carry a sentence of life in prison.”

  “What about Mother? Is Maura’s testimony going to hold up?”

  “Possibly, if they can find more evidence to build their case. Right now we could argue that she’s confused, that she’s not a reliable witness. According to Mrs. Thatcher, they bumped into Joanna that evening, and when they turned around to walk away Joanna attacked them. On a good note, they’re not accusing you of being a witch, so your case is pretty straightforward. If Maura Thatcher’s all they’ve got, it’s not much; so for now, I’m not too worried.”

  “But I wasn’t even anywhere near the shore that night! It was January. I was in bed by then! And why would I possibly hurt them?” Joanna asked, fanning herself.

  “Can you prove it?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll have to check my calendar, see where the girls were that night and what they remember.”

  Freya frowned. “I’m pretty sure I was working that night.”

  “And I would have been asleep.” Ingrid sighed. “This is hopeless.”

  “All right, fine. So they think Mom’s a murderess who goes around knocking old folks on the head, and that Ingrid and I are big bad witches. What do we do now?” Freya asked.

  Forseti took a big gulp of his coffee. “You want my advice? And I know you do, otherwise Joanna here wouldn’t have called my office at two in the morning. It’s an easy out. You ready?”

  The girls nodded.

  “You answer their questions, you tell them what you know but you hammer home the point. Magic. Does. Not. Exist. What, are they crazy? Your potions were just cute little cocktails and Ingrid’s a kook, you know, one of those ladies from the library who’ve read too much Zoroastrianism.” Forseti shrugged. “This isn’t Salem. It’s a different time. A secular time.”

  “That sounds reasonable enough.” Joanna nodded. “What do you girls think?”

  Freya shrugged. “I guess. I mean, I’m with you, Mr. Forseti, I don’t see how their accusations could get very far in court, but . . .”

  “But?”

  “I’m worried.”

  “Of course you’re worried, sweetheart. Being questioned by the police is not a laughing matter. I’m not laughing. But trust me, I’ve got this one in the bag.”

  Ingrid frowned. Forseti certainly looked different from the last time they had seen him, but otherwise everything else, including his absurd confidence in the legal system’s ability to give them a fair trial, was exactly the same. “With all due respect, Mr. Forseti, the last time you advised us, you also argued that magic was not real and we were hanged anyway,” Ingrid said.

  “So, what are you saying?” the lawyer asked, looking offended.

  Ingrid looked at her family. Her mother had aged a hundred years in one night, and Freya looked as if she were about to faint. “We tell the truth this time. Our magic is real. We are witches. But we had nothing to do with this. We don’t practice black magic and we didn’t cause Molly’s murder or the mayor’s suicide.”

  Freya nodded slowly and the color returned to her cheeks.

  Mr. Forseti shook his head. “Dicey, dicey, dicey.”

  “Are you sure, Ingrid?” Joanna asked. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “I’m sure.” Ingrid nodded. She remembered Salem all too well, sitting in that small prison cell for eight months, subsisting on stale bread and water. She had watched her fellow witches carted off down the hill never to return. She had sat in the courtroom and listened as a succession of her dearest friends had called her names, had blamed her for every disease and run of bad luck they experienced, had turned her helpful advice into a twisted tale of black magic and devilish sorcery. Every day she had waited for the sound of the carriages that would take her to her death. She had not been afraid of death, but she had been deathly afraid of pain. A round of questioning was only the beginning; soon there would be an arrest, a trial, a conviction if they were not careful. The hanging trees were gone now, but one could still live out the rest of this lifetime in a prison cell. Life imprisonment meant something else for the immortal.

  Maybe her mother was right: their only chance was to run, to hide in the shadows and disappear. But this was her home. She thought of her friends, and of Matt, who had whispered in her ear as she was led away: “I believe you.”

  She looked at her family. “It’s time to own up to the truth. When they ask us what we did, we’ll tell them. We’ll admit to who and what we are. Freya?”

  Her sister nodded. “I don’t see any other way. And Ingrid’s right. I don’t want to live a lie anymore. What can we lose?”

  Everything, Ingrid thought. But she was willing to take that chance.

  chapter thirty-nine

  The Brief Wonderful

  Life of Tyler Alvarez

  Since Forseti was still negotiating with the police department for a time that would be more convenient for the women to meet and answer questions, Joanna took the opportunity to visit Tyler at the hospital the next day. The children’s wing was painted a cheerful blue and pink, but Joanna thought she had never entered a more depressing place. So much false hope and promise, when, really, all around was the scepter of death at the doorstep, snatching away the most precious of lives. Children should not be allowed to get sick or die; it should be a rule, Joanna raged. One should not leave mid-world until one had had a full life . . . at least until eighteen? Thirty? Sixty? Time did not mean anything to those who had too much of it, but it was even more precious once it was limited.

  She had promised herself she would never love another child. After what happened to her boy she knew she would not survive if she lost another. How could she let this happen? And the girls—she could not even think about the ongoing investigation and the girls’ upcoming interrogation. She hop
ed they knew what they were doing, but she was worried they were far too optimistic about their chances. The world did not change; she had been around long enough to understand that much. Children died. Either on the gallows or in a hospital.

  Joanna looked at the small, shriveled form in the large bed, connected to a maze of wires and drips. She stood at the far side of the bed, while his parents kept vigil on either side, his mother holding his hand. Tyler had been moved to the ICU a few days ago. After Freya and Gracella had brought him in he had recovered only to get sick again, this time with a worse infection. The doctors could not explain it: there was no bacterial infection, and he did not respond to viral treatment, either. But Tyler was not the only one: there were two other children on the ward with the same symptoms; and in the main hospital, there were adults with the same phlegmy, forceful cough, the same ragged breathing. Like Tyler, the victims had displayed milder symptoms in the beginning that could be attributed to allergies or the flu; but one by one they took a turn for the worse, with complications that affected lung and brain functions. Freya was visiting her boss, Sal McLaughlin, who was down the hall, and Joanna bumped into Dan Jerrods, whose wife, Amanda, was now on life support.

  She watched Tyler’s chest rise and fall, heard his difficult breathing. The attending doctor entered. “Tell me the truth . . . how bad is it?” she asked.

  The young resident looked at his feet, his voice strained. “There is nothing we can do for him now but make him comfortable. I am so sorry.”

  The Alvarezes turned to her to translate. What did the doctor say? What did he mean? Joanna shook her head and began to cry softly, and that was when Gracella began to scream. Hector tried to calm his wife, and the nurses surrounded them. They were taken to another room, where Gracella was given a sedative.

  Joanna stood, rooted at the spot, still trying to process the doctor’s words. Make him comfortable. Nothing we can do. Was this truly the end? Was there nothing anyone could do for him? She clenched her fists and cursed the gods who could not hear her. This was just like before. She could still remember the voice that had doomed her son to eternity, how her boy had been enveloped by smoke that rose from the ground and then taken down to limbo, to nowhere, to serve his sentence.

  The door opened and Ingrid appeared, holding a fruit basket. “It’s from Tabitha and Hudson. They heard. How is he?”

  “The same. No, actually, that’s not right. He’s worse.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mother.” Ingrid squeezed her shoulder, but she was crying herself.

  “I know, my darling.” Joanna patted her daughter’s hand and held back a sob.

  “And there’s nothing . . . I mean, I know there’s nothing you can do . . . but . . . ?”

  Joanna shook her head. She cursed the magic within her. Her useless, useless magic. This was the greatest tragedy of her gift: Joanna could bring anyone back to life, could cure any sickness, could bring health and happiness to the person dying in the next room. She had saved Lionel Horning from the Kingdom of the Dead.

  But her magic was immune to those that she loved. She remembered that girl in Salem, Bridget Bishop, whom she loved as she loved her daughters. Bridget had died in a river of her own blood, while Joanna remained shocked and helpless, unable to do anything to save her.

  Over the next several days, the Beauchamps brought Christmas in August to the children’s ward, especially Tyler’s room. While the attorneys negotiated, Freya made beautiful feasts, huge cakes dripping in cream frosting, fat éclairs swathed in chocolate sauce, the most succulent pastries and the largest chocolate chip cookies. Ingrid made spells to keep Tyler’s pillows plump and fluffy, charms that allowed his sheets to stay dry even through the night sweats. Joanna brought the dancing puppets, the warring soldiers.

  One evening, Tyler opened his eyes. He saw Joanna and smiled.

  “What do you want, my darling? My sweet? My dearest love?” she asked as she smoothed his hair.

  “Want to fly,” he said, looking longingly out the window. “Outside. Like you.”

  So that evening, Joanna conjured up a broomstick—she did not need it but it would be easier for Tyler to have something to hold on to.

  They flew out of the hospital bed and to the stars, the boy’s laughter carrying over the treetops.

  chapter forty

  Twenty Questions

  Since Freya had nothing appropriate to wear to a meeting with the police, it was her turn to borrow something from Ingrid’s closet.

  “There,” Ingrid said. “Now you look innocent.”

  “We are innocent.” Freya rolled her eyes. She glanced at herself in the mirror. She was wearing a cashmere twinset, a plaid skirt that hit her knee, and low-heeled shoes. “Everyone thinks so.” She glanced at the cards that had arrived once the news had spread that the police were interested in talking to the Beauchamp women about their so-called magic.

  Ingrid nodded. Many of their friends in town had sent notes of encouragement and love. There was a sweet note from Tabitha, a funny one from Hudson, and even though Sal was still in the hospital, Kristy had left a message on the machine earlier saying that if there was going to be a witch hunt, the Beauchamps were welcome to hide in her house until it blew over. They had nothing to fear; the town was behind them, unlike Salem, where they had been friendless and alone. It gave them courage to face the day ahead.

  Forseti was waiting for them with his car. “Where’s Joanna?” he asked, when he saw it was only Ingrid and Freya.

  “It’s better if she doesn’t come with us,” Freya said. She and Ingrid had decided last night that it would be better if they faced the questioning on their own. Joanna was too excitable and they did not want to upset their mother further; she was already inconsolable about Tyler’s sickness.

  At the police station, they were ushered into the same small interrogation room where they had waited before.

  “Where’s Matt?” Ingrid asked the detective who followed them into the room. “I thought we were here to talk to him.”

  “Detective Noble is out on another job,” the detective replied with a smirk. “Shall we begin?”

  Ingrid paled as she took her seat. Freya felt her stomach sink. The detective was a humorless type with a bad combover. He dismissed Forseti’s handshake and did not look either of the girls in the eye. Freya recognized him from the bar. (His secret sexual perversion: watching high-heeled women crush the life out of small animals. Sick.)

  Freya was up first.

  “Miss Beauchamp, I have here a cocktail menu from the North Inn bar. Is this the one that you made?” he asked, sliding over the laminated menu.

  Freya looked at Forseti, who nodded. They had gone over the routine several times now and she was prepared. “Yes,” she answered. Admit to witchcraft, but emphasize theirs was a harmless magic.

  “Allow me to read from this menu. ‘Irresistible: Vodka, pureed cherries, powdered cattail, and lime juice. Not for the shy. Prepare to lose your inhibitions.’ Can you tell us what this means?”

  “It’s a love potion,” she said slowly.

  “Obviously.” The detective sneered. “And it’s supposed to render the drinker—irresistible? How exactly?”

  “The herbal remedies in it create a glow around a person; it heightens their pheromones—their attractiveness quotient, let’s say.”

  “By magic.”

  “Yes, if magic is the word that means making the impossible possible. I bring out the magic that is inside a person and make it visible. The potion lets everyone see the best parts of the person, and therefore makes them more attractive,” she said, using the carefully rehearsed words her lawyer had approved.

  “So it works.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are there any dangers that could arise from being so attractive? For instance, could a person find someone so attractive it could lead to a loss of control on their end?” the detective mused.

  Forseti coughed. “My client is not going to answer speculative inquiries
like that one.”

  “Excuse me. Let me rephrase it. . . . How do you quantify its power? How can you be sure that it had no adverse effects on the unsuspecting public? Could this potion, for instance . . . drive a man to do something he might not do otherwise?”

  The defense attorney glared at the detective and turned to Freya. “You don’t have to answer that, either.”

  “I know,” Freya said. “But I will. No, it could never harm the person who had taken it. I’m quite sure.”

  “You can’t explain it, but you’re absolutely certain it could not lead to violence?” he barked.

  “It doesn’t work that way.”

  “How does it work, then?”

  “I told you, I don’t know. It’s just . . .” Freya sighed. “Magic.”

  The detective nodded, scribbling his notes. “Exactly. Thank you, Miss Beauchamp.”

  Ingrid was next. The unsmiling detective asked her to turn to the computer that had been set up on the desk. On the screen there were two photographs. One was the fidelity knot she had given Corky Hutchinson, magnified so that everyone could see each whorl clearly. On the other side was the noose that Todd Hutchinson used to hang himself. The knot on the noose was an exact replica of the one next to it.

  “Tell me about your magic,” he said.

  “Mostly I work with little charms, talismans, spells. A lot of the magic I work with is in knots. It’s how sailors used to divine the winds.”

  “You gave this knot to the mayor’s wife, did you not?” he asked, pointing to the first knot.

  “Yes.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “She suspected her husband of cheating on her. I made her a knot and told her to put it underneath his pillow. It would keep him from straying; it would keep him home. But only if she was there as well.”