Darkmoon (The Witches of Cleopatra Hill Book 3)

by Christine Pope

  With a sigh, I wrapped the plastic stick with its ominous pink lines in more toilet paper and then dropped it in the trash can. It had told me what I needed to know, and I didn’t want to look at it anymore. I knew I should probably be calling Planned Parenthood to get a real test, for confirmation and to determine just how far along I was, but that could wait a day or two. My aunt and I saw a civilian GP down in Cottonwood when the need for something beyond over-the-counter medicine or folk cures was required, since our clan didn’t currently have a healer. I knew my doctor could probably do the same thing for me as the staff at Planned Parenthood. But she knew me; there would be questions, and I just didn’t know how to answer them.

  I could hear my phone ringing from where I’d left it on the dresser in my bedroom. I almost let it roll over to voicemail, but then I realized it was probably Sydney calling, and she’d just keep calling back until I answered her. She’d made me promise to go to the Spirit Room with her, since Black Forest Society was playing, and although I’d tried to protest, had said I didn’t want to see a band Connor liked so much, she said it was important that I go.

  “Kind of like shock therapy,” she told me. “You can’t hide from things forever. We saw them last summer and had a good time.”

  All of that was true, I supposed. I couldn’t block out everything that might raise the specter of a memory I’d shared with Connor. Especially now, when I had something I really couldn’t hide from. Not for long, anyway.

  As I went into the bedroom, I placed one hand on my stomach, which of course still felt completely flat. At least I hadn’t been throwing up or anything. From time to time I had felt a little tired, but I’d just figured that was because of everything that was going on and the general ennui that had surrounded me ever since I came back to Jerome after Connor threw me out. I’d had no reason to believe I might be pregnant. Or actually, I’d had several reasons, but my grief-fogged brain had skipped right over them.

  I picked up the phone. “Hi, Sydney.”

  She launched into a reply without even the semblance of a preamble. “So, Anthony got called in to work, which means I don’t think we’ll be able to make dinner, since he’s not off until seven-thirty. Can we just meet you at the Spirit Room at eight?”

  In a way, that was a relief. That meant less time where I’d have to pretend to act normal around them. “Sure. I’ll get us some good seats.”

  “Great.” A pause, and then she asked, “Are you okay? You sound funny.”

  “I’m fine,” I replied, the automatic response, whether it was true or not. “Allergies, maybe. I just had a sneezing fit after doing some dusting.”

  “Okay,” she said, but I could tell from her tone that she didn’t quite believe me. Then again, she knew I’d been skirting the edges of depression for a while. It had been getting better, but that didn’t mean I didn’t stop suddenly from time to time and let the tears flow over me whenever I let my guard down. “Well, then, we’ll see you around eight. It might be a little later, depending on how long it takes Anthony to close up.”

  “No worries,” I told her, since I knew that was what she wanted to hear. “See ya.”

  “’Bye!” she chirped, falsely cheery, and I hit the “end” button and tossed my phone on the bed.

  Then I looked up at the clock. A quarter after three, which meant I had about five hours to compose myself and get myself in a mental state where Sydney wouldn’t notice anything was wrong.

  Right.

  * * *

  Since it was a Tuesday night, the Spirit Room wasn’t all that crowded when I got there a little before eight. I knew a lot of the crowd would start trickling in later, and in fact the band was still setting up, so I could tell they weren’t going to start at eight on the dot. Moving purely by force of habit, I went to the bar, then realized I couldn’t order my usual glass of wine. A pang of guilt went through me as I thought of all the wine I’d consumed over the past month or so. Not enough to get plowed every night, but still way more than anyone in the early stages of pregnancy should’ve been drinking. Well, I couldn’t do much about that. I’d just have to quit cold turkey now and hope that would be enough.

  It also didn’t help that my cousin Marcus was tending bar that night. Sometimes he worked here at the Spirit Room, and sometimes up at the Asylum bar at the Grand Hotel at the top of the thill. Just my luck that he was on duty tonight, instead of one of the other two bartenders, both of whom were civilians.

  “Hey, Angela,” he said, and started to reach under the bar. “Glass of wine?”

  “Um, no,” I said quickly. “Just some” — I racked my brains; I knew I shouldn’t be drinking caffeine, and I didn’t like ginger ale — “just some mineral water, thanks.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You feeling all right?”

  “Very funny.” He was about five years older than I, close enough in age that he wasn’t too over-awed by my status as prima, and therefore didn’t see a problem with giving me some shit when the situation warranted. “I just don’t feel like drinking tonight, okay?”

  “Hey, no worries,” he replied, giving me a wink, and pulled out a glass and filled it with ice and soda water, then garnished it with a lime. After pushing it across the bar toward me, he added, “This one’s on me.”

  “Very generous of you.”

  A grin, and then he turned away from me to help a couple in their early thirties who’d just approached the bar. I didn’t recognize them, so I guessed they were tourists. Good; I really didn’t want to deal with someone I knew commenting on my odd choice of beverage.

  I took my soda water to one of the high booths at the very back of the room. That seating was more comfortable, and besides, while I wanted to hear the music, I didn’t think I could handle being right up next to the stage, being that close to the band. No, I didn’t know them personally, but it still felt way too intimate to be there almost in their laps, so to speak. Also, I noticed a young man around my age, maybe a little older, setting up an easel next to them, and realized that he was going to paint along with the music. I vaguely recalled Connor mentioning seeing them do something similar at a show he’d gone to before we met, but I hadn’t really put two and two together. It was hard enough to be here at all without having to sit and watch someone paint…and maybe wonder what Connor would be painting if he were here instead.

  Scowling, I sipped my soda water and wished I’d told Sydney that I couldn’t come, that I had stomach flu or cramps from hell or something that would’ve gotten me out of having to be here. She always did have a knack for steamrollering over my objections, although I had a feeling that if I’d mentioned projectile vomiting, she probably would have left me alone.

  Can’t be helped now, I thought. At least I didn’t see anyone from the local McAllister contingent in the bar, although that didn’t mean they wouldn’t show up later, after the band got started. Clearly, I’d revealed my inexperience by getting here right on time.

  But then Sydney and Anthony came in, spotting me immediately, since I was sitting so close to the front door. “Hey,” I said lamely, and Anthony gave me an equally limp “hey” in reply. I knew he was disappointed about Connor’s and my breakup, since that sort of killed his “in” for possibly getting a vineyard of his own. Life sucks sometimes.

  Sydney, however, chirped a cheerful “hi!” before sliding in the booth next to me. She gave my glass of mineral water the side-eye but didn’t say anything except, “Hey, Anthony, can you get me a rum and Diet Coke?”

  He didn’t quite shudder, but I could tell what he thought of her drink choice. Not that surprising, considering he was something of a wine connoisseur. Being a wise man, though, he didn’t say anything, just nodded and headed off to the bar.

  “What is up with that?” Sydney asked as soon as he was gone, pointing a hot-pink fingernail at my glass of mineral water.

  “I just didn’t feel like drinking, that’s all,” I replied.

  “Seriously? Miss ‘I’m Going to A
rm-Wrestle You for the Last Half Glass of Wine in That Bottle’?”

  “Very funny.”

  “I’m not joking.”

  I shrugged and pretended to be absorbed in watching the artist on stage start prepping his canvas, even as the band went through their sound checks. Not that they had all that much to do, as there was only a drummer and the lead singer/guitarist. I knew on their album they had a cellist play on some tracks, but I didn’t see a third person. Maybe she wasn’t available for this particular gig.

  “Maybe I thought I should lay off for a while. Drinking really doesn’t solve anything.”

  “No, but it at least makes you feel as if you’re solving something.” She subsided a bit as Anthony returned, holding her rum and Diet Coke and a glass of red wine for himself. “Thanks, sweetie.”

  Did it make me a horrible person to think how hard it was to watch their casual intimacy? They’d definitely toned it down around me, but I could still see how close they’d gotten, how Sydney seemed to have clicked with Anthony in a way she never had with any of her other boyfriends. I was happy for her, truly, and yet it hurt to see her happiness and know that mine had been torn away from me through no fault of my own.

  Well, all right, I’d made the decision to stop Damon Wilcox, keep him from hurting anyone else. I supposed I could’ve just walked away. But I had a feeling that would only have made matters worse. How could I have possibly known that doing the right thing would end up destroying my relationship with Connor?

  “So, what up?” Sydney asked, and I blinked and glanced over at her.

  “Huh?’

  “Earth to Angela. What’ve you been up to? I haven’t heard from you in a few days.”

  I gave a too-casual shrug. “Oh, nothing. Getting ready for the contractors. They’ll be here next Tuesday, right after Memorial Day.”

  Anthony sipped his wine before asking, “So what are you going to do while they’re working on the kitchen?”

  “Eat out a lot, I guess,” I said. “Although my aunt has said I can drop by for dinner whenever I want while the remodel’s going on.”

  Yes, bless her, Aunt Rachel hadn’t been quite as “I told you so” as I’d feared. Not that she could completely conceal her relief at my being back in Jerome, but I thought she also worried for me, could see that I wasn’t bouncing back from this separation the way I should. How could I, though? This wasn’t just a simple girlfriend/boyfriend breakup — this was a prima separating from her consort, something that had never happened before, at least in McAllister history.

  “Mmm,” Sydney put in. “Your Aunt Rachel is the best cook. I’d stretch out this remodel for as long as possible, if I were you.”

  “Considering the way most of these projects tend to go, that’s probably going to happen whether or not I want it to.”

  She giggled and sipped at her rum and Diet Coke, then leaned her head against Anthony’s shoulder. I forced in a deep breath and drank some of my mineral water, telling myself I couldn’t forbid the entire world a PDA just because I’d been deprived of it myself. That sounded very sensible, even though I could feel the ache beginning in my chest, the hot sting of tears in my eyes.

  This was really getting old.

  Luckily, though, the band started up then, playing a song I recognized from Connor’s CD. It sounded a little different now, minus the long, mournful notes of the cello moving behind the quick finger-picking on the steel-string guitar and the driving beat of the drums. Still, it was enough to recall how I had awoken that morning in Connor’s apartment, hearing this music drift up below and wondering how I would be able to free myself from him.

  Now I could only think about how much I wanted to be back there, to hear the mellow baritone of his voice and the flash of those green eyes in their frame of thick, sooty lashes. To lie in his arms as the sunlight poked through the blinds and lay in faint glowing lines across the brick-colored comforter that covered us.

  In that moment, it all got to be too much, and I set down my glass of water, got up from the booth, and rushed out of the bar, my eyes blurring with tears. Outside, the air was cool against my fevered cheeks, and I stumbled a few paces down the side street, stopping in front of a closed jewelry shop, where the glow from the little white lights in the display window provided some faint illumination.

  Goddess, I can’t do this. I can’t.

  “Angela!”

  Shit. I put up a hand to blot away my tears, noting that at least Sydney had come alone. Then again, what guy, even one as seemingly kind and enlightened as Anthony, would willingly barge in on a girl weeping alone? That was what girlfriends were for.

  “I’m okay,” I said, not looking at her when she stopped a pace or two away from me.

  “No, you’re not.” Setting her hands on her hips, she watched me closely.

  At least we were alone; people did hang out on the sidewalks around the Spirit Room to have a smoke or chat where they wouldn’t disturb the band, but as the jewelry store and the gift shop next to it were both closed, no one had much of a reason to come this far down the dark little side street.

  “Come on,” Sydney said, her tone even gentler this time. “This is more than being sad about Connor. I’ve been paying attention these past few weeks. It seemed like you were doing better. And now a meltdown?”

  “It’s just — hearing that music,” I finished lamely.

  Silence, her blue eyes sharp on my face. I knew some people thought Sydney was kind of an airhead, but she really wasn’t. She knew people.

  More importantly, she knew me.

  “You really expect me to believe that?” she asked, after a long pause.

  No, I didn’t. And we’d been friends too long for me to believe that she was going to let this go. She’d prod and she’d pry — not in a mean way, but because she knew I’d clam up if she didn’t keep after me to tell her what was wrong.

  And so, since I knew she’d find out eventually anyway, I blurted, “I’m pregnant.”

  Dead silence. She just stood there, brain clearly on overdrive as she stared at me. Finally, “Oh, shit. Shit.” Obviously she’d recalled what I’d told her about the curse, and how this was a little more complicated than just an unplanned pregnancy.

  “Shit, exactly.”

  Another long pause. “What are you going to do?”

  I slumped up against the brick of the building and watched my blurry shadow fall against the cracked pavement. “I don’t know. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

  “So you were…careful?”

  Well, I thought I was. I allowed myself a bitter chuckle, then said, “I was a good little witch and performed a charm to prevent pregnancy every time Connor and I had sex. I guess it didn’t work as well as I thought it would.”

  She pursed her lips as she appeared to work that over in her mind. Maybe she was wondering whether to inquire why I hadn’t used a more conventional method of birth control. Luckily, she didn’t, instead saying, “Are you….” The question trailed off, as if she didn’t quite have the nerve to ask it.

  That was all right. I knew exactly what she’d intended to ask. “Yes, I’m keeping it.”

  “But — ”

  “I know.” Yes, I’m keeping it…even if that means I’m sealing my own death warrant.

  Her eyes suddenly seemed too bright, even in the dim reflection from the little fairy lights in the shop window. She blinked, asking, “Okay. It’s just — okay. It’s your decision. You’re going to tell him, right?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because — it’s his baby, too.”

  “So? Obviously he doesn’t care enough to have even tried to contact me once during the past few months, so why should I bother?”

  Rubbing the side of her head as if it suddenly pained her, she was quiet for a moment. Finally, she dropped her hand by her side and began, “Look, Ange, I watch a lot of reality shows — ”

  “And that qualifies you to give me advice here?”

  “We
ll, yeah, it kind of does.”

  I crossed my arms and gave her a skeptical look.

  Undeterred, she went on, “Anyway, what I was about to say was the only thing worse than telling a guy you’re pregnant is not telling him you’re pregnant. You can’t hide this from Connor, Angela. You just can’t. Sooner or later he’d find out, and he’d never forgive you. Or at least, he’d find it a lot harder to forgive you.”

  Oh, deep down I knew she was right. I just couldn’t bear the thought of seeing him again…or worse, asking to see him and having him refuse to do so. What then? Would I still have the responsibility of telling him about the baby if he wouldn’t even meet with me?

  But that, as my aunt liked to say, was just borrowing trouble. I hadn’t reached out to him, so I had no idea whether I’d get shot down unmercifully or not. I looked away from Sydney, stared up at the deep black sky, watched the stars twinkling there. I could see the Big Dipper just above the heavy shoulders of Mingus Mountain, which was a deeper black against the velvet sky.

  “I know,” I said at last, my voice sounding defeated even to myself. “I guess I just wanted to…I don’t know…have it confirmed independently before I tried to contact him. I mean, those tests aren’t foolproof.”

  For a few seconds she didn’t say anything. Maybe she was thinking the same thing I was. True, those tests weren’t completely accurate, but a ninety-eight-percent chance was still pretty good odds.

  “Do you want me to go with you?” she asked then. “I mean, to your doctor or Planned Parenthood or whatever?”

  “Would you?” It wasn’t until she offered that I realized how much I’d been dreading going alone. With Sydney at my side, maybe it wouldn’t be quite as bad.