“Hey.”
“Hi.” Toni sucks in another deep breath as if she’s reminding herself to breathe.
“What’s up?”
“Decided to stop being an idiot and hiding in my room. There’s work to be done.” She focuses on the spot behind me where I know the guys are sitting. She’s not shaking, but I can tell from the look in her eyes that she’s still nervous.
Realizing the likelihood of keeping her away from the investigation is nonexistent, I give in to what she obviously wants. “Okay, let me introduce you.” If Toni gets hurt, I’m never going to forgive myself—or Egan. I lead the way to the table, but I don’t have a chance to make introductions before Egan speaks.
“Ah, it’s the fair runaway drummer. Glad you could join us.”
Toni smiles and makes a funny squeaking noise.
Egan reaches across the table, and Toni manages to force enough brain cells into firing that she takes his hand. Of course, she looks like she’s going to melt like fondue when she does, but she manages not to slobber or faint, so that’s a plus.
“Egan Byrne.”
“Toni Dawes.”
“Toni, it fits you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, cute, spunky.”
By the look of sheer pleasure on Toni’s face, you would have thought he’d called her the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. I give Egan a narrow-eyed stare, but he only winks at me in return.
Toni recovers enough of her scattered wits to slide the bag off her shoulder. She pulls a black book from it and places it on the table. “Is this what you’re looking for?”
We all stare back at her, our mouths half open.
“How’d you get that?” Keller finally asks.
“I went by your house and told your dad I’d left my sketchbook for art class there the other day. I said I’d been borrowing his computer to e-mail the Met in New York and thought I’d tossed the book down somewhere in his office. Unlike you, he’s not suspicious of me, so he told me to go in and look around. Found the book under the desk, stuffed it in the bag, kissed Uncle Jacob on the cheek and waved bye-bye. The end, mission accomplished.”
Toni’s speech increases in pace and her face becomes more excited as she relates the story. “It was kind of a rush. If this is how you feel when you go hunting, I think I’m in, even if I have to pull a Buffy and sneak out my bedroom window at night.”
Egan laughs and catches one of Toni’s hands in his own. “I like this girl.”
The wattage of Toni’s smile could light up half of North Carolina.
All I feel is an awful sense of impending doom.
Chapter Thirteen
The following morning, Keller wraps his hand around mine as we stand outside the front door to Baker Gap Methodist Church. “You sure you can do this?” he asks.
“I’ve been in churches before. It’s not going to hurt me.” Just because I can go inside doesn’t mean I should. But then I seem to be doing a lot of things I shouldn’t.
“What’s wrong then?”
“I feel like your dad will be watching me the entire time, and it’s going to be hard not to squirm.”
Keller squeezes my hand. “We don’t have to go in.”
“No, I’m doing this because your dad expects me not to. And we don’t need to give him any more reasons to suspect me of being anything other than a normal teenage girl.”
“Okay.” Keller leans over and kisses me on the forehead then leads me up the steps.
I’ve only been in churches a couple of times, once during a Catholic mass and once to listen to a Baptist service. Despite the covens’ belief that God abandoned them centuries before by letting them be killed for no reason, I’ve always been curious. Yet something else I’ve kept hidden inside myself in the name of self-preservation.
Keller directs me to a spot in the back pew. I let out a breath of relief that we aren’t headed for the front of the church. I doubt I’m strong enough to endure Reverend Dawes’ stare up close and personal for the next hour.
When I do catch the reverend’s eye, I force a smile as fake as Principal Wood’s hair. He holds my gaze for several uncomfortable moments before he directs his attention elsewhere and allows me to breathe normally again.
An older woman with short, blonde hair and a flowered dress stops at the end of our pew. “Keller, honey, how are you doing?” She eyes me as she asks this.
“Fine, Mrs. Porter. Thanks.”
“You’ve brought a guest today?”
Keller shifts next to me. For some reason, he’s uncomfortable talking to this woman. “Yeah, this is my girlfriend, Jax.”
Mrs. Porter extends her hand. “Aren’t you the prettiest dear.”
I shake Mrs. Porter’s hand. “Thank you.”
The older woman shoots Keller a quizzical look before she says goodbye and walks toward her seat several rows up. “Who was that?”
“My fifth-grade teacher.”
“Did you have a bad experience in fifth grade?”
He rubs his palms along his thighs. “No. It’s . . . it’s nothing.”
I encircle one of his hands with mine. “What is it?”
“She was one of Mom’s friends, and sometimes I feel like . . . like she’s watching me and reporting back to Mom, like she knows where she is.”
I shake my head. “What are you talking about? I thought . . . your mom’s not dead?”
Keller looks up at me with a confused expression. “What?”
“You said your mom was gone and I, well, I assumed she’d died, like your uncle.”
Keller runs his hand through his hair. “I can’t believe you didn’t know. I figured Toni told you like she told me about your mom.”
I ignore, for the moment, the fact he knows the details of my mom’s death. “Told me what? I thought you lost your mom to . . . you know.”
Keller eyes the back of the pew in front of us, remains quiet for several seconds. “We did lose her because of that,” he says in a hushed voice. He looks up at me, and my heart breaks at the hurt little boy I see reflected in his eyes. “She couldn’t handle being married to Dad, knowing what was out there and what might happen to him. She left one Sunday morning while Dad and I were here.”
“She left you behind?”
“Yeah.” Keller stares down at the floor, and I see his throat move as he swallows hard. “It was only a couple of weeks after Toni’s dad died. Wasn’t the best year of my life.”
I want to take Keller in my arms, to hold him until all the pain drains away. I want to find his mother and scream at her for abandoning her son. But the start of the organ music signals the service is about to begin. So I lean close to Keller and whisper, “I’m so sorry. It’s her loss. She missed out on seeing what a wonderful person you are.”
Keller meets my eyes. “You always make me feel better.”
For some reason, his words make me uncomfortable, like I’m undeserving of them. But I smile at him anyway. “Good.”
He grins back, and we settle in close to each other as his father takes the pulpit and my stomach begins to spin faster. I’m not sure if it’s a sin, but I only pay attention to Reverend Dawes about half of the time. The rest of the minutes are devoted to being angry at Keller’s mom and focusing on the warm, sturdy feel of him next to me.
When the notes of the final hymn die away, Keller squeezes my hand, harder than during the rest of the service. Then he leans over and whispers in my ear, “Don’t react. Stay calm. We’re almost out of here.”
Don’t react to what? I notice he’s turned to the back page of the program that shows the prayer list, upcoming church events and the Old Testament Moment. My heart bangs violently against my ribs, and Keller releases my hand to wrap his arm around my shoulders. I can’t take my eyes away from the verse staring up at me.
“Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.”—Exodus 22:18
“He knows,” I whisper.
“Shh,” Keller says softly close to my ear.
“He’s fishing. Stay calm.”
Easy for him to say. His father doesn’t want to kill him.
When the service ends, Keller ushers me out the door. But so many people stop him to say hello and to find out who I am that his dad catches up to us. I see him weaving through the crowd of parishioners and steel myself, prepared to put on an Oscar-winning performance.
“Jax, so glad you could make it. What did you think of the service?”
“It was nice. I particularly liked the children’s presentation. Very sweet.”
“I’m glad you liked it.” Something about the way he looks at me feels like a mind probe. Humans don’t have that ability any more than witches do, but it proves uncomfortable all the same. “Did Keller tell you I’d like to meet your mom?”
“He did.”
“We’d love to have both of you over for dinner soon. What day is convenient?”
“I’ll have to ask Mom. I know she’s got a crazy schedule the next couple of weeks, but I’ll ask her about after that.”
“Good. I look forward to it.”
The falseness of the conversation presses in on me, threatening to steal my ability to take in and push out air. Only Keller’s presence by my side and his firm arm around my shoulders keep me reasonably calm.
When Reverend Dawes wanders off to talk with other members of the congregation, Keller steers me away at a normal pace, nothing that will make us look like we’re fleeing. When we’re in his truck, I begin to shake.
“Come here,” he says and pulls me as close to him as the console allows. “It’ll be okay. If he knew for certain, he’d have already acted. He just wants to see if he can rattle you.”
“He succeeded.”
“We know that, but he doesn’t.” Keller pulls back and frames my face with his hands. “You were great.”
“I wasn’t.”
He kisses me tenderly. “You were,” he whispers against my lips.
“Be careful, Mr. Dawes,” I tease, needing something to relieve the tension seizing my muscles. “You might make me lose control, and your dad probably has a bloodstone in his suit jacket.”
Keller gives me a crooked grin. “I make you want to lose control?”
Only a lot.
I shrug. “Maybe.”
He kisses me again, this time with so much passion that I’m certain it isn’t appropriate for a church parking lot. I push away.
“Not here.”
“Okay.” He starts the truck and drives away from the church and his father’s hawk-like gaze.
I watch as the dense forest flies by outside my window, chastising myself for encouraging Keller. But it’s so hard to pull away from him when all I want is to get closer. Why am I torturing myself this way when there might be no reason? There’s been no evidence of coven activity in the area, and his dad has no proof I’m anything other than what I say. But no matter how many times I try to convince myself that everything will be okay, I can’t quite believe it. A dark knot of intuition in the deepest part of my gut tells me otherwise.
We remain quiet during the entire drive out to my RV, but Keller doesn’t let go of my hand. When he parks in the spot next to my car, I stare into the woods on the opposite side of the creek.
“What are we going to do?”
“Two things. One, not worry about my dad until we have something to worry about.”
“You don’t think him wanting to kill me is something to worry about?”
“I’ll watch him, okay? Maybe he knows something, or maybe he just wanted to see your reaction. You didn’t give him anything to suspect.”
I want to believe him, but the words don’t have the ring of truth to them. “What was the second thing?”
“This.” Keller pulls me toward him and kisses me, a kiss that puts the one in the church parking lot to shame.
“I like that second part.”
He smiles against my wet lips. “Me, too.”
Like he said, I’ll worry when I have reason to worry. For now, kissing is a much better way to spend my day.
I’m fairly sure that despite my worries I smiled all night, even while sleeping. Keller has this way of making all the scary things go away, at least for a little while. Strange, considering I’m one of the scary things he’s supposed to make go away. I’m still smiling when I walk into school Monday morning, but Toni has me beat when I meet her in the hallway.
“Be careful, you’re going to break your face if you keep smiling like that,” I say.
Toni drifts back against the lockers next to mine. “I can’t help it. Egan took me for a ride on his motorcycle, and then he made us the most to-die-for brownies. I think even my mom’s half in love with him, though she’s not terribly fond of the bike.”
That inherent worry in my middle claws its way closer to the surface. “Just be careful, okay?”
“Don’t.” There’s enough force behind that word that I meet her gaze. “I already have a mom. I don’t need you to lecture me, too.”
“I wasn’t lecturing. I just worry you’ll get hurt.”
“I can take care of myself.” Toni shrugs. “I don’t expect him to love me. I’m just trying to live in the moment, enjoy myself for however long it lasts.”
Isn’t that what I’ve been telling myself I’m doing, enjoying my time with Keller for whatever amount of time fate allows?
“Okay.” I see the truth Toni refuses to speak or acknowledge. My friend is in deep, deeper than I suspect Egan can even go. I can’t get rid of the feeling that this isn’t going to end well.
“I asked him to the dance, and he said yes. Can you believe it? I’m not only not going to be a wallflower, I’m going to have the best looking date there.”
“Second best looking,” I say automatically.
“The only reason I’m not going to argue this point is because you’re dating my cousin. And speaking of which, you appear to have made it through church yesterday unscathed.”
I lift my hand and wiggle my fingers. “Didn’t burst into flames, writhe in agony or anything. I think your uncle was quite annoyed.”
We head down the hall toward history class.
“I think you’re the one who needs to be careful,” Toni says. “Keller told me about the Bible verse in the program.”
I sigh. “I’m trying not to focus on it too much, or I’ll drive myself crazy.”
“I know Keller doesn’t want you to worry, but don’t underestimate Uncle Jacob. He’s very serious about what he does.” Toni stops walking and guides me into the alcove next to the girls’ restroom. “He and Dad were dedicated before, but after Dad died . . . well, I don’t like to use the term zealot, but if the term fits . . .”
“Tell ya what,” I say, needing to lighten the mood if I’m going to get through the school day. “I promise not to do anything witchy around your uncle if you don’t get too attached to Egan.”
“Deal.”
I’m not sure which of us is in more danger.
The next few periods feel like a normal day. I’m beginning to relax and get back into the flow of another school week when I get to art and Ms. Appleton starts placing paintings and drawings around the room.
“A couple of days ago, I asked for suggestions of the type of art you all would like to study,” she says. “Those of you who made the effort to offer suggestions gave me some good ideas. Today, we’re going to start with Jax’s suggestion of fantasy drawings. We’ll look at some examples then you’ll draw your own.”
I like the pastel fairies, which remind me of Mom’s work. But also striking are the dark reds and blacks of a Count Dracula rendering, the rich greens in a leprechaun print, and artwork from The Lord of the Rings. My heartbeat falters when I spot a large piece of a woman dressed all in white robes, her ebony hair so black it shines blue in spots.
Before I realize what I’m doing, I raise my hand.
“Yes, Jax?”
I point at the painting. “What is that one called?”
Ms.
Appleton lifts the piece of art. “The White Witch of Wiltshire. It’s from an English work by Simon Devane, though the artist is unknown.”
When Ms. Appleton turns to set the painting back in the tray of the white board at the front of the room, Toni nudges me. “What’s wrong?”
“That drawing. It’s . . . I don’t know. Something about it is familiar.”
“Maybe you’ve seen it before.”
I haven’t, of that I’m certain. If I had, I’d remember it, the innate beauty of feature and spirit of the woman. And yet she’s called a witch. I’ve never had such a difficult time focusing on my own drawing. I can’t take my eyes off the drawing of the witch. Only when I force myself to finish my own work do I realize that I’m trying to capture the same sense of light and purity I feel from the older painting.
When class is over, I approach Ms. Appleton.
“I was wondering if I could make a photocopy of this painting.”
Ms. Appleton notices where I’m pointing. “You really like that one.”
I nod. “She looks like she could walk out of that drawing and bring goodness with her.” That might sound hokey, especially coming from a high school kid, but I like that description. It conveys how I feel when I look into the witch’s blue eyes.
“She does, doesn’t she? You have quite an eye for art.”
Ms. Appleton has no idea how much her words mean to me, that they make me feel closer to my mother than I have in a long time.
As I look at the painting again, it calls to me. Is it possible? Had this woman been real? And had she truly been a witch, a real one? If so, how had she escaped the darkness? Or had she lived before the covens formed?
As I head down the hallway to the office to make the copy, I can’t stop staring at the painting, wondering if the woman represents any sliver of truth, or if she was simply a fantastic drawing straight out of the artist’s imagination?
White Witch Page 13
