Magical Stew

by Barbara Hodges

  Three adult-size skeletons, all wearing black top hats with red carnations glued to where collars would lie open, hovered in dark corners, their bones glowing ivory white. Cobwebs floated in corners and a yellow orb of a harvest moon hung in its golden glory in the ceiling’s center. In the middle of the moon, blood dripped from a huge bat’s gleaming fangs.

  It was cheesy, crass, and she loved it.

  What kind of man was Mason Warren? The write-up in the paper said he’d moved here from New York City and that he’d made millions in the stock market. So why was he here in her Santa Teresa?

  “Everything is wonderful. How can I thank you, Brianna?”

  She jumped and gasped at the words whispered so close to her ear. “I don’t know if I did your décor justice,” she said in a rush, irritated that he’d snuck up on her.

  Mason grinned. “I know it’s a little much. But I gave Roman free reign and this is what I got.” He pointed to one of the Robin Hoods, complete with longbow and quiver of arrows. “He’s my assistant. I would have gone with black-and-orange crepe paper. But he insisted gothic ala Dracula would be expected.”

  She looked again at his flowing black robe and smiled. “Did he choose your costume, too?”

  “Mine? No, it was my choice. Too much, do you think?”

  She felt her face heat and was glad to see one of the catering staff motioning to her from a doorway. “Excuse me. Duty calls.”

  Mason stared as she moved away. She didn’t remember him. And he’d been surprised to see her when she came toward him from the back of the bakery. He’d known his forever love was in Santa Teresa; there could have been no other reason for the pull he’d felt toward the small town, but to find her this soon? Thank you, Goddess.

  She hadn’t changed much, his Eleanor. A little older in this lifetime and with darker hair. Had Mirabella known of their past times together when she’d chosen him to go to Brianna? Of course she had. She said Brianna was the one who’d make the difference in the light or the dark winning the war simmering in Alamonar. But she hadn’t gone into why, saying only all would be explained when they were together.

  Watching Brianna had fascinated him as she’d prepared for the evening. She was a cyclone of energy, whirling from one end of the room to the other, touching down, adding here, suggesting there, always with a calm voice and sweet smile of reason. Tables appeared, seemingly having jumped into position already spread with pristine white cloths. Silver bowls of sparkling punch, and other crystal bowls mounded with pink shrimp on mountains of ice, were wheeled or carried from the kitchen.

  She’d carried out a tray almost as big as she was brimming with delicate canapés. Small silver goblets filled with crab cocktails filled one table.

  High tinkling laughter grated on his ears and he turned to survey his guests. He knew their names–business acquaintances, all of them–but not one would he consider a friend. When had he last had a friend? Not in this lifetime, he was certain of that.

  The area in front of the hosted bar was popular. Golden champagne bubbled down a tower of glasses. Every variety of alcohol flowed, as well as bottles of water, soda, and never-empty urns of coffee. He’d arranged for the local cabbies to start making their appearances at midnight. The staff had strict instructions to keep an eye out for those who’d overindulged and, if noted, car keys were to be taken, one way or another.

  He heard the crash of breaking glass, followed by a strident laugh, and watched Brianna rush by him. For a quick, unguarded moment, he saw her tense mouth and creased forehead before her smile jumped back in place.

  Frowning, he watched her sweep up the shattered glass, and then followed as she scurried toward the kitchen.

  With a sigh, she rubbed at the back of her neck and then massaged her temples. She turned toward him, swayed, and reached out for a counter top.

  “When did you eat last?” She looked blankly at him, and he swore beneath his breath. He guided her to a chair as a young woman came into the kitchen. “Bring me one of those crab cocktails,” he ordered. “And a bottle of water.” The girl hurried away and returned moments later. Mason pushed the water into Brianna’s hands. “Drink.”

  “No. I’m fine. I have to…”

  “Everyone can survive a few minutes without you. If I see you back out there before thirty minutes has passed, I’ll withdraw my offer of a bonus.”

  Brianna smiled slightly and gave him a quick salute. “Yes, sir.”

  A young man came into the kitchen. “You,” Mason said. “What’s your name?”

  “Mike.”

  “Well, Mike, you’re in charge of the catering for the next thirty minutes. Can you handle it?”

  “Sure,” Mike said confidently. “There’s nothing to do but fill bowls or plates.”

  With a last warning look at Brianna, Mason turned and walked out the kitchen door.

  With a sigh, Brianna took another long drink of water. He was right; she did need a break.

  One of the catering staff came in. “We need more shrimp.”

  Brianna started to stand. “It’s behind the…”

  “I know where it is,” Mike went over and opened the large refrigerator.

  She cringed and came to her feet as she heard the ring of crystal bowls striking each other. She’d never last thirty minutes if she didn’t get out of this kitchen.

  She walked to the door and turned left, away from the sound of strident laughter and rising voices.

  Brianna welcomed the quiet hallway she walked. A few steps ahead a slash of light leaked from beneath a closed door. Without hesitation she moved toward it. Her hand grasped the doorknob and for a moment, she wondered why she felt no guilt at her brazen trespassing. Shrugging, she opened the door.

  The room was a softly lit art museum. Her feet sank into deep, plush red carpeting as she entered. She walked toward a marble statue of an angel. Her fingers traced its cool ivory cheeks as she breathed a soft, “oh,” of pleasure.

  She wandered deeper into the room, past a suit of armor and then another marble statue. Her gaze swept across an oil painting, and then jerked back. No, it couldn’t be. It just looked the same. Her breath caught in her throat as she looked for and then found, the tiny ground squirrel’s head in the far left-hand corner of the landscape.

  The scene was a forest glen. Tall trees ringed it and blue-and-yellow wildflowers dotted an open field. The foreground held a fallen log and a woman sat on it, her back to the viewer. Her plaited, gold hair shimmered and she wore a simple dress of sky-blue with a white apron tied at her waist. Beside her on the log was a basket full of flowers. Her head was cocked as if she listened to, or for, something. And there was the curious little ground squirrel.

  Brianna knew if the woman turned she would have blue eyes.

  “Who are you?” she whispered, looking for the signature of the artist and finding none. Unwilling to move away, she lowered herself to the floor. Her gaze moved slowly across its surface. Yes, even the brown and black knothole next to the woman’s hip was the same. A sweet scent teased her nose and she yawned. I should get back to the kitchen. She leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes. A minute more, then I’ll go back.

  *****

  Mason stood on the widow’s walk, waiting. On the horizon, sheet lightening slashed across the black ink of night. “One…two…three…” He counted seven before the rumble of thunder sounded. As agreed, Mirabella had waited until the last of his guests crossed the bridge before calling down the storm. A blast of frigid wind molded his robe to him, and he felt the first drops of icy rain. He tilted his head back and opened his mouth. The rain tasted sweet on his tongue, ripe with magik.

  Then the storm was upon him. Rain pelted his body. In one smooth movement, he pulled the robe over his head and dropped it on the walk. Skyclad, he raised his arms toward the churning clouds and chanted into the rising wind. Three times he walked a small circle, the volume of his chant rising with each step.

  Finishing the third pass,
he flung his senses out toward the small bridge. In his mind’s eye he saw the rushing wall of water, watched it swallow the wooden planks and rip them free.

  Shivering, he rubbed his upper arms. “It is done.” Mason picked up his robe and turned toward the recessed doorway. It was time to go to Brianna.

  *****

  A roll of thunder jerked Brianna awake. She scrambled to her feet. Blinking, she looked around her for a moment, lost as to where she was. With a quick inhale, she remembered. As she spun toward the door, it opened.

  “Brianna.” Mason stood in the doorway.

  “I fell asleep.”

  He moved toward her.

  “I–I’m sorry to pull you away from your guests,” she stammered, unnerved by his silence.

  He stopped beside her and stared at the painting a long moment before turning to look into her eyes. “My guests are gone.”

  Brianna shifted, putting a few more inches between them. “Well, I’m sure there‘s plenty of cleaning up left for me to do. I hope I’m not keeping you from your bed.” She hated how her words kept tumbling out, but she couldn’t seem to stop their flow.

  “You’re not.” He looked away from her and toward the painting once again. Thunder rattled the windows. “It’s raining.”

  “A little rain won’t hurt me. I’ll finish up and…”

  “Brianna, it’s four o’clock in the morning. The kitchen’s fine. The catering staff left hours ago.”

  Four in the morning. It couldn’t have been much past eleven when she’d found the room and the painting. She stepped back from him. “I don’t understand. You must have known I wasn’t in the kitchen.”

  “I knew where you were, and that you were sleeping.”

  “Why didn’t you wake me?”

  She started to turn, and he reached to touch her arm. “You can’t go. I said it’s raining.”

  “I’ve been wet before. I won’t melt.”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not being clear. The rain caused a flash flood. My bridge is out. You can’t leave.”

  She remembered the rush of flowing water as she crossed the narrow bridge. “How long before they fix it?”

  “At least morning. Probably longer. The storm has downed power lines…”

  “We still have lights,” she said.

  With a shrug, he said, “I have a generator. My home is self-sufficient and it’s known. They won’t be in a hurry.”

  “I‘ve got to call…”

  “The phone lines are down, and who would you call?” he asked reasonably.

  There it was again. Just how did this man know so much about her? It was true. There was no one she needed to call, but it irked her that he knew, so she ignored his question. “I’ll use my cell phone…”

  “We are surrounded by trees. Mine doesn’t work unless I hike to the top of…”

  “How about some help instead of all the problems,” she snapped.

  He did not respond, but instead stared again at the painting.

  “Now?” he whispered. He turned toward her. “It’s time for us to cross.”

  Brianna frowned, and backed from him. “Say what?”

  “Mirabella needs us.”

  Shaking her head, she glanced toward the open door. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He reached out and clasped her shoulders. Where his hands touched, her skin burned, and she felt the heat quickly flood through her.

  “I….” The rest of her words died on her lips as she looked into his eyes. The room wavered and a roar filled her head. Her stomach dipped and rolled, and nausea rose into her throat as her vision grayed at the edges. Panicked, she grasped his forearms. “What’s happening?”

  His face blurred and then sharpened as he pulled her in close to his heart. “This time I will keep you safe, my Eleanor. Death will not part us again too soon.”

  Who the hell was Eleanor? Her mind formed the question, demanded the answer, but before she could voice it, oblivion claimed her.

  Chapter Three

  Brianna’s throat burned and she gagged. Hands lifted her, settled into the middle of her back and held her up.

  “Empty your stomach,” a soft feminine voice ordered. “It will pass.”

  She fought to open her eyes.

  “No, leave them closed for a moment more. There is a pail before you if you need it.”

  She lost the battle with the choking nausea and let it come. Her body shook with the force of her retching.

  “Will she be okay?” Mason Warren’s voice asked from somewhere above her.

  “She will be fine,” the woman answered. “Sometimes the summoning warrants such reaction.”

  Brianna swallowed past the fire in her throat, and the sour taste in her mouth almost set her into another fit of vomiting

  “Chew this.”

  She felt a dry, hard disk placed in her hand.

  “Ginger root. It will settle your stomach. Chew it now, child. ” The voice held a no-nonsense warning.

  Afraid to open her eyes, she lifted the disk to her nose and recognized the spicy scent. She put it into her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. It would take a few minutes. She’d used ginger root before for motion sickness, but she couldn’t sit here with her eyes closed. She opened them.

  The first thing she saw was an unlined face with the blush of youth in the cheeks. A cloud of golden hair haloed fair skin. Her gaze locked with eyes of purest blue. Instant recognition flashed through her muddled mind. “You?”

  The woman drew back. “She’s fully with us now.”

  “Can you sit up on your own?” Mason stood behind the woman, and when Brianna nodded, he circled to stand beside her. “Slide back against the pillow.”

  She did, but her gaze remained upon the woman. “Who are you?”

  “I am Mirabella. Welcome to my home.”

  Her home? Brianna looked around the room. It was small, the walls a gray, muddy color. A fireplace, flames licking piled logs, took up a good part of the facing wall. A black, round-bottomed pot hung from a hook above the flames. Dried herbs, tied in bundles, hung in corners and dangled from the ceiling’s open beams. A table of dark wood stood in the middle of a brown-and-orange braided rug. Three chairs circled the table. Smaller braided rounds decorated their seats. A freestanding cupboard held a pewter bowl and pitcher.

  Brianna licked her lips and fought to capture a coherent thought, but they refused to stop their panicked fluttering inside her head. “I am not here,” she managed to say.

  Warm hands pried her death-grip from the coverings and held them gently. “Mirabella will explain,” Mason said.

  Her gaze locked on his face. “I’m at your house. I’m still asleep. You didn’t come into the room and wake me.”

  “Let me, boy.” Mirabella signaled Mason to release Brianna.

  He stood.

  The woman knelt beside the bed, placed her hands on Brianna’s shoulders. “Listen to me, child.”

  Brianna swallowed, looked from the woman’s face, toward Mason’s, and back. It’s a dream. It has to be.

  “I am Mirabella, and you are in Alamonar,” the woman went on. “I wish there had been more time to prepare you, but the crossing had to be on Samhain. Even with Mason’s help, my power could not bring you to me except this night when the curtain between your world and mine is the thinnest.”

  She grabbed onto the only thing she comprehended of the woman’s words. Samhain…the witch’s new year. “Are you a witch?”

  Mirabella smiled. “ I am a sorceress.”

  “A sorceress. I see.” Brianna’s eyes shifted to Mason. “And you’re a what…warlock?”

  He frowned and looked away from her.“This isn’t about me.”

  Let it all play out. It will make an interesting story when I wake up, she thought.

  “Listen to me, Brianna Cole,” the woman said. “I will tell you my tale, and why I have brought you into my world.”

  When Brianna only stared, the
sorceress went on.

  “Alamonar balances upon a scale. A prophesized child will be born, sired by one Christian Samuels. Christian has no Power, but is heir to the magic of the Portents, and the child of his seed will tip the scale into good or into evil.”

  “I’m ready to wake up now,” Brianna said, the beginnings of panic making her voice shake.

  Mirabella held up a hand in warning. “You are not asleep, child. Just listen. I follow the earth Goddess. I seek to heal the wounds of Alamonar, both past and present. Not so my craft sister, Katarina. She has chosen the black path to power. Her master, the dark god Rhonal, desires the homage of all who live in Alamonar. He whispers lies of wealth and immortality to those who will embrace him.”

  Brianna stared out the open door as more of the woman’s words flowed over her.

  “The foolish flock to his banner. There remain enough true to the Goddess to defy his reign, but the child of prophecy will tip the scales.”

  “I don’t have any children,” Brianna whispered.

  Mirabella smiled. “You are not of my time. It is not for you to bear the child…”

  “Then…?

  “Heed the rest of my words.” Mirabella’s tone sharpened.

  Brianna stood, gripping the side of the bed as her legs trembled. “I don’t think I want to. I’m ready to go home now.”

  Mirabella placed both hands on her shoulders. “Child, you are in danger. It makes no difference which world you are in.”

  “What?”

  She heard Mirabella sigh. “And for that I am responsible. I have turned Rhonal’s eyes upon you. Will you hear the rest of my story?”

  Brianna sank onto the edge of the cot and clasped her hands tightly together. “Do I have a choice?”

  She felt the measuring stare of the woman. “There are always choices.”

  The soft words set her heart pounding. “Go ahead.”

  “You asked of the child. It is I the Goddess has chosen to bear Christian’s son.” A soft flush rose into Mirabella’s cheeks. “In this lifetime, Christian Samuels and I have been lovers for nine full moons, but we have loved each other in many forms, and in many different lives.