by Rose Pressey
Chapter Four
After leaving Nicolas in his room, I hurried back down the stairs to retrieve my phone. I had to call Annabelle. She wouldn’t believe it when I told her a dark, mysterious, handsome stranger had shown up at my home in the middle of the night. In a thunderstorm. I felt like I was on an episode of some prank reality show. I kept expecting Ashton Kutcher to leap out holding a video camera.
“I knew you’d call. You heard the ghost again, didn’t you?” Annabelle said when she picked up.
I whispered into the phone, “I have a guest.” Why was I whispering? The house was so big there was no way he could hear me.
“Hallie, I don’t think I’d call a ghost a guest. An unwanted guest, maybe.”
“No, I have a real person staying here tonight… a paying guest.” He would pay me, right? I realized I’d completely forgotten to mention the room rate. I’d hate to have to turn him over to collections.
“What? When did this happen?” Her voice sounded more alert.
“About forty-five minutes ago. I signed him in and took him to the third floor. It was like he just appeared right out of the fog.”
“You have a strange man staying at your home? Who showed up in the middle of the night! What are you thinking? What if he wants to kill you? He appeared out of the fog? What does that even mean?”
She sounded hysterical.
“Annabelle, calm down. You know I can’t live my life in fear. I’ll be fine, but I wanted you to know just in case I do come up missing. Better safe than sorry, right?” I chuckled nervously.
“That’s not funny, you know. You shouldn’t say things like that. You didn’t answer my question. What did you mean by ‘he just appeared out of the fog?’”
I let out a deep breath. “There was a knock on the door and when I opened it, he was standing at the front door. He said he walked here.”
It sounded crazier when I said it out loud.
“What the hell is going on? He walked there? What kind of serial killer have you allowed in your home?”
“His car broke down. That’s all.” I was trying to reassure myself more than her. “He was walking and saw that little sign I had out front.”
“I knew I should have thrown that sign away,” she said under her breath.
“Come over for breakfast in the morning and meet him.” I paused. If I treated Nicolas Marcos as some kind of novelty, perhaps I’d stop being afraid of him.
“What’s wrong with him?” she asked. “And don’t say nothing because I can tell by the tone of your voice that something is wrong with him.”
“He’s gorgeous, that’s what’s wrong with him. I’ll see you at seven.”
“That’s in three hours!” she protested.
“I don’t plan on sleeping anyway,” I said. There was too much nervous energy running through me for any rest.
“I had planned on sleeping.” She sighed. “How gorgeous are we talking?”
“Tall, dark, and yummy. Good enough?”
“Okay. Lock your bedroom door and I’ll be over as soon as the sun rises.”
After hanging up the phone, I moved back over to the staircase. I paused and gazed up toward the third floor. What was he doing up there? Removing clothing to reveal lean muscles and six-pack abs?
I pushed the thoughts of a shirtless Nicolas to the back of my mind and made my way back to the library. Fidgeting with my hands, I walked the length of the floor, pacing with anxiety. The feeling I’d had all day hadn’t left me. If anything, it had grown stronger. And it wasn’t only my guest making me feel this way. It was that damn book—I felt its pull. I’d left it tucked securely between a couple old volumes on the shelves. I had to look at it again.
I eased across the old creaky hardwood floor and paused when I reached the book. My hands tingled when I pulled it from the shelf. Holding it securely in my arms, I sat down in the chair and placed it on my lap, flipping the cover open. The same aged pages that had perplexed me earlier stared back at me. I had no idea what I was looking for—but I knew the book was trying to tell me something. If I couldn’t even read the words, how would I ever decipher the message?
A wind picked up and the pages began to flip out of my control. Then as suddenly as it had stirred, the wind abated and the pages settled. I looked down at the open book and the spell was now in English. I flipped back a few pages. Everything else was still in the strange language. I turned back to the page marked by my finger and studied the words. It wasn’t a coincidence that it had flipped to this page. Had my great-aunt Maddy turned the pages from the great beyond?
I carried the open book into the kitchen and placed it on the large island in the middle of the space. The room was bathed in shades of white. Various apothecary jars covered the spaces around the room. The moon shone brightly through the back door window, casting a ghostly glow across the area.
The page gave no clue about what the spell was for—all it listed was ingredients. Aunt Maddy had almost any item I could possibly ever need for a spell right there in the kitchen. She also had a collection of cauldrons. Not that I needed one. Sure, I owned a cauldron, but with my track record I’d never felt comfortable using it. Except for that time I burned all the pictures and mementos from Tate Monroe. He’d claimed witchcraft wasn’t the reason he’d broken up with me, but I knew that was a lie. It was no coincidence we’d split up the day after I cast a spell to help him with his golf game. How was I supposed to know the higher the score the worse the game? And at least his eyebrows had grown back.
For my potions, I preferred to use a saucepan on top of the stove. My mother always said, “No wonder the Coven doesn’t take you seriously. You use a saucepan, for heaven’s sake.” But honestly, who wanted to drag out a heavy steel cauldron for a potion that wasn’t going to work anyway?
I placed a pan on the stove and poured in spring water. While waiting for it to boil, I retrieved my herbs from the apothecary jars around the room. Vervain, sea salt, frankincense and myrrh were the necessary ingredients. After the water had come to a steady boil, I poured it into a bowl and placed it in the middle of the island.
With more of the sea salt in hand, I sprinkled the crystals around the bowl. Drawing a small circle with the salt, I enclosed the bowl within it. The smell of earth tickled my nostrils and splashes of light—red, green, then blue—covered my vision for a few seconds. A light breeze stirred in the room.
As I placed the herbs in the water, I intoned the words written in the spell book: “Bring the magic to me. Protection from all negativity surrounds me. Harm threefold to thee who sends destruction my way. All hateful actions directed toward me, will be inflicted upon thee.”
A few pitiful sputters of smoke puffed up from the pot. The water boiled no more, the breeze stilled, the lightshow in my vision stopped, and the smell of Mother Earth vanished. Using a teaspoon, I placed a small amount of the potion in the amulet I wore around my neck.
Nothing happened.
Disappointed, I took a seat on the counter stool. I was sure the book had been trying to tell me something. Unwilling to give up, I shifted on the stool and stared at the pot. I closed my eyelids and took a few deep breaths. I opened my eyes again and my reflection stared back at me. I tried to guide my mind to the psychic light deep inside me—well, it was supposed to be deep inside me, I’d never felt much stirring down there. I waited for an image, an impression, for anything to appear. As with every other time in the past, I felt my magic, but instead of a strong vibrating hum, it was more like an annoying mosquito buzzing around my head.
All the water in the bowl had done was allow me to have a glimpse of my own face. Stress, worry and disappointment written all over it. It was the same disappointment I saw on my mother’s face every time she asked if my magic had improved.
My cell phone rang, but I ignored it. See, my mother wasn’t the only one who got upset when I performed magic. Every time I cast a spell, if there was another witch within twenty miles practicing m
agic, then my spell would screw her spell up too. And I would inevitably start receiving calls from irate witches claiming that they’d turned their cat into a toad and it was all my fault. I was not a popular witch to say the least.
Frustrated, I dropped my head to the counter. I had to know what this book said and what it all meant. Had it been Aunt Maddy’s book? How would I find the answers?
Movement sounded from above me again and I sat straight up, sucking in a deep breath. Footsteps. Either it was the ghost, or my guest was awake and coming toward the kitchen.
I stuffed the book in a drawer and placed the jars back around the room. I didn’t want him to know what I’d been doing. Guilty was written all over my face in flashing letters. Why should I feel bad? It was my home and I hadn’t done anything wrong—right?
I’d placed the last jar on the counter when the footfalls stopped. My heart rate increased as I spun around. The kitchen was empty. Tiptoeing through the library, parlor and into the foyer, I listened for more movement, but heard none. I made my way back to the kitchen and pulled the book back out. Somewhere within the pages there had to be a clue as to what it all meant or who it had belonged to.
I stayed at the kitchen island for what seemed like hours, listening to Nicolas move around the floor above me—at least I assumed it had been him. Why hadn’t he gone to bed and what was he doing up there?
