Bound

by Kirsten Weiss

  “The trunk?” Ellen asked, her voice weak. “No wonder I couldn’t find it after… Why on earth did I put it there?”

  “What does it matter?” Jayce said. “Whoever started the curse, we’re the ones stuck with it.”

  “But look.” Laying the Bible on the rumpled bed, I pointed to the page of names. “Nathaniel. That’s the name of the man in the curse story, the man who succumbed to the love spell for three days and then returned home to his wife. And his wife was Grace. Belle must have been the other woman. But if Belle was cursed, why would it pass to our line?”

  “Could Belle have had a child from her time with Nathaniel?” Lenore asked. “Maybe we’re part of the illegitimate line.”

  I shook my head, my excitement rising. “No, Nathaniel’s wife, Grace, died when Edna Rose was born on August 23rd, 1850.”

  “The curse poem,” Aunt Ellen croaked. “Find it.”

  Jayce flipped to the last page of the spell book, and read aloud:

  “Nathaniel hied away to the fae spring

  To gather herbs and flowers for his bride.

  Belle, mischief mad, behold anon the man.

  Oh Moon, she raved, smit dreadfulle to her heart,

  She wove her magic spelle and bound him close.

  Away to me, she called, forget your love,

  Forget your mortal pledge, a haunting cry.

  Three days he tarried in the fairy bower.

  His home and hearth forgotten in her couch.

  Then pow’r more fierce than fae’s blew through his soul,

  And waking, stumbled to his mountain home.

  Return! She cried. I bind you with my charms,

  I call the Morrigan, tie fast his fate,

  If he resists, its Uffern’s gate he’ll knock on.”

  “Then pow’r more fierce than fae’s… When did Nathaniel die?” Ellen asked.

  I skimmed the Bible. “February first, 1850.”

  “It fits,” Ellen said. “It all fits. He resisted, and Belle killed him, like that bitch killed my brother.”

  My sisters and I glanced at each other, startled.

  Belle, whoever she was, had to be long dead. “Ellen—”

  “My God,” Ellen whispered. “I’ve been on the wrong track all along. Everything I thought I knew about this curse is wrong. Why did I hide that Bible?” She clutched my wrist. “Don’t you see? We’re so close. You three are meant to break it.” Her voice cracked, and she closed her eyes. “I can’t die now. Not now. Not when we’re so close.” Her breathing changed, smoothing.

  Ellen slept.

  Heart leaden, I stared at my hands. Our aunt slept easily and often now, little sleeps before the big one.

  Motioning to us, Lenore tiptoed from the room. We followed her to the kitchen and set the books on the butcher-block island. Lenore slid open the window above the sink.

  “This is so messed up,” Jayce said. “Grace might not have started this, but it’s our problem now. And the story doesn’t give us any idea how to break the curse.”

  “Let’s read it again,” I said.

  We poured over the pages.

  I pointed to a line in the spell book. “Then pow’r more fierce than fae’s… Could that power be Grace Elizabeth? If Ellen’s right, our family’s always been magic. Maybe she broke the love spell that bound Nathaniel.”

  “When we first read the story, I assumed it was the power of love that freed Nathaniel,” Jayce said. “But our family’s never been lucky in love, have we?”

  “They never got the chance,” I said. “They all died — husbands and wives — around the birth of their first child.” At least that part of the story was true. It was all there, recorded in our family Bible.

  “Besides,” Lenore said, “true love breaking the spell is a little too fairytale. If true love even exists.”

  “Of course it ex…” I cleared my throat, changed the subject. “The old folktales were brutal, and love was no guarantee of safety. We sanitized fairytales, made them politically correct.”

  “Our family history sure wasn’t sanitized,” Jayce said. “All the good guys died — Nathaniel, Grace… What happened to Belle? She must have been a witch too, don’t you think? Doyle was founded in 1849. Do you think she’s in any of the records?”

  I shifted. Ellen seemed to believe Belle still existed. But it was more likely someone was carrying on in her name. Someone had twisted the woods, enchanted the spring. “I’ll check.” If California was included in the census in the eighteen hundreds, I might even be able to find Belle online. “But without a last name, it won’t be easy to find her.”

  “How many Belles can there be?” Jayce asked.

  “Annabelle, Clarabelle, Marybelle…” I trailed off. “But there couldn’t have been that many women in Doyle during the Gold Rush, could there?”

  We gazed at each other.

  Outside the open window, a wind chime tinkled in the still night air.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The next day, Ellen slept. Occasionally, her eyes fluttered open, and she’d look around, as if searching. Then, unspeaking, she’d retreat into fitful dreams. Her blue-veined skin, pale and insubstantial, seemed to glow with an interior luminescence.

  Yawning from lack of sleep, we wandered around the house. Anxious, we brushed arms in the kitchen, stumbled over each other in Ellen’s bedroom, bumped into each other in the garden.

  We took turns leaving Ellen’s, going to our own homes for changes of clothing, running errands at the shops.

  Jayce staggered through Ellen’s black-painted front door, a bag of groceries in her arms. She’d changed into fresh, nearly painted-on jeans, and a low-necked, ruby-colored tank. “How is she?”

  “The same.” Eyes pink, Lenore drifted from our aunt’s bedroom, her loose, white tunic floating about the hips of her linen slacks. She rubbed her bare arms. “It won’t happen today, but soon.”

  I clenched my fists, working to repress my fear. The helplessness, the pain darkening my sisters’ eyes, were nearly unbearable.

  “I stopped by Ground,” Jayce said, walking into the kitchen and setting the bag on the butcher-block counter. She pulled out a canister of tea. “I don’t want to, but I need to go back to work. Darla’s freaking out.”

  “I planned to do some online research today,” I said. “Maybe I’ll do it there? Keep her company?”

  “Would you? If it was only Aunt Ellen, I’d close Ground in a second. But with Alicia’s murder…” Jayce looked away. “Nick thinks it will look better if I keep it open, make it seem things are normal, and Ground’s got nothing to do with Alicia’s death.”

  My shoulders twitched. Nick. I’d forgotten to tell Jayce what I’d discovered about Emily Heathcoat. “Did Nick say anything to you about his sister?”

  “His sister?” Making a face, Jayce emptied the paper bag — bread, eggs, cheese, milk. “No. Why would he?”

  “She disappeared while hiking around here six years ago. They never found her body.”

  “That’s terrible.” Lenore’s gray eyes darkened with sympathy. “The poor family.”

  “It is terrible, but… When we were searching the forest for that homeless man, I got the sense that he was really looking for something else.”

  “That makes sense though, doesn’t it?” Lenore asked. “If he had to go into the woods, how could he not look for his sister?”

  “It’s more than that.” I drummed my fingers on the counter.

  “As far as I’m concerned, Nick can wander the woods all night.” Folding the paper bag, Jayce tucked it into a drawer. “As long as he keeps me out of jail, he’s got my blessing.”

  “I agree.” My face heated. “But I think there’s more going on here.”

  Jayce crossed her arms over her chest, her dark brows lowering. “There is more going on. If Ellen’s right, there’s an old curse involved, magic, and this murder is as much about framing me as about killing Alicia.”

  “It’s not always about
you.” Lenore arched a brow.

  “There’s nothing in the curse about framing you for murder,” I said.

  “Ellen told us things are changing,” Jayce said. “The curse is about ruining our lives. Maybe it’s not waiting for us to have children before it attacks.”

  “But don’t you think it’s strange?” I asked. “That Nick’s sister disappeared?”

  “Our family’s under a curse,” Jayce said. “And you want to talk about strange?”

  It was no use. They would only see what they wanted. And maybe I was guilty of that too — seeing connections where there were none. I grabbed my purse off the counter. “I’m going to go home and change, then stop by Ground afterward. If you’re sure—”

  “I’m sure,” Lenore said quietly. “Ellen will be here when you return.”

  Still, I dawdled. It didn’t feel right to leave, but it was my turn for a break, and I wanted clean clothes.

  “Go,” Jayce said. “And give Darla some encouragement, will you? All she lacks is the right attitude.”

  What Ground’s assistant manager lacked was motor skills. I bit my lip, ashamed by the unkind thought. “Sure.” I nodded and left.

  At my bungalow, I took a long, blissful shower and changed into faded jeans and a slouchy white t-shirt. Human again, I slipped into a pair of flip-flops and drove to Ground and parked in the alley behind the café.

  The homeless man was absent, and I blew out my breath, half relieved, half disappointed. I wanted to talk to him, but I didn’t want to tackle him on my own.

  A garbage can lid lay beside the exterior staircase to Jayce’s apartment. I replaced it on its can, wrinkling my nose at the acrid smell.

  The rear entry to Ground stood propped open. I frowned, entering the small kitchen.

  “Put the scones over…” Darla turned from the sink, and her brown eyes widened. She smoothed her chignon of blond hair, ran her hands over her apron. “Oh. Sorry. I thought you were the delivery guy. He’s late.”

  “Do you want me to call him?”

  “I’ve already called. He should be here any minute.”

  I ducked my head. Of course she had. Darla wasn’t incompetent. But was she unlucky? If I could believe in magic — and I did — why not believe in luck?

  “Did Jayce send you here?” Darla asked, her broad face anxious.

  “No,” I lied. “I wanted to do some work and be around people. I’m sorry if I startled you. It was easier to find parking in the alley, and I saw the door was open.”

  “It’s fine. Can I get you anything?”

  “Mochaccino?”

  “Sure thing.”

  The alleyway door bumped open and a bespectacled young man backed inside, box in his muscular arms. “Here you go. Sorry about the delay.”

  Darla flushed. “No problem.”

  I glanced between the two of them then walked into the café, flooded with the scent of roasting coffee beans. A blond hipster with a magnificent, curling mustache occupied my usual window seat. Cheated out of my fav spot, I seized an empty table against the brick wall.

  Darla’s laugh pealed from the kitchen area, and I smiled. Was romance in the air? Maybe love would change Darla’s fortune.

  Booting up my computer, I searched for Doyle records and came up empty. For all the information online, there was still so much that wasn’t, especially the farther back you went in history. It was really annoying.

  Darla set the mochaccino on my table. “Legal research?”

  “I’m looking for a Doyle native who’s been dead over a hundred and fifty years.”

  “Really? I love genealogical research.”

  “Genealogy?”

  “Sure. They’ve got some great websites now with all sorts of data. You can find census records, death certificates, military records, sometimes even family stories.”

  “Census records sounds about right. Where would I find those?”

  Darla leaned across me and typed an address into my computer. “Try this site.” She pointed. “The census records are here. You can search by name, town, whatever.”

  “Thanks.” My eyes widened. Yes! The earliest census was taken in California in 1850. I might actually find what I needed.

  I searched for Doyle, and a list of names appeared. My heart beat faster. Grace Elizabeth O’Dell was listed. I’d seen her name in the Bible, but reading it here made her more real. Excited, I clicked the link. A black box popped up offering a membership. I tried to click past it, and the entire page closed.

  Dammit. If I wanted the census data, it was going to cost me. Unfortunately, I wasn’t exactly setting the world or my bank account on fire as an attorney/romance writer. But this was important. Grumbling to myself, I dug a credit card from my wallet and bought a one-month membership.

  Now when I clicked on the census, an image appeared — a white and gray ledger page with elegant, spidery writing. Schedule 1 - Free Inhabitants of Doyle in the County of…

  My fingers paused over the keyboard. Free inhabitants. California hadn’t been a slave state, but this was a federal census. Had there been a separate census for slaves? I guessed not. They’d been considered property, not people.

  Shaking my head, I read on: Enumerated by Me on the 14th day of August, 1850. The census had occurred only weeks before Grace Elizabeth died.

  The data was sparse. Names of people in the household. Age, sex, and color. Place of birth, the value of property (this category was left mostly blank). Whether they were married within the last year, if they’d attended school…

  I scrolled down, struggling to read the antique script. And then I found her — Grace Elizabeth O’Dell, living in the household of Henry and Sarah Shott.

  There was no Nathaniel, but he might have been dead by then. That would explain why she was staying with her parents. Her father, Henry, had been listed as a laborer. Grace Elizabeth had probably come to Gold Rush country with her parents and met Nathaniel here, in Doyle.

  I sipped my mochaccino.

  All well and good, but where was Belle? Fortunately, Doyle had been little more than a village in 1850. Unfortunately, I still had close to two thousand names to scroll through.

  I checked my watch. It wouldn’t be fair to leave my sisters alone at Ellen’s much longer. I scanned the records. The population of Doyle in 1850 had been overwhelmingly male — traders and prospectors hoping to strike it rich. It should be easy to search, but the handwriting… How could it be so beautiful and so impossible to decipher? It reminded me of the writing in that old spell book.

  I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms. If only I had my aunt’s sight, could see the evil intents in people’s auras, maybe I could get close to the truth. But wishing wasn’t going to get me the sight. Like anything else, I’d need to practice.

  And there was no time like the present.

  I relaxed, setting my hands in my lap. A coffee grinder whirred, and the scent of the beans wafted from it. I paid attention to the feel of my soft t-shirt against my skin. The air conditioning played over my bare arms. My mochaccino was a bitter-sweet aftertaste on my tongue.

  My vision relaxed. Colored lines leapt into view, glowing energy connecting—

  I blinked, and the lines vanished.

  But my heart surged. I could still see the image in my mind, like a much-examined photograph. Lines connecting people to each other. Green lines connecting Darla to the plants in their hanging pots. Darker green lines connecting the plants to each other. I touched my breastbone. There had even been lines radiating from me to Darla and more lines streaming upward from my chest and out of the café.

  It wasn’t an aura, at least not like my aunt had described. But I’d seen something.

  My blood zinged, a weight sweeping from my heart. I’d begun to think Ellen’s binding spell had worked too well, or her releasing spell hadn’t worked at all. But I had it. The sight. There hadn’t been enough moments that felt this good in my life. The last time I’d felt like this… was when N
ick had kissed me at the spring.

  Giddy, I wanted more.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” a masculine voice rumbled.

  I jerked, knocking the table and grasping it to steady it.

  Nick cradled a cup of coffee in his broad hand. He was dressed as if he’d just left court, in a pressed white shirt, his tie loose, a blue blazer slung over his arm.

  My heart lurched. Flustered, I gulped my now-cool mochaccino. “I could say the same. Are you here for Jayce’s case?”

  He quirked a dark brow. “She’s not my only case in Doyle, but yes. I had a meeting with the sheriff.”

  “Any news?” His cedar smell twined about me, and I brought the mug to my lips, trying to mask his scent.

  “Nothing I can share. Sorry, but Jayce’s my client. If I find anything, I’ll have to tell her first.”

  I nodded, unoffended. “I ran into Sunny Peel yesterday, our local realtor. She said she was with Alicia at Antoine’s the night she died and left her around eleven.”

  “That tracks. I stopped by Antoine’s myself last night. The bartender mentioned Sunny, and that Alicia had left alone. Where’s Jayce?”

  “She’s at my aunt’s house with Lenore.”

  His eyes darkened. “How is your aunt?”

  “Not well.” I looked away, blinking rapidly. “It won’t be long now.”

  “I’m sorry. Jayce mentioned your aunt raised the three of you.”

  I swallowed the lump forming in my throat. “She was always more mother than aunt, but she never wanted us to forget our real parents. That was important to her.”

  “If there’s anything—”

  “Keep my sister out of jail. Please.”

  He pulled the chair out and sat. “About the other night, when I kissed you—”

  “It’s okay. We almost died in that spring. I get it.”

  He made a low noise in his throat. “It’s more than… did you mind?”

  I froze, mug at my lips. “Not at all. The kiss was… efficient.”

  “Efficient.”

  “You’re a good kisser.”

  “Thanks. I think. Look, Karin, I like you.”

  Like a sister, no doubt. Oh. His sister. I set down my mug. “You might not like me so much after you hear what I’ve done. I know about your sister, Emily.”