by Pat Esden
I leaned in close to Selena. “Is that the Professor? He sounds young. I thought he was old, like a retired professor.”
She giggled and lowered her voice. “Not at all. He’s twenty-six. People just call him the Professor because he’s super smart, got his doctorate at like twenty-two. His real name’s Rupert Wal—pole.” She drew out his name, making it sound very posh. “Wait until you see him. He’s hot, like cliché-movie-star-archeologist hot. Really uptight, though. I think he needs to get laid.”
“Maybe he and Kate can help each other out,” I said, totally deadpan.
She slapped her free hand over her mouth, sealing in a laugh. “Oh my God. That would be hysterical.”
As we reached the top step, she let go of my arm and led me past a glass door that went into the house and around a potted cedar tree.
On the farther end of the terrace, wicker chairs circled a glass-topped table. Zachary was slouched in a chair. The Professor sat next to him, studying a laptop. He finished what he was doing and turned the laptop toward Zachary. “Let’s start with this line. Once you’re done translating it, we’ll take a quick stroll to the garage and find that troublesome kitten you’re worried about.”
I bit my lip to keep from smirking. From his scholarly glasses and sandy brown hair all the way down to polished brown loafers, every inch of the Professor looked exactly as Selena had described. Except he was a bit more effeminate than I’d expected.
Zachary sliced a scowl at Selena and me. “What are you freaks doing here?”
The Professor swiveled toward us and peered over his glasses. “Well, this is a wonderful surprise.” He flashed me a smile. “You must be the infamous Annie.”
“I don’t know about infamous,” I said, my face heating. “I’m more of a totally normal sort of Annie.”
He laughed. “That I doubt. I understand you have an interest in ancient history?”
“More like artifacts and antiques, than pure history,” I said. Clearly someone had filled him in on my background, most likely Grandfather. “I’ve always wanted to go on a dig. It must be really interesting.”
“Ever so much—” His gaze darted to something behind me. “Glad you could join us, Chase,” he said.
“Sorry I’m late.” A male voice, hard-edged and quick like a boxer’s punch, came from beside me as the hot guy from the gate strode past and dropped into a chair across from Zachary and the Professor.
Zachary looked up and grinned.
Selena scoffed. “Late? More like almost in time for lunch.”
“Had to wait for the mail.” Chase shoved up his hoodie’s frayed sleeves, then reached around to his back pocket and pulled out a graphic novel. He plunked it down on the coffee table. “I expected it yesterday.”
The Professor gave the graphic novel a cursory look. “I’m really terribly sorry to tell you this, but that’s not the sort of literature I had in mind.”
Chase jabbed his finger at the title. “Arabian Nights—a classic and it covers the foreign language requirement as well.”
I studied the cover. He wasn’t lying. The title was in Arabic. Not that I could read Arabic, but the shapes of the letters looked familiar. About a month ago, it had been my duplication of an early Arabic inscription that had alerted Dad’s lawyer about the dementia. To conceal Dad’s forgetfulness, I’d corresponded with one of his clients about a poison ring she wanted to purchase. I sold it to her, but hadn’t included a translation of the inscription like Dad would have done. I was hoping she’d overlook it as well as the ring’s questionable authenticity. But she met Dad’s lawyer at a cocktail party and bitched about the missing translation. The lawyer had come to see Dad about it. Next thing I knew, the lawyer called a doctor and the old boy network swung into action. It was the stupidest move I’d ever made. And, I wasn’t in the clear yet. The woman could still complain to the police about the ring’s authenticity. Then my chance of becoming a certified appraiser would be screwed.
The Professor sighed. “All right, Chase, you may begin with that version. But I want you to check in the library. I believe there’s a copy of Galland’s eighteenth-century translations of Voyages of Sinbad. I think it would be absolutely wise to put some effort into it as well.”
“That’s fine,” Chase said. His head snapped toward me. I tried to glance away, but his gaze trapped mine.
And, for a heartbeat, the depth in his smoke-blue eyes took me back and stole my breath. What was going on behind that unflinching gaze? And who was he to the family, besides an employee? I had a hard time believing Grandfather or Kate would pay for his tutoring out of the kindness of their hearts. On top of that, he looked more like a guy who belonged in a fight club than studying classics.
My cheeks heated, and I lowered my eyes. I wasn’t sure what he was thinking, but the thrum just below my belly button told me it was safer to stick to talking about graphic novels than plunging into that mystifying depth. I looked back up and put a lilt in my voice. “You’re way ahead of me. I’d never be able to read that version.”
“I doubt that,” he said. His low tone lowered. “I suspect you catch on to things real fast.”
“I—uh. Whatever.” My words came out softer than I’d intended.
The Professor cleared his throat. “While you’re all here, I want to extend an invitation. I finished cataloging a splendid group of new artifacts last night. I thought you might enjoy seeing them this evening.”
“Cool,” Zachary said.
I nodded. “I’d love to,” I said. Then my shoulders slumped as reality nosedived into that daydream. “But I can’t. I need to sit with my dad.” I hadn’t seen him in over twelve hours already. “Would you mind showing me the artifacts some other time—next week or later this month?”
“If we’re lucky,” Chase said, “you and your father will be long gone by then.” His voice was hard this time, but those cool, ocean-deep eyes of his didn’t hold any resentment. In fact, the way they studied me radiated keen interest . . . and something more. He cocked his head as if watching for my reaction, and I shivered under the intensity of his gaze. Oh, boy. I’d have to watch out for this one.
Selena swatted his shoulder. “Don’t be an ass. I for one am glad to have her here.” She grinned at me. “We’re going to have a fantastic time.”
I nodded to Selena, but I let my eyes flit back to Chase’s. I actually hoped he was right. Archeology or not, the sooner Dad and I got out of this place, the better off I’d be—especially with the addition of this tall, dark, and dangerously tempting distraction. Man, I couldn’t wait to get out of this place and get my freedom back.
Chase flashed me a grudging smile. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” he said.
“I know.” I waved a dismissive hand in the air, but I was still confused as to if he was interested in me or preferred we leave Moonhill. It was, however, abundantly clear which option my hormones preferred.
“By the by, Annie.” The Professor brought my attention back to him. “I believe I know a friend of yours.”
“You do?” I didn’t have that many full-fledged friends.
“Indeed. Last winter, I was employed to do some work at the Metropolitan. One of the interns went on at great lengths about you. Taj, I believe his name was.”
My stomach curled up into a ball and launched itself up my throat. “Wow, small world, isn’t it?” I managed to choke out.
The Professor gave me a knowing smile. “Amazingly so.” The sick feeling in my throat hardened. I was going to puke. Taj had told the Professor I was a slut. I just knew it.
Selena tugged on my sleeve. “We need to get out of here or they’re never going to get anything done.”
“Yeah, right. See you later,” I said.
She towed me to the other side of the terrace, but it wasn’t until we were safely inside with the glass door between us and them that she let out a gasp. “Can you believe that? Taj, of all people.”
“I thought I was going to die o
f embarrassment,” I said.
I glanced back through the door to where the Professor was now studying the laptop and nodding as if Zachary had done a good job. Chase had moved into the shade and was standing with his hips resting against a low wall as he read the graphic novel. As I watched him, my fears about what the Professor might have heard faded, unimportant in comparison to the more tantalizing mystery that was Chase.
“What’s the deal with Chase, anyhow?” I said to Selena. “He’s not a relative, is he?”
“God, no. Chase is Grandpa’s charity case. You’d know what I mean if you’d seen him when Kate and my father dragged him home. He was a mess, scuzzy, beat up. He had a long, skanky ponytail. Chase never talks about his past, but they were in South America visiting a dig when they found him. Dad told me Chase ended up on the wrong side of a cartel. Those guys don’t mess around, you know.”
“Sounds like it was lucky he escaped.” I glanced back at Chase and he looked up, his eyes catching mine again. His lips crooked into an amused smile. My mouth went dry and I dropped my gaze. Mysterious and dangerously distracting.
A clanking sound, like a pan hitting the floor, reverberated out from a swinging door just down the hallway from us. As Selena glanced toward the sound, her stomach growled loud enough for me to hear.
“Sorry about that,” she said. “I skipped breakfast and I probably shouldn’t have. You want to grab something to eat? Laura makes amazing cookies.”
I squeezed my bag against my chest. “Actually, I should go finish unpacking.” In truth, I was done with that. But I desperately wanted some alone time to sort through everything that had happened—before I got any more overwhelmed.
Selena pointed me in the direction of a servant’s staircase that was only a few steps from the kitchen door. Then, as I headed for it, she took off to get a snack.
Unlike the elegant main staircase, the servant’s stairs were steep and narrow. But when I reached the top, I was only a few doors away from my room.
I stopped in my tracks, every muscle in my body on high alert.
The door to my room was open. And I was certain I’d left it closed.
Quickly, I covered the distance to my doorway, stepped inside, and snapped on the overhead light. The bed remained half made as I had left it. No one had opened the curtains.
As I set my bag on the bed, something crunched under my heels.
A quarter-size dribble of what looked like white sand glinted on the otherwise pristine carpet. I dampened a finger and touched the grains, so I could collect a few and get a better look at them. Up close, they appeared more like salt than sand.
I touched my finger to my tongue and tasted them. It was salt, but definitely not salty beach sand, which anyone might have tracked in on their shoes. This was table salt. And not just a few grains that might have fallen off a handful of pretzels or chips, this was a small pile. What Olya had said about Zachary liking to play tricks came back to me.
Kicking off my shoes, I scoured the room again. Then, I checked the bathroom to see if there was a new bag of bath salts by the tub—one he might have spiked with something that would turn my skin purple or make me stink like a skunk.
But there was nothing new by the tub or sink, or anywhere.
I returned to the bedroom, struggling to think of a prank that might involve salt. It wasn’t exactly a dangerous or scary substance. In fact, on television shows about the supernatural, salt was used as a protection against evil. When I’d gone to Salem, Massachusetts, the tour guide witch had talked about how sprinkling salt across a doorway could keep demonic spirits contained during an exorcism and generally ward off nasty things. But Zachary had no reason to assume I’d connect salt to witchcraft or the supernatural. Heck, twenty-four hours ago I wouldn’t have either. In fact, the supernatural would have been the furthest thought from my mind. On top of that, I couldn’t figure out when Zachary would have had the time to mess around in my room. There had to be more to this.
My pulse began to drum even harder as I noticed a different salt dribble that went under the bed’s dust ruffle. The bed was high enough off the floor for someone to have climbed under it and done something. But what?
Kneeling down, I reached for the ruffle—
My hand stopped in midair, refusing to move another inch.
No matter what else was under my bed, there was one thing there for sure:
Darkness.
I couldn’t remember how many nights I’d lain awake barely able to breathe while I waited for darkness to creep out from under my bed, like the evil escaping from Pandora’s box. I’d fully expected it to slither up the mattress, clamp my ankles, weigh down my body, and smother my mouth and nose until I gasped for air. Darkness smothering me until I forgot everything.
With a fortifying breath, I pulled the mini-flashlight from my pocket, turned it on, and pointed it toward the ruffle. Still, my hands shook as I grasped the fabric. I could do this. I had to do this. There was probably nothing under the bed. It probably wouldn’t even be that dark.
I lifted the fabric.
The flashlight’s beam pushed the shadows aside and illuminated the outline of a five-pointed star made from salt. It was the size of a dinner plate. A pentagram. A freaking witch’s star!
I dropped the ruffle and scooted backward.
Witchcraft. Real witchcraft. In my room. Under my bed.
I gulped a breath, and then another.
I rubbed my temples. What the hell was going on here? Were Kate and Grandfather part of a coven? No. That was ridiculous. There might be a couple of strange things going on, but a group of witches performing evil rituals in my room was not one of them.
Wiping my sweaty hands on my jeans, I lifted the ruffle again and trained the light on the pentagram. It wasn’t haphazard. It was precisely made and at its center—I leaned closer—there was a gray-blue coinlike object.
My heart climbed into my throat, and I dropped the ruffle.
Even if he had found the time, Zachary couldn’t possibly have made it. Maybe the kid was school smart. Perhaps he’d even beat me on an IQ test. But no antsy, cereal-slurping eleven-year-old was capable of creating a pentagram that exact—or, for that matter, meticulous enough to come up with a bizarre detail like the coin.
I pressed my fingers against my eyes. If I believed the television and the tour guide witch, then salt was a good thing. But I couldn’t just assume the weird pentagram was as well.
Last year, when we’d sold a Victorian funeral portrait to the Santeria priest in New Orleans, just being around him gave me the creeps. The owner of the bed and breakfast had told us the priest could cause all kinds of things with his charms and spells: sickness, miscarriages, nightmares, bleeding, obsessive love—
Hope and worry coiled inside me. I raked my fingers through my hair.
My mother’s death was written off as a one-in-a-million freak accident. But that didn’t mean it was one. Perhaps Dad had good reason to suspect someone after all, like someone who was into witchcraft. Someone, perhaps, who could also call up evil shadowy figures and cause sickness.
I scrambled to my feet, hurried to the window, and shoved the drapes aside. Sunlight washed over me and flooded the room. I pushed the window up and took a deep breath of the ocean-scented air.
Closing my eyes, I focused on the seagulls’ cry and the warmth of the sunlight against my skin. Selena’s mother, Olya, definitely wasn’t mainstream. The stains on her fingers looked like something that might have come from handling herbs and oils. Most likely, Olya was the resident witch. But with all her mother hen urges, I couldn’t see her creating anything evil. Hopefully. Anyway, good or bad, it didn’t seem smart to take a chance and remove the pentagram and have whoever made it know I was onto them. I’d just have to live with it for now. It wasn’t like I could bring it up casually at dinner: Hey, by the way, there’s this witch thing under my bed and I was wondering if it was evil.
I opened my eyes. Beyond the window stretched
a sweeping view of the lawn and gardens, the cliff top and the ocean. It was beautiful. Peaceful.
Suddenly a flash of movement caught my eye. Someone was scurrying through the gardens, toward the cliff top.
I gasped.
Dad!
What was he doing here? He wasn’t supposed to be home this soon. And why was he alone, and hurrying toward the cliffs?
Terrified, I grabbed the sandals out of my bag and crammed my feet into them, then tore down the hall to the back staircase. In a second, I was on the first floor. The door to the terrace was straight ahead of me. I flew out of it and found the terrace steps. Before I knew it, I was on the path, pumping my arms to run faster as I passed the Shakespeare garden and sprinted toward the cliff top. Where was Dad?
I got to the top of the stairs that led down the beach. Dad was striding toward the ocean.
The steps thundered as I hurtled down them.
“Dad!” I shouted above the crashing waves. “Wait for me!” I screamed, hoping to distract him from whatever he was about to do.
Slowly, he turned toward me.
I stopped, my hand seizing the railing as if it might shackle me there forever.
The man in front of me was indeed Dad, but the hard line of his mouth and the dark fury in his eyes didn’t hold a trace of the lighthearted father I knew, or even the vacant stare of the sick man I’d become used to. Something must have happened at the doctor’s appointment. Something bad.
“Come here, girl,” he commanded.
I winced at the tone of his voice and blinked at his narrowed eyes and rigid posture.
He had something in his hands: Mother’s jar.
I glanced at the ocean and back at the jar. I’d always hoped the moment would come when Dad was ready to let Mother go. But not like this. This frightened me more than his forgetting, more than having to come to Moonhill, more than a pentagram of salt or shadows or even a dark hallway.
“Dad,” I said, forcing myself to go down the rest of the stairs. “We should go back to the house.”
He heaved a disgusted breath. “What about my order was too difficult for you to understand? Get over here. I’ve already had to stomach this for longer than I would have preferred.” He set the jar on a flat outcrop of rock that reached into the ocean.
