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  It was not that he wanted to leave Hilly, who was looking resplendent for the occasion—her hair up, a few locks coiling down her cheeks and a delicate strand of silver South Sea pearls around her neck. But since he’d arrived in the Upper West Side apartment, the whole occasion had been a bit bizarre, even for Freddie, who had seen many strange things and many strange worlds over many thousands of years.

  For one, the expression shit faced, which he had learned on a television show in his motel room, came to mind. In fact, many of the rules of decorum and social mores of the twenty-first century he’d learned came from cable television. Hilly’s mother, Hollis, sitting at one end of the table, was shit faced, though dinner had barely begun. Henry Liman, Hilly’s stern father, at the other head of the table—graying hair, a thin black mustache, sharp vulpine features—had let Freddie know several times that he was president and chief executive officer of an extremely successful boating company. He also hadn’t stopped grilling Freddie since they sat down to dinner, asking him about his portfolio and throwing words at him like stocks, hedge funds, and derivatives, which Freddie knew nothing about. Besides, what did that have to do with boating?

  Meanwhile, Hilly’s two older sisters gawked at Freddie. The middle child, Cassandra, a pale, dark-eyed, droopy girl with a slim curving neck and long bony hands, had played a dramatic assonant piece on the piano before dinner. Even Henry had remarked, “Can you play something a bit more melodious next time, my swan?”

  Gert, the oldest, looked like a Gert: a bosomy, horsy blond with a toothy, brilliantly white smile. She had managed to monopolize the bread, while still glaring expectantly at Freddie.

  It was dark outside, and one could see the tops of Central Park’s trees beyond the terrace and, across the park, the glow of the city above the roofs and penthouse gardens. The table, covered in a white cloth, was set with flower centerpieces, birds of paradise, green cymbidium orchids, white lilies, and verdant fronds; silver candelabra with flickering candles; white bone china plates, a small red flag with a star at the center and light blue scalloped trim (from the Titanic, Gert had let Freddie know, though he couldn’t tell whether it was with a note of sarcasm or if she was showing off); and gleaming silverware that weighed a ton. There was too much space between the six of them at the extremely long table in the vast room with one red wall and a gleaming black wood floor; the color scheme was not unlike that of boardrooms during a certain chilling German era. A private chef brought the appetizer: crispy duck served medium rare on a bed of wild baby greens with pineapple, mandarin, and lychee.

  But before they sat down to eat, Freddie had gone to use the downstairs bathroom and heard strange noises coming from inside. Was it retching? Vomiting? The toilet flushed, and Hilly’s mother, Hollis, a tall, slim reed of a woman, came out straightening her skirt, smiling at Freddie and handing him her iPhone. He tried to hand it back, but she would have none of it, flipping it back in his hand so that they awkwardly tossed it back and forth like this for a while. When Freddie finally relented and entered the bathroom, he stared at the device in his hand. There was a note to him on the screen:

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  Freddie opted for discreetly setting the iPhone down on the credenza in the living room, while Hilly’s parents drank their predinner cocktails, Hollis swigging hers enthusiastically, faster than Henry in any case, and he and Hilly sipped Shirley Temples, like ten-year-olds, sitting at opposite ends of the long sectional couch, while Cassandra banged out that earsplitting piece of music and Gert attempted to conceal her laughter, snorting now and then.

  Back at the dining-room table, Freddie was being badgered by the man, and the strangest thing of all was that Hollis, swaying hither and thither, watched her husband with an approving smile that seemed perfectly natural albeit—yes—shit faced.

  “So what college are you attending, Freddie? Hilly’s a Yale girl herself, just pledged the most selective sorority there,” he said proudly. “What about you?”

  “I don’t think they’d take me in any sorority,” Freddie replied with a smile, but he only received a frown in return.

  Gert yawned loudly. Cassandra, whom they referred to as Swan, broke into high-pitched hyena-like laughter, then turned silent and morose. The chef came to remove the appetizer plates, taking Freddie’s even though he had only nibbled a few baby greens, then returned with the entrees.

  “Well, Mr. Liman, I mean, Henry”—Hilly’s father had insisted on being called Henry, his only bit of graciousness thus far—“I decided to take a little time off before college.” It wasn’t really a lie. Perhaps Freddie would go to college if that meant getting the man’s approval to be with Hilly. He would look into it. How hard could it be?

  Henry harrumphed, but Freddie understood it was less to clear his throat than to make his disapprobation known. “So, you are taking time off to live in a motel, to find yourself, some soul seeking before the academic plunge? And your family? They are fine with this?”

  Freddie nodded.

  Hilly’s father frowned more deeply, obviously disappointed that Freddie’s family didn’t seem to care he was a slacker. Freddie tried to win some points. “Actually my dad’s a professor, and he always said we should explore a lot of avenues before committing. He’s a big advocate of taking a year off. And Mom’s … a … a … free spirit.” Freddie had no idea whether his father felt that way, but at least he was honest about his mother. Whatever she was, Joanna was certainly a free spirit.

  Henry continued the interrogation. “Well, what about an internship somewhere in the interim? Have you considered that? Internships are marvelous, aren’t they, Hilly?”

  “Yes, Daddy. I enjoyed the one I did at Vogue this past—”

  “Well?” cut in Henry, glaring inquisitively at Freddie.

  “No, I haven’t looked into an internship … but …” he replied sheepishly, searching for the right words.

  “A complete layabout in other words,” Mr. Liman muttered under his breath as he began knifing the enormous lamb shank on the plate before him.

  “Hmm,” said Hollis, nodding, as if she were giving careful consideration to what her husband was saying. It appeared as if she were merely going through the motions of sociability and was somewhere else entirely.

  Gert laughed again, which no one paid attention to, and Cassandra appeared to be nodding out, like a heroin addict, her fork hovering over the edge of her plate.

  Freddie’s pride was rattled. He looked to Hilly for help, but she only stared back at him with panic in her eyes. Though Freddie did not have human wealth, he was a god, the god of the sea and the sun, able to make crops grow, flowers blossom, arid land turn fertile, oases rise out of the desert. He created beauty all over the world. Conducting his own legal defense in his mind, Freddie began to notice that the suit he was wearing had begun to fade and this added to his anxiety. He needed to wrap things up. He knew about love and emotion and passion, and he wasn’t about to let Hilly’s father tell him otherwise.

  “Mr. Liman, Henry, I know I don’t have a job or any prospects. I may look poor to you since I currently live in a run-down motel. But the truth of the matter is that I have fallen in love with your daughter, and all I know is that … well, I love her.”

  Here Hilly smiled at him and nodded encouragingly.

  “Yes, I love Hilly.” Freddie stood. “And I’m willing to do whatever it takes—whatever it is you want me to do—to have your daughter’s hand!”

  Everyone at the table had suddenly come to attention, staring at Freddie, mouths open wide. Even the drowsy Swan had awoken, and Mrs. Liman appeared quite sober suddenly.

  “My dear boy,” said Henry. “Did you go and change your clothes while we weren’t looking? Weren’t y
ou wearing a suit just before? A gray …?”

  Freddie stared down at himself, and to his horror saw that the serious outfit had expired, and now he stood in his black T-shirt, torn Levi’s, and humble Converse that were terribly scuffed.

  Mr. Liman let out a bellowing laugh, so loud and terrifying it appeared to make the table and walls shake. When he finally collected himself, he said, “I do love a good magic trick. Excellent indeed, Freddie! A very original way to request my daughter’s hand in marriage. But you will have to prove yourself further—a real job with real prospects, although you did very much catch me off guard. I have always had a fondness for magic, I must say.” He tittered to himself, shaking his head as he observed Freddie with a puzzled look.

  At that everyone around the table clapped delightedly, although Freddie did not take a bow. Instead, he sat back down in his seat and sulked.

  chapter twenty-one

  Like a Virgin

  “Are you sure there’s no one out there?” Ingrid stared anxiously at Hudson, whom she had asked to stay late and meet her in the office once the library was closed and the last patrons had left.

  “Well, I’d say the library is as empty as a fourteenth-century European village ravaged by the bubonic plague. It’s tantamount to the black death out there.”

  “Oh, good,” said Ingrid.

  “But no infectious dead bodies in the aisles, which is also good.”

  Ingrid tittered, then her face turned serious. “We shouldn’t joke about such things.”

  “No, we shouldn’t,” agreed Hudson with an exaggerated serious face.

  “Have a seat and sorry to keep you late.” Ingrid sat down in her swivel chair.

  “For you, not a problem, my dear.” Hudson took the seat across from her desk, one he was quite comfortable in. It was clear he loved their private little tête-à-têtes. He crossed his legs and leaned forward, an elbow on one knee, face cupped in his palm. “What’s up, Miss Ingrid?”

  Ingrid looked around, steeled herself, and looked him directly in the eye. “Well, remember how you said you were my old reliable friend, and you would be here when I needed you?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Hudson. “I’m your Old Faithful. Here to spout wisdom and truth.”

  “I need you, but I don’t know how to put it, and you have to promise not to laugh once I tell you.”

  He laughed. “Okay, I just got it out of the way. Have out with it, Ingrid.”

  “I guess there is only one way of putting it, really,” Ingrid hedged.

  “Yes?” Hudson smiled to help bring his friend out of her shell. He knew she had a tendency to get nervous, shifty, and was prone to making a mountain out of a molehill.

  “Well, I’m a virgin, Hudson, to put it bluntly,” she said, bravely forging ahead.

  “Oh!” He was staring at her, wide-eyed, and he did not laugh at all. “I see …”

  “God, this is awkward,” remarked Ingrid. “This is worse than talking to my mother.”

  “No, no. Sorry, you just caught me off guard.” He looked down and squared his tie, flicked at a bit of lint on his suit. He looked up. “This was just the last thing I expected to hear. You mean to say that you never?”

  “Never,” said Ingrid quickly. She bit her lip.

  “But you’re, like …” Hudson began, then let the incomplete sentence dangle there. He stared curiously at her.

  She stared back. “You’re starting to make me uncomfortable, Hudson.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s fine, really, really. It’s just that in this day and age, I am a bit … How to say? Shocked? I didn’t think there were any virgins left!”

  “I understand,” said Ingrid with finality, fixing the papers on her desk.

  “I’m sorry. You’re a virgin. Okay. So?” He put out a hand, and it rested there in the air between them, then he quickly drew it back to his lap. “What do you want to know? There’s not much to it, really, especially with your … um … kind.” He continued to watch her pound the stack of paper upright then sideways on the desk.

  “What kind is that?”

  “The breeder kind. With my people, it’s not quite as simple, although it can be. It’s just a matter of …” He giggled and did not finish his sentence.

  Ingrid looked up at him from behind her glasses. “I mean, I understand the mechanics of the thing. I’m not totally clueless, nor totally naïve, Hudson; it’s just, I haven’t really done anything except a little heavy petting.”

  “Petting? As in a zoo? What is this, the fifties? You want me to … what?”

  “I don’t know, Hudson. Would you stop looking at me like that! I don’t know, explain things a little. The ins and outs …”

  They both stared at each other, and then burst out laughing. “The ins and outs,” he echoed.

  “It’s not like I’m asking you to sleep with me or anything like that,” Ingrid said dryly.

  “Of course not. You’re perfectly lovely but far from my type. I’m sorry, Ingrid. It’s just you’re so discreet otherwise. I never imagined you’d ever talk about your”—he coughed—“sex life.”

  “Well, that’s because I don’t have one,” she said. She hadn’t seen Matt since that heady make out session in his car on their second first date because he’d had to go out of town for several days.

  “We could look at a Cosmo. I can explain the articles … Is there a reason this is coming up now?” he ventured, with a raise of his eyebrow. “Things with Officer Noble are coming to a head, so to speak?”

  “Stop making bad jokes!” Ingrid laughed. “And I’ve read a lot of Cosmos already.”

  “I think I need a Cosmo. You know, a cocktail, for this conversation. So, how far have you two crazy kids gotten?”

  “I don’t know … Second base I guess?”

  “Right, the petting zoo. Well great, that’s great. It’s a start. Baby steps,” said Hudson as he clapped his hands. “This is truly great news, my dear. First off, that’s much, much further than Caitlin ever got with him, you know? Okay!”

  Hudson stood up and paced the office frantically. “We need to prepare for this, Ingrid. Maybe one of Freya’s potions? You know, just to loosen you up.” He made a wavy gesture with his hands. “Do you have any sexy lingerie? A girl needs those.” He snapped his fingers. “We could order some stuff online! Or maybe Freya can help you with that. Take you shopping in Manhattan? That girl certainly knows how to doll herself up.” He had turned into a dervish, whirling this way and that in the office, pointing a finger at Ingrid every time a new idea occurred to him.

  “That all sounds great”—Ingrid nodded—“but I was wondering if … I don’t know … I mean, is there other stuff we could do … that he and I could do … without doing … you know, it. I don’t think I’m quite ready yet … but surely we could sort of … you know … try other stuff?”

  “Other stuff?” The eyebrow shot up again.

  Ingrid thought she would die in a puddle of embarrassment.

  “I’ve got it!” he said, pointing at the computer.

  “What?”

  “Porn!”

  “Pornography? We’re going to look at pornography? Hudson—no.” She shook her head. “Just … no!”

  “Aw, come on, there’s nothing like the Internet to give you ideas on ‘other stuff.’” He smirked.

  Ingrid sighed and let him click away on the computer. She had come to him in her hour of need, and like it or not, Hudson was finding a way to come through. She had to trust him since this was all, well, virgin territory to her.

  chapter twenty-two

  That Loving Feeling

  Norman finally explained what he had been trying to get across in his last phone message to Joanna. He wanted things to be peaceful between them. He admitted he had been at fault, had acted the coward during the Salem trials, and added that if she would let him, he would like to make it up to her. He knew this was a mild way of putting it, of course, but there was no other way of saying it. In the meantim
e, however, he asked for leniency and wanted permission to begin reestablishing a relationship with his daughters. Joanna had settled it over the phone when she had returned his call, agreeing that he could come for a visit. That was where they would start for now: give things a test drive.

  Now Norman, Freya, and Ingrid sat on the couch before a crackling fire in Joanna’s living room, having their first intimate family powwow since the library fund-raiser that summer, while Joanna hid out in her study poring over various ancient books on seid. She had been searching under the topic “rituals of necromancy.” She still hadn’t decoded the message the spirit left and was on to the next order of business while she took a break from all the letters of the runes pieces swirling around in her brain.

  She had arrived at an impasse. From the runes, she knew the spirit wished to communicate with her, but she hadn’t found anyone in the glom, so she needed to seek a new approach. She could travel to the Kingdom of the Dead and try to garner gossip or hearsay on this particular spirit’s whereabouts, but doing so might bring many a false lead. Resentful of their deaths, new spirits often acted out and could be spiteful and deceptive. She didn’t want to waste time on a fool’s errand, following leads to dead ends. If this were an older spirit, she might have to appeal to Helda to release it, and Joanna wished to bypass the Queen of the Dead altogether if she could.

  The books recommended performing a ritual on the gravesite of the deceased in question. She would have to return to the mound in the woods to do so. Drawing the standard circle around the site would be required, which could be done with salt or stones. All four elements—earth, air, fire, and water—would have to be represented in the ritual to achieve balance in the magic and prevent it from going amiss. Some of the rites included recipes listing sacrificial blood as an ingredient, but Joanna found such a practice outmoded. Wearing garments belonging to the dead person was yet another suggestion, albeit morbid and, in this case, impossible.