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  Freya had heard enough. “Killian!”

  “Yes, love?”

  “Please.”

  “Please what?”

  “Please leave me alone.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  Their eyes met, and it was just like the engagement party all over again. There was no denying the powerful attraction she felt toward Killian. It felt just as strong as her love for Bran. As if an invisible force was pushing her toward him. When she thought of Bran, her heart died a little in her chest. She had tried. She had tried so very hard to resist. She had been so very good for so long.

  Killian bent his head toward hers, his lips brushing her cheek, but at the last moment she turned away from him and ran to the other side of the bar, her heart pounding in her chest. She turned up the volume on the jukebox. Maybe if she made the music loud enough she could drown out her confused whirl of emotions.

  “You don’t have to hide from me,” he said, finding her a few minutes later in the walk-in pantry where Sal kept the supplies. “I won’t bite, I promise. Hand me that bottle of maraschino cherries.”

  She shrugged and threw up her hands, as if to give up, and handed it to him. His fingers brushed her skin and she felt the fire between them begin to smolder; she could not look at him without seeing his want and his need all over his beautiful elfin face.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, as he put aside the bottle and put his arms around her instead.

  “You know what I’m doing.” He began to kiss her and push his body against hers, and the heat between them consumed her. . . . What was she doing. . . . Why was she doing it? . . . Why couldn’t she stop? Why couldn’t she offer even one word of protest?

  “Freya,” he sighed. His voice was low and musical, playing her like a flute. Then he cupped her face in his hands and they began to kiss. He kissed her all over her face and neck, and they pressed against each other. Their kisses were long and soft, wet and searching; she could feel his excitement growing and she felt as if she were melting underneath his tongue.

  This is the beginning of the end, she thought. The first time had been a mistake, a rash, impulsive act by a silly young girl. This time she should know better . . . and yet she had still succumbed. Freya returned his kisses eagerly, and fell headfirst into the abyss.

  chapter twenty-two

  The Long Road Home

  When it came down to it, one could not meet danger alone, no matter how strong was one’s courage. When Joanna returned to the house, she repaired to her bedroom and immediately began to pack. She had no idea where this trip would take her, or how long it would take. Only that she had very little time, and she hoped that after all these years, he would agree to help her. They had a responsibility to this world, after all, those of them who were stuck on this side of the bridge.

  Joanna ruminated on their long life here. It hurt her to admit, but the Beauchamps, for all their pride and their history and their magic, had nothing to show for themselves except a broken home, with a son in jail. For all her taste and style and obsession with home improvement and her “good” jewelry (she was especially proud of a pair of small but rare pearl earrings that she wore on special occasions), she was essentially a failure at all the important things. She had failed her son, and she had failed her husband. She could not save her boy back when the world was young, and she had faulted her husband for doing the same when it came to their daughters. It was a sorry business, but at least she was going to do something about it now. She could repair at least one part of it.

  “Mom? What are you doing? Are you leaving?” Ingrid blinked without her glasses. She wore a white peignoir and her blond hair fell to her shoulders. She looked years younger, and Joanna wished she would wear her hair down more often; Ingrid looked so much prettier and softer that way.

  “Just for a little while,” she replied, folding a sweater and stuffing it into her carpetbag.

  “You didn’t answer my first question,” Ingrid pointed out.

  “It’s safer for everyone if you don’t know where I’m headed,” Joanna replied, slipping her ivory wand into the pocket of her trenchcoat. She hoped to spare her girls the pain should she fail in her quest. It was better if they did not know what she was trying to do. She knew how much they missed him and how much they wanted him back. Of course she knew. She knew what she had done to the family, the irreparable line she had drawn; she had broken them in two, but there was no time for self-pity right then. There was no changing the past. “How was the Wagner yesterday?” she asked instead.

  “Oh . . .” Ingrid shook her shoulders. Her older daughter, Joanna realized, was desperately, terribly unhappy about something. She wished she knew how to comfort her, but Joanna was not that kind of mother and Ingrid was not that kind of daughter. Their father had been the one who had been good at that sort of thing. The talking and the listening and the emotional support: it was their father they had turned to when their little hearts were broken or when they had happy news to share.

  “Well . . . have a safe trip, wherever it is you’re going,” Ingrid mumbled.

  “Take care, dear,” Joanna said, giving her daughter a close hug. “Watch out for Tyler, will you?” She couldn’t bear to say good-bye to the boy and so she had done the cowardly thing, slipping out in the middle of the night because it would be too painful to have a long and drawn-out farewell. No matter; with luck she would be back soon. She was only leaving to keep the town and everyone in it safe.

  Dan Jerrods’s family ran the only taxi service in town, and he was waiting for her in front of the house with the car, an old Buick with bucket seats that smelled like a cigar store. She climbed in the front seat and placed her battered old valise on her lap and Gilly’s case on the floor. “Where to, Miss Joanna?” he asked.

  “Train station, please, Dan, and hurry.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “How are things?” she asked. She liked Dan, one of the nice young men in town who was always willing to lend a hand with their storm windows every winter. Dan gripped the steering wheel tightly until his knuckles were almost white. “Not too good at the moment, Miss Joanna. Amanda’s in the hospital,” he said. “Sorry to bend your ear about this. I’m just a little worried about her.”

  “Not at all. I’m sorry to hear that—what happened? Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “It’s some kind of virus she hasn’t been able to kick,” he said. “The doctors said they’ve seen this sort of thing: it’s been going around and she should get better soon, but she’s on a respirator right now.”

  “I’ll look in on her when I get back,” Joanna promised, giving Dan’s arm a sympathetic squeeze. “She’s in good hands, Dan. The doctors won’t fail her.”

  North Hampton did not have a stop on the Long Island Rail Road so they drove to the nearest stop in Montauk. The station was deserted since it was close to midnight, and Joanna had to reassure Dan that she would be perfectly fine waiting on the platform alone.

  Finally the express from New York arrived. She’d board it on its way back to the city, where she’d switch to Metro-North to get to New Haven. She waited for the crowd to disembark, and noticed a young, good-looking couple among them. They were arguing. The girl was annoyed and the boy was soothing her. No, she was wrong, Joanna realized, from their conversation it was clear they were not a couple, she thought, only friends.

  “This is such a waste of time,” the girl said. “We should go back to Cairo instead. I doubt I’ll even find the town—there’s some kind of protection spell around it.”

  “You said yourself that they might know something. The old ones, to help you. Besides, we’ve already tried once and failed; there’s nothing to do in Egypt if we don’t get this information. Plus, I have a feeling we’ll get lucky—things are never as hopeless as they seem to be,” the boy said.

  “What are you looking at?” the girl said suddenly, addressing Joanna.

  Joanna recoiled—until now she had
not noticed that there was something different about the girl. She had not been in the presence of the Fallen in a long time.

  The girl glared at her contemptuously, as if understanding that the old witch knew what she was, and flashed her fangs at her.

  Arrogant little brat. Joanna frowned. Of all the things that were an insult to the restriction she lived under, the fact that the Fallen were allowed to use their supernatural abilities stung the hardest. She wondered idly what had brought the vampire girl and her human companion to North Hampton, because of course that was the town they were looking for. They did not look like they were here to celebrate the holiday weekend. The girl was wrong: it wasn’t a protection spell; those were too easy to undo. Instead, when they had settled North Hampton all those long years ago, they had chosen to build in one of the few disoriented pockets that resulted from the collapse of the bridge. North Hampton was located in a place in the universe that was neither here nor there, exactly, just slightly outside of time, which was why it was located so close to the seam.

  The girl continued to glare at Joanna until the boy grabbed her by the arm and steered her to the street. “Mimi! C’mon,” the boy said. “Sorry about my friend, she’s not feeling well,” he apologized, and they walked away.

  Joanna sighed and walked up the steps to board the train. She had wanted to fly but she had to be more careful this time. It would not do to have another UFO sighting in the area. She found a seat in the back, and stored her carpetbag in the overheard. There was no one else in the car and she was glad to be able to spread out on several seats to be more comfortable. She prepared herself for a long train ride in the dark.

  After centuries of separation, Joanna Beauchamp was off to see her husband.

  chapter twenty-three

  Missing

  Monday after the Fourth of July holiday was like waking up from a three-day hangover. Freya opened the bar that afternoon, a bit apprehensive to see what lay in store, how bad the damage had been. She turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open, inhaling the familiar sweet stench of the bar: sweat and cigarettes and spilled alcohol. Friday night had been one of the wildest nights the North Inn had ever experienced, and for many nights and summers after, those who had been there that evening would talk about what happened that night: how the air had cracked with heat and fire; how the music seeped right into your soul, into your limbs; how the drinks were luscious and addictive; how everyone had seemed just a bit out of control. The party had continued to rage, spilling into Saturday and Sunday, with no rest or respite; she had kept the bar open nonstop the entire weekend, the music growing ever louder, the crowd rowdy to the point of obnoxious. It had been a carnival, a circus, and a festival rolled into one.

  She was emotionally and physically exhausted, not just from the carousing and the work but from spending the entire three days in the company of Killian Gardiner, neither of them leaving to eat or sleep, catching catnaps in the back while the other tended to the customers. It did not matter that they were soon to be family, that she was to be his brother’s wife, that there was a wedding on the horizon—none of it mattered, only heat and desire and now. There was no tomorrow. There was only Killian, and Freya was vulnerable to his every wish and command.

  He had even offered to help her clean up on Monday morning but she had rebuffed him. She needed a few days to herself. On the way to the North Inn she had called Bran, but his cell did not pick up. She kept dialing it anyway, listening to his message, wanting to hear his voice to bring her back to earth.

  She did not know how she felt about anything or anyone. She felt as if she were being pulled in two directions, and if she was so sure once of Bran and their love for each other, she was now equally sure that she could not live without Killian either. What was new? Freya had been the kind of girl who hopped into bed at the slightest invitation; in the past she had many lovers of both sexes, and was constantly in the throes of infatuation. But sex was different, sex was easy—a physical release, a game, a bit of fun—a “shag,” as the Brits liked to say. It didn’t mean anything. Love was something else, and it was difficult. She was not prepared to feel this way for two men and did not want to think about what it meant. She had been so sure about her feelings for Bran, but now there was Killian, who had become very dear to her in a short period of time.

  Thankfully, the bar didn’t look too worse for wear. Freya began by picking up all the discarded brassieres from the floor and placing them in the lost and found box. Sal had proposed nailing them all to the wall as trophies, but Freya thought that was just a little tacky and had talked him out of it. The bar backs had swept up most of the grime off the floor and run the dishwasher, taken out the garbage, and swept all the broken glass, so aside from righting a chair here and there, there wasn’t too much for her to do. She was grateful. She began her cocktail prep: chopping up mint, squeezing lemons and limes, preparing the sugar water, replenishing the vodka in the freezer. Even on a Monday night the North Inn was sure to draw a crowd.

  Freya was thankful to have something to do with her hands; it kept her busy and her mind off Killian. Already he had called several times on her cell but she had declined to answer. She had left him in his bed that morning, slipping out from under the sheets without even a note of explanation. Such a cliché, the morning-after sneak-out of shame.

  “We’re not open yet, sorry,” Freya called, as she heard the bar’s front door open and the bell signal the arrival of a customer.

  A woman in black walked into the bar. She was tall and striking, with her blond hair pulled up in a tight ponytail. Her face was ageless and serene. “Are you Freya Beauchamp?”

  “Yes, I am, who’s asking?” she asked.

  “I was told I would find Killian Gardiner here,” the woman said, without answering her question, which Freya found a tad impolite.

  “He’s not here right now,” Freya said, continuing to wipe the counter.

  “Do you know where I might find him?”

  Freya hesitated, wondering if she should be truthful, but there was no reason to lie. “He’s probably down at his boat. It’s docked at Gardiners Island, on the far left side of the house. You can’t miss it.”

  “Thank you.”

  Freya remembered what Bran had told her of Killian’s peripatetic life and how Ingrid heard that he had left a trail of broken hearts behind him. And yet the stern stranger did not look like an aggrieved ex-girlfriend; instead she had the slightly formal air of those involved in law enforcement. Was Killian in some sort of trouble? He didn’t seem to be hiding anything. When she asked him about the rumors surrounding his past, he laughed and told her that people liked to tell stories, and that none of them were true.

  A few minutes later the front door opened again and a young girl entered. “We’re closed, sorry. Come back in an hour or so?” Freya asked, looking up from her chopping board.

  “I don’t want a drink,” the girl said with a frown.

  “Good enough, since we’re not open yet.” Freya smiled. She looked up and took note of the girl’s sexual history as it flashed before her eyes: twenty-two-year-old virgin. A few chaste kisses and several unrequited crushes; it reminded Freya a little of her sister’s limited experience in that department.

  “I’m looking for my roommate.”

  Freya looked around at the empty bar doubtfully. “And you’re looking for her . . . here?”

  “She said she was going to be here. Friday night,” the girl said stubbornly.

  “That’s three days ago.”

  “Yeah. I know.” The girl sighed. “I mean, she’s missing. I’m Pam, by the way.”

  Pam showed her a photo of a brown-haired girl wearing large glasses. It was the little brown wren, the same girl who had taken the Irresistible potion on Friday night. Freya squinted her eyes at the picture. “I remember her. Molly, right?”

  “Yeah. She never came home on the Fourth. She’s an adult, so the police told me I had to wait forty-eight hours before the
y could file a report. They think she just spent the weekend with some guy. But I swear that’s not the case. I’m really worried. She’s never done anything like this before.”

  Freya frowned, but past experience told her Pam was jumping to conclusions. With that potion, Molly definitely got lucky on Friday night. She was probably out having brunch with her new love right now. Freya thought of how she herself had spent the weekend—a blur of drinking, working, and Killian. The three days had gone by so fast, and no one knew where she was either; it wasn’t like she’d left Ingrid or Joanna a message. (Not that either would panic, since Freya came and went as she pleased.)

  “She usually calls to let me know where she is,” Pam said stubbornly. “I’m worried about her.”

  Freya remembered Molly that night, dancing on a table, belting the lyrics to “You Shook Me All Night Long,” her glasses crushed beneath her feet, her hair wild and loose, swinging her body to the beat of the music, while a group of college boys, red-cheeked and jolly, shouted themselves hoarse in appreciation. Molly had looked as if she were having the time of her life. Later Freya had seen Molly making out in the back with one of the boys, the two of them wrapped around each other so tightly it was hard to see where one ended and the other began.

  There was nothing to worry about. Pam might not understand since she had never experienced it: how time sped up and slowed down in a lover’s arms, how daily life faded away and everything suddenly revolved around being with one person for as long as possible. Time did not exist where love and lust were concerned. Still, it was always best to be careful.