Triple Moon Page 13

  Meanwhile, her boyfriend, Parker, had been experimenting with the Brooklyn hipster aesthetic. The results were mixed. He was tall and well built enough to carry off the plaid flannel shirt and suspenders that the look required. The work boots were borderline cool. But the facial hair was an unqualified disaster. Molly could picture him in Bret’s living room, rolling his own cigarette, probably from tobacco grown on someone’s roof in Red Hook. His beard, such as it was, fell dramatically short of the Brooklyn boy ideal. It grew in soft patchy wisps on his otherwise baby-smooth chin.

  But besides noticing the details of their appearance, the twins couldn’t say anything about them. They weren’t sure how long they had been dating. They assumed they both lived on the Upper East Side, but it was possible that Parker hailed from downtown, or even perhaps from Brooklyn itself. The twins really had no idea.

  “Honestly, we didn’t know them enough to like them or not like them,” Mardi said. “I don’t mean to be insensitive, because it’s terrible what happened to them. But they were totally random.”

  “Did Bret know them well?” asked Jean-Baptiste.

  “I don’t think so,” Molly answered. “In fact, now that you mention it, something else is coming back to me. Bret did make noise at some point about how there were a bunch of crashers at his party. But he didn’t seem that annoyed. It was more a way for him to show off, saying there were all kinds of kids who wanted to be at his pad, under his ridiculous giant spider sculpture, swimming naked in his indoor pool. I mean, Bret is a super-pretentious guy.”

  “Maybe that’s why you liked him,” Mardi chimed in.

  “Why I liked him? You’re the one who practically straddled him against one of those disgusting million-dollar tarantula legs.”

  “Girls, let us stay on track, so to speak.” Jean-Baptiste was firm and calm. “You say that this young couple was not particularly meaningful to you or to your host. Would it be fair to say that they were expendable?”

  “Harsh!” the twins exclaimed in unison.

  After that they saw no more. Their minds were blocked.

  The storm of retribution was blowing all right. But from where?

  20

  COME TOGETHER

  The next night, after a busy day at the Cheesemonger, Molly was about to head home to Ingrid’s for yet another stultifying family dinner when she got long-awaited word from Tris.

  Sorry to be MIA. I was out of town surfing in Montauk for a few days. I missed you. Still do. Any chance you could come over for dinner tonight?

  She was reminded of how much she loved the long-form, old-fashioned nature of his texts. Normally, she would have nothing to do with a guy who made her wait this long for a sign of life, especially after they’d hooked up. She was Molly Overbrook, after all, one of the very hottest tickets in New York City, if not the hottest. She needed no one. Yet somehow he was reeling her in. She told herself it was only a summer fling, that there was nothing else going on in North Hampton. So she might as well have her fun.

  Besides, she absolutely had to go to Fair Haven to search for the ring in the library. Mardi still hadn’t noticed that it had gone missing, and Molly had to find it before her sister realized and completely freaked out.

  Molly waved good-bye to Marshall as she pedaled off in the direction of the bridge to Gardiners Island.

  Luckily, she was wearing a silvery shift that moved perfectly from day into night. Her wedged espadrilles in black patent leather also segued beautifully. She smiled a self-satisfied smile. Somehow she must have known, as she was getting dressed earlier, that she had a reason to look good this evening. Despite her banishment, she hadn’t lost her groove on the East End. She hadn’t succumbed to rubber flip-flops, Top-Siders, or, God forbid, fleece.

  As she started across the bridge, a crescent moon rose, filling her with a sense of possibility. She tingled with anticipation.

  “Harsh,” Molly whispered to herself, recalling the end of last night’s session as she leaned her bike against a dune on the other side of the bridge. “Expendable? Sam and Parker weren’t, like, the most gripping, beautiful people in school. But, expendable?” She shook her head.

  The whole mystery was a drag. Molly decided that there was no point in driving herself crazy with it. She wanted to block it out of her mind and have a totally oblivious and irresponsible good time with Tris right now.

  As if reading her mind, Tris appeared at the base of the garden path carrying two bottles of beer.

  Tris’s deep, sparkling eyes were as powerful as she recalled. Damn, that boy was sexy. As he leaned in for a kiss, she melted.

  Slowly, he pulled away in order to hand her a bottle. “This is exactly what you need right now.”

  “And how would you happen to know exactly what I need?”

  “We’re in the same place, remember? I’m right here with you, doing time in the world’s most boring town because I refuse to be who they want me to be. Doesn’t that sound familiar?”

  As they walked arm in arm toward the magnificent house, Molly decided on a whim to find out more about the story of this place that Freya had begun to tell her about the other day in the Cheesemonger.

  “So, is it really true,” she asked, “that Fair Haven is built on a seam between Midgard and the Underworld? Are we walking through the gloaming right now? Is that why it’s so misty even though the sky is clear?” Although she kept her tone light, she realized as she spoke that she really did want to know the answers to her questions.

  But Tris seemed completely nonchalant about the history of his ancestral home. “I don’t know. I’m a prisoner here, remember? The only thing that I find engaging about Fair Haven at the moment is that you’re here.”

  Inside the vast, low-lit house, Tris guided her gently back to the library, which was one of the few rooms small enough to feel intimate when there were only the two of them.

  “It feels especially empty inside Fair Haven tonight,” she said.

  “Most of the staff doesn’t live in the house. I think the housekeeper might be down in the kitchen. But otherwise it’s just us.” He winked. “And, of course, the madwoman in the attic.”

  “You mean your stepmother?”

  “Bingo.” He laughed. “Ask Freya. Mother doesn’t think anyone’s good enough for a Gardiner boy.”

  She raised her eyebrows as they sank into the club chair that had become their particular haven of softness and comfort amid the grandeur of the mansion. The caress of the worn leather was as exciting and warm as his skin. “You really think she wouldn’t approve of even me?”

  “Do I look like I care, Molly?” he whispered, leaning down and pressing against her. As his tongue caressed hers, Molly felt that she had never existed so fully in a moment. She did not step outside herself to wonder what she looked like, nor did her mind wander, as it usually did, to the next conquest she planned to make.

  She had no idea how long they had been entangled when he nibbled her earlobe and tickled her every sense with his voice. “You’re making me hungry,” he said, and pulled away.

  She leaned back, expecting him to start unbuttoning her shirt.

  Except he meant it literally.

  Tris nodded toward the kitchen. “You want anything? I’ll make us something. Stay here.”

  She had the fleeting sensation that he did not want her to leave the library. Was he hiding her from his stepmother? She supposed she didn’t really mind. When in doubt, being served was always the best option. She stretched catlike as he released her from his embrace. Her entire body was flushed.

  As soon as he left, though, a current of alarm ran through her. She remembered the missing ring. This room was the only place it could possibly be. It had to have fallen off the last time she was here. That was the only answer. Maybe Tris had unhooked the clasp of her gold chain, sometime around the moment that he had unhooked her bra. Or maybe
the chain had slipped over her head. It was all a blur. She scoured her memory for some detail, the clink of metal hitting the floor, the feel of it sliding down her body. But there was nothing. Logic told her the ring had to be here, yet she had no sensual impression of losing it.

  She felt several times in the cracks of the chair. To no avail. She moved every piece on the ivory backgammon board. Nothing. She checked along all the mahogany bookshelves in case a maid had found the ring and decided to put it up in a safe place where it could easily be spotted. No such luck. She ran her eyes and fingers over every surface, the side tables, the windowsills, the elaborate bar cart. Then one by one, she took the cushions off the antique sofa and checked underneath them.

  Her heart was beginning to pound. Anxiously listening for Tris’s footfall, since he had been gone a while now, she got down on her knees to check under each piece of furniture. She did not spot anything, not even a speck of dust. The once cozy little library was yawning with emptiness because it did not seem to contain the one thing she needed.

  The only place left to try was the oriental rug. Its rich silken fibers gleamed in the room’s low lamplight. Suddenly her searching gaze caught on a shiny gold band. She lunged for it, practically splaying herself on the floor. But the sparkle proved to be a mirage, the mere illusion of a ring in the rug’s intricate Persian pattern. Molly sighed and kept looking, more determined than ever, her eyes inches from the ground.

  “What the— What are you doing on the floor?”

  Tris loomed above Molly in his crisp whites, carrying a silver tray. His expression as he stared down at her was inscrutable. Was he suspicious? Amused? Angry? As he put the tray down on a low table, she saw that it bore two cold lobsters, an heirloom tomato salad, a baguette, two crystal wineglasses, and a bottle of white Burgundy in a slender ice bucket. This was a far cry from the usual late-night fare of fast food and beers that most guys under twenty-five, even the sophisticated, jet-setting ones, would proudly produce. Tris was something else.

  And she may have just totally blown it with him.

  She started to get up.

  “Don’t,” he commanded softly.

  “Don’t?”

  “Don’t move. Whatever you are doing down there on the floor, I like it. You look so hot right now lying on the rug. You have no idea.”

  Oh, but she did. She had a very good idea.

  As he lay down beside her, she met his wicked smile with her own.

  21

  THE TEXTING SONG

  The texts were freaking Mardi out. Since receiving the creepy note right before the memory session with Jean-Baptiste, she had gotten three more. Each one implied that the texter knew something incriminating about “that night.” Then whoever it was threatened to hurt, or even kill, Molly if Mardi said anything to anyone.

  I saw the evil you allowed to take place that night. . . . It was your power that killed them. . . . It will soon become clear that you are the guilty ones.

  If you tell anyone about me, especially her, she will be . . . destroyed . . . cast down . . . forever lost to you.

  Could this be some kind of warning from the White Council?

  No, of course not. The Council did not traffic in blackmail. It was someone who knew their secret—the only problem was that Mardi herself had no idea what their secret was.

  She was tempted to turn her phone off, but she was also secretly hoping to glean some information from whoever was torturing her. She tried answering the texts with Who are you? How can I help you? But there was no reply.

  For once in her life, Mardi craved advice from an adult. But who to turn to? And how to get help without giving too much away and putting her sister in potential danger? Of course, this so-called stalker could just be some lame-o. But there was no way to be sure. And as much as Molly could drive her crazy, Mardi didn’t want to live out eternity knowing she had sent her own twin sister to the Underworld.

  Dad was so not a good candidate for someone to talk to. He would panic, and he would press her for specifics. If she mentioned her dilemma to Jean-Baptiste, he might put her into one of his involuntary memory trances and get too much information out of her. This pretty much left Ingrid and Freya.

  It was about nine in the morning. Mardi rolled out of bed and went to splash some cold water on her face. She remarked to herself that it had been a while since she had had the ring. The rose gold band should pass any moment now from Molly to her. It was time.

  Should she turn to Ingrid or Freya for her problems?

  As she weighed the two options, she craned her neck in order to see her snaking rainbow tattoo from various angles. The colorful reflection glistened as it undulated. It seemed to have a life, and will, of its own.

  As she stared into the mirror, it dawned on her that the bridge tattooed on her shoulder no longer existed. This was the bridge that had collapsed centuries ago, stranding several hundred gods and goddesses in Midgard, including their father. The rainbow bridge etched into her skin was a powerful symbol of a lost time.

  Mardi looked deep into the reflection of her own dark eyes. She saw a sixteen-year-old witch with symbols of ancient history engraved on her body. She wasn’t just some stupid club kid with a random tattoo and a tongue stud. Mardi Overbrook was the real deal. And it was time for her to step up.

  In that instant, she realized that she didn’t have to decide between Ingrid and Freya. This wasn’t a competitive twin thing where one sister got to win out over the other. Mardi had to stop thinking like a kid. She decided that she would speak to them both, to gather as much wisdom as she could. She would start with Ingrid, because Ingrid was downstairs.

  Mardi came upon Ingrid in a rare moment of stillness. She was sitting barefoot at the kitchen island, still wearing her simple white cotton bathrobe, her blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, exposing her delicate features and translucent skin. In front of her was a steaming cup of coffee, a china plate with a blueberry muffin from a batch she had baked yesterday with Jo and Henry, and a dog-eared paperback of her favorite novel, To Kill a Mockingbird.

  No one else was visible in the big, bright, open family living space. Molly was probably still asleep. And Matt must have taken the kids outside to give Ingrid some peace. But Ingrid did not look peaceful. She looked drawn and worried. In this unguarded instant, she had let down her perfect posture and had allowed her expression of motherly kindness to fade away. She was frowning. There was a sad droop to her shoulders. She hadn’t touched her muffin. The book on the counter was closed.

  “Good morning, Ingrid,” Mardi said softly, so as not to startle her.

  “Mardi, dear, good morning. I didn’t see you.” Ingrid turned and forced a smile. “Let me pour you some coffee. You take it black, right? And here, have a blueberry muffin before the rest of the gang gets here and they vanish. You know, we picked these blueberries ourselves on the farm down the road.”

  Ingrid, Mardi understood as she watched her fussing over the coffee and then carefully placing the muffin on a pretty floral plate, was a compulsive nurturer. She put a perfect pat of salted butter next to the muffin, because she knew that Mardi only liked her butter salted. That was how attentive she was.

  But even though Ingrid was doing her usual bustling in order to take care of someone other than herself, her movements were distracted. It was as though she were on autopilot. Something was wrong.

  Mardi sat down beside her at the island counter, trying to figure out how to approach the subject of her mysterious texts without directly mentioning them. She had no idea where to begin.

  “Ingrid, is something wrong? You look upset.”

  “I’m worried. You know, part of my work at the library is counseling women with health issues or psychological stress. And there has been a rash of domestic violence in town. I don’t like it all.”

  “You think it might connect to the other weird stuff that h
as been going on here?”

  “I’m certainly starting to think that whoever, or whatever, is causing these disturbances has it in for women in particular.”

  “You don’t think it’s random at all, do you?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  At a loss for what to say next, Mardi took a bite of blueberry muffin with a dab of butter.

  “Wow, Ingrid,” she said. “This is delicious. Thanks.”

  “Can you taste the lemon?” Ingrid asked, suddenly very intense, like her mind had shifted to a distant place where lemons were somehow really important.

  Mardi took another bite. “I think so. Did you squeeze in some lemon juice or something?”

  “It’s lemon rind,” Ingrid said sadly. “It’s was my mother’s recipe. She always took such care grating the lemon rind because she said it brought out the flavor of the blueberries like nothing else . . . You’ll see, Mardi, if you ever lose someone, it’s the details that will haunt you, all the tiny ways they expressed their love,” she said, her voice hoarse. “Joanna has been gone ten years, but the grief never ends. You just get used to it.”

  Tentatively, Mardi put a hand on Ingrid’s thin shoulder. She wasn’t in the habit of comforting other people, but this gesture felt right.

  “How did your parents get stuck in the Underworld?” Mardi asked.

  “They sacrificed themselves in order to save Freya. It’s a long story.” Ingrid sighed. “They had watched both of us hang once, during the Salem witch trials, and they couldn’t face the sight again . . . ”

  Ingrid seemed to lose her train of thought. Mardi did not prompt her, but stayed very still, waiting while Ingrid stared at the pattern on her plate without really seeing it.

  Mardi shuddered. The White Council’s threats to damn the sisters forever if they were found guilty of murder were starting to seem a lot less abstract.