Winds of Salem: A Witches of East End Novel Read online

  “Friends.”

  “You have to be if you’re going to be good parents, and from what you’ve told me, the kid is awesome, right? Well, that takes a lot of maturity on her parents’ part.”

  “I suppose.”

  “You have nothing to worry about.”

  “Okay,” she agreed morosely. Though Hudson’s advice was always sound, she still had her doubts.

  By the time they made it to the cashier, their arms were full. They couldn’t help but get the tutu and also the terry lederhosen, a hooded hippo robe, and a trendy stuffed toy that was supposed to put babies in a good mood—and various other items that seemed absolutely necessary.

  Outside, a chilly breeze blew against their cheeks, and there was a dusting of new snow on the sidewalks. She and Hudson strolled along the sunny side of the street. He proposed a round of cocktails after the frenzied bout of shopping, which had left him thirsty. Ingrid reminded him they had jobs to get back to and weren’t rich housewives. Besides, they had a baby shower to plan.

  “Speaking of hausfraus and marriage and babies,” said Hudson as he walked jauntily along, “I forgot to tell you: Scott and I are thinking about tying the knot!”

  Ingrid stopped mid-sidewalk. “Now you tell me? As if I’m the one withholding all the information!”

  “Well, we’re just considering it. Now that it’s legal in New York and all. We thought we’d do a weekend in New York City at Hotel Gansevoort in the Meatpacking District—after City Hall, of course. Although I’ve heard that doing it in Brooklyn is better, less busy than in downtown Manhattan. So—”

  “No!” said Ingrid irately.

  “Excuse me!” said a tall man standing behind Ingrid, whom neither she nor Hudson appeared to hear.

  Hudson glared incredulously at his friend. “What do you mean, no?”

  They had created a jam on the narrow sidewalk, and the young man in front of them cleared his throat to get their attention. “Excuse me!” he repeated. Politely. He was attempting to get past them on the skinny sidewalk with all of their Tater Tot shopping bags. But Ingrid and Hudson did not budge.

  She had a fist planted on one hip and was scowling. “If you and Scott are going to get married, I want a real wedding! Think of the Times announcement at least!”

  The young man had grown impatient. “Excuse me!” he boomed, his voice a deep, operatic bass, like rolling thunder.

  Ingrid huffed and swung around to confront him. Hudson craned his neck to peer up at the man, who was easily six feet five inches, dressed in a smart pin-stripe suit under a lush black cashmere overcoat, the jacket hanging unbuttoned on his large frame. She stared into the square-jawed face: large pale green eyes beneath light copper lashes and brows, a strong nose. A bolt of lightning struck her, and she nearly dropped her shopping bags.

  “Erda?” he asked.

  “Thor?” she said, knitting her brow.

  “What’s going on?” said Hudson. “And am I hearing things or did you just call him Thor?”

  Ingrid stared at the towering redhead before her. Freya had told her a while back that when she’d been living on the Lower East Side in New York City and running the Holiday Lounge on St. Mark’s, their old friend had set up shop nearly next door. Freya had made a few trips to spy on her competition, reporting to Ingrid that he had opened up a small, dusky, hole-in-the-wall after-hours club across the corner, the kind of place you might miss if you blinked. Known only to an elite set of mismatched night owls—the Fallen and the Waelcyrgean among them—with a new password circulated each week, the Red Door had a small stage featuring burlesque dancers, aerial artists, starry-eyed Hula-Hoop performers, and the occasional red-nosed clown. “Hottest thing in the city right now and I don’t mean the club,” Freya had said with a smirk. “You should see the ladies go wild for him!” To which Ingrid had replied, “I’d rather not!”

  Thor, the god of thunder.

  Her old flame.

  He had carried a torch for Erda for centuries: she was different from all the goddesses who threw themselves at him, and the more she rejected him, the more he sought her out. But Erda knew Thor’s reputation for breaking many an immortal heart and had kept him at bay.

  “My darling Erda,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it.

  “It’s Ingrid now,” Ingrid said sharply.

  “Will someone please explain to me what’s going on?” said Hudson. “Is someone going to introduce me to the Hunk—I mean the Hulk—or is it Thor? Or do I have to do it myself?”

  Ingrid finally remembered to breathe. She turned to Hudson, flustered. “I’m sorry! This is—” She made a helpless gesture with her hands.

  “Troy Overbrook,” the giant redhead said with an affable smile that made a dimple in his cheek. He held out a hand.

  Hudson beamed as he shook it. It was obvious that he had already fallen under the handsome god’s spell. “Hudson Rafferty. Any friend of Ingrid’s is a friend of mine,” he said.

  Troy tilted his head at her. “We have a lot of catching up to do, Ingrid!” He winked at the name. “You look amazing.”

  Ingrid coughed. “Well, Hudson and I need to get back to work. We’re running late.”

  “When can I see you again? I’m here in North Hampton for the winter. Coffee sometime?” Troy said, leaning seductively against the wall, playing shy for a moment as he looked down at his sneakers. “You know, it’s Valentine’s Day soon.”

  “I’m at the local library,” she said flatly. “Come get some books.”

  Hudson nudged her sharply in the ribs. “Don’t be silly, Ingrid. Give your old friend your phone number.”

  Ingrid hesitated for a moment before riffling through her shoulder bag and fishing out a slightly shopworn business card to hand to Troy.

  He slipped the card into his pocket and winked at her. “I’ll call you,” he promised before they parted ways.

  Once he was out of earshot, Hudson spoke. “I can’t believe you were just going to walk away from that!”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about, Hudson!”

  He glared at her. “Oh, really!”

  Ingrid frowned. “Troy and I have a history.”

  “Pray tell!”

  “It’s a long and boring story. Besides, I have a boyfriend, remember?” They crossed the street toward the library. “One cup of coffee. Jesus!”

  Hudson laughed. “I didn’t say, ‘Sleep with him!’ Although if you don’t, I will!”

  chapter twenty-seven

  The Family Three

  “I’ll do it, ” Norman said simply, turning to his wife. They were on the train headed back to North Hampton. “I’ll do what the Oracle said would get Freya back.”

  Startled, Joanna looked at her husband. She shook her head and frowned. “Absolutely not!” she said, letting her head fall on his shoulder. “There must be something else we can do.”

  “There isn’t,” Norman said softly as he held her close. But he let the subject drop for the moment.

  They had passed Patchogue, the midway point between New York City and Montauk, where Ingrid would pick them up. Norman’s car had broken down in the city. The trip had been more than the dinosaur Oldsmobile could handle.

  He gazed out at the hills covered in frost, the weathered barns. The view gave hints of seascape, his beloved ocean. He lowered his Ray-Ban Clubmasters from the crown of his head over his eyes. He felt the pull of the water, but it was weakening, fading like a slowing pulse. His wife was now fast asleep, her head on his chest, and he dared not move an inch, even as his muscles cramped. Instead he sat awake, listening to the rhythmic thrum of the train. Small moments like this made him happy—he was here with Jo.

  He thought of Freya trapped in Salem Village and recalled those horrific days. Before the witch hunts he and Joanna had lived happily as Waelcyrgean among mortals. They observed the rules of the White Council, interfering as little as possible in human affairs, keeping their powers secret and contained. He worked as a fis
herman, Joanna as a midwife. Eventually, his girls got carried away, Ingrid with her healing ways, Freya with her potions.

  When the witch hunts reached a fever pitch, and the ring of accusing girls ran out of names to name in their own village, they called out new ones, ones they had heard their parents speak of bitterly as they gossiped. Soon the marshal came and took Ingrid and Freya away. There was nothing Norman could do to stop any of it, no matter how much Joanna pleaded with him. The White Council forbade any interference. Ingrid and Freya would eventually be returned to them—they were immortal, after all. If they would let things be, Joanna would give birth to them again.

  Freya and Ingrid Beauchamp were brought to stand trial in the ad hoc court of oyer and terminer in Salem Village, where they were charged with witchcraft. He and Joanna had watched their daughters hang at Gallows Hill. Joanna could not forgive him for being unwilling to save them, for following the rules of the Council, and had cast him out of her life. His wife had finally forgiven him and had taken him back. Now they were reliving the pain of Salem all over again, but this time, he would not fail her. He would show her just how much he had always loved her. He would be the one to do as the Oracle instructed. He would get it right. He wouldn’t screw it up this time. He owed it to Joanna after everything that had happened between them.

  The train stopped, and his wife shifted. Norman placed a hand on her head protectively, running a palm down the length of her hair, as he watched passengers disembark. He observed a few bundled-up New Yorkers looking for a quiet, romantic winter weekend in the Hamptons. The train doors closed. He turned to the window and watched another beachside town roll away beneath the blue sky.

  “Dad?” came a voice.

  Norman looked up. His gorgeous golden son stood over him, flaxen hair tousled, a knapsack slung over a shoulder. “Freddie! What are you doing here? What a great surprise!” he whispered. “Your mother’s asleep. I can’t move.”

  Joanna’s head lolled. “No, I’m not,” she said. She lifted her head, yawning, turning toward the aisle as she pulled her hair off her face. “My baby!”

  “Mother!” he said.

  Joanna stared at her son with a sleepy smile. “Now this is a happy surprise!” She and Norman laughed as they rose from their seats. Joanna embraced her son. Norman came into the aisle, grabbing the strap of Freddie’s knapsack. “Come sit with us! Let me help you with your bag.” He lifted it, placing it in the overhead carriage, and hugged his boy.

  “Can I be in the middle?” Freddie asked.

  “Where else?” Joanna sat down, moving over to the window, patting the spot next to her. Freddie scooted in beside her. “Oh, my sweet, it’s so good to see you!” She kissed and hugged him some more, making a fuss. For once Freddie didn’t seem to mind. “What are you doing here? Where’s Gert?”

  Norman knew Joanna had come to really like Gert, and they had believed the two of them were happily ensconced in New Haven. But now Freddie was staring into his lap. Puzzled, Norman asked, “What’s the matter?”

  Freddie tilted his head, glancing at his father.

  “You can tell us,” said Joanna.

  “Yeah, I know,” he said. “It’s just… it’s not easy.” He sighed. “Gert left.” He put his hands over his face.

  “What?” said Joanna, suddenly livid. “Why?”

  “She needed to study, she said.”

  “Well, students do need to concentrate…” Norman said, but his wife shut him up with a look.

  “Not now, Norm,” Joanna warned. She patted Freddie’s shoulder and frowned at her husband.

  Norman hugged his son. “It’s going to be okay. We’re going to get through this, kiddo.”

  Freddie’s hands dropped into his lap. He sniffled. “But I guess the good news is the pixies picked up the scent again. They’re on their way to the trident. Or so they say. Who knows with them.” He looked at his father, then mother, then back and forth, studying them. “What’s wrong with you? You both look awful… I mean… really tired…”

  “We’re okay, Freddie.” Norm peered at Jo, giving her a look. They simultaneously shook their heads, exchanging a tacit agreement not to share what they had learned on their trip to the city. They mustn’t tell him what the Oracle said would save Freya. Freddie already had plenty on his plate. And they had also decided to keep the Oracle’s suggestion secret from Ingrid, lest she fret more than she was prone to.

  Freddie yawned loudly. “I’m exhausted!” His head fell onto Joanna’s shoulder.

  Norm squeezed his knee. “You just rest, son. You probably need it.”

  “I do,” said Freddie, closing his eyes.

  All three sat silently for a while, and soon Freddie was fast asleep, lulled by the hypnotic sound of the train, comforted by the safe feeling of sitting between his parents. Norman and Joanna smiled at each other, watching over their boy sleeping peacefully between them.

  “We did good, didn’t we?” Norman whispered.

  “Yes, we did,” returned Joanna.

  Still, the danger Freya was in and the knowledge imparted by the Oracle weighed on them. There was no ignoring it. Norman recalled what Jo had said at the meeting. Her words had haunted him: “I wouldn’t wish eternity in the underworld to anyone, least of all to our Freya. I would rather die myself.”

  So would he.

  chapter twenty-eight

  The Manny Diaries

  Light poured through the gauzy curtains billowing over the open sliding glass doors inside the little beachfront shack. Freddie felt the sun against his face and the cool, soft morning breeze floating in from the ocean. At first he thought he was home, back at Mother’s, as it had been a few weeks since he had returned to North Hampton. Then he remembered where he had spent the night. He grinned, keeping his eyes shut. Soon the sounds of the ocean lulled him back to sleep, the sheet only half covering him, exposing his tawny back and legs.

  The little weathered hut was all the way at the end of town, way past the Beauchamp house and Gardiners Island, on a small ragged stretch overgrown with sea grass, the sand more pebbly and putty colored than fine and golden.

  A sudden thump beside him woke him merely seconds after he had turned his head.

  “Crap!” exclaimed a voice, followed by more bed thumping.

  He reached out his arm and felt the empty spot. He opened his eyes and rolled onto his side, stretching.

  Kristy smiled at him.

  “Why are you cursing so early in the morning, babe?” He sat up to watch her, rubbing his eyes, blinking at the light. The bartender from the North Inn was still naked, riffling through a dresser drawer. The tan lines from her bikini emphasized her round bottom, a tattoo of a passionflower above it, slightly off to the side near her hip. She yanked on her underwear, then snapped on her bra.

  “Hi, babe,” she said. She twisted her silky brown hair and tied it into a topknot. The light played in her hazel eyes as she batted her thick lashes. Like Freya, and now Freddie, Kristy was a bartender at the North Inn. With Freya gone, Sal had needed an extra hand, and Freddie had stepped in to fill it. His first day at work was also the first day he had started pursuing the hot single mom.

  After all, Gert had left him, then rebuffed his many attempts to work it out. After two weeks of frantic calls, e-mails, and texts, Gert still refused to answer, and Freddie began to feel like a stalker. She had even sent him a text that read <>. Rover? They were rover? Then he realized she meant “you and I are over.” He had refused to believe it and had texted a <3 back.

  Radio silence from Gert again.

  <> he punched in his phone after three days of self-control, deciding it would be his very last text to her. He couldn’t quite believe how immature they were being. He was “rover” it as well.

  He wasn’t the type to cheat—okay, okay—he did have a bit of a wandering eye, but he had tried, hadn’t he? He had tried to make the marriage work—but Gert had left him. What was he supposed to do?
Be alone? He had been alone for five thousand years!

  Kristy had a pretty face and was fond of showing off her cleavage squeezed inside a low-cut tank—which had immediately caught Freddie’s attention. She had resisted his charms at first, which only made Freddie want her more desperately. She was thirty-six, she told him, while he was barely drinking age, let alone prepared to be with a woman who had two kids. “I’m, like, fifteen years older than you, Freddie.” He hadn’t the heart to tell her he was actually thousands of years older.

  Plus, he was definitely not her type, she added emphatically.

  “But I’m everyone’s type,” he had argued. He tried to settle for their playful, friendly banter as they slung drinks behind the bar. Most of the time she humored him. She was steadfast in her rejection, which made her even more appealing.

  One evening in the basement ice room, he slipped his arms around her slim waist. She said, “Listen, you’re cute and all, Freddie, but I can’t. I have kids. Maxim and Hannah. I don’t do one-nighters, and we work together, love.” He let her go and apologized for being so forward.

  Then they began making out. It was Valentine’s Day, after all.

  “Love?” he teased when their lips parted.

  So here he was, dating a single mom with two kids. He tried not to think of Gert and he liked Kristy. She was beautiful, cool, and no-nonsense. She had a heart-shaped face, bee-stung lips that felt plush and tasted sweet when he kissed her. Their lovemaking was good but hurried and frantic, which he supposed was to be expected when there were two kids lurking about.

  He swung an arm out toward her, wiggling his fingers, beckoning for her to get back in bed.