Witches of East End Page 18

  She finally drifted off to sleep just as morning broke, and when she woke up it was the afternoon. She could hear Ingrid puttering around in her dressing room, searching through the racks of clothing. “What time is it?” she asked her sister.

  “Five o’clock. You slept the whole day. Come on, get up, the party starts at six. I want to be there early.”

  Freya rubbed her eyes and moved slowly out of bed. She walked to the kitchen and helped herself to a cup of coffee from a pot Ingrid had made.

  “Is there anything you own that isn’t see-through, thigh-high, or backless?” Ingrid asked, looking around vainly for something that she could wear. Many of Freya’s dresses boasted all three qualities. “You do realize you dress like a . . .”

  “Hooker?” Freya offered cheerfully, sipping the coffee and instantly feeling awake. She joined Ingrid in the walk-in closet and began rifling through her things. “No, you won’t find something in there that doesn’t reveal some part of your body, and no, I never get any complaints about my wardrobe. Jeez, you’re worse than Mother,” Freya said, removing her bathrobe and slipping into a tiny black dress.

  Ingrid gave a scandalized groan. “Don’t say ‘hooker’; it’s common.”

  “Lady of the night, then?” Freya laughed, leaving her sister to fret about a dress alone. She sat at her vanity table and began to apply her makeup.

  “How’s this?” Ingrid asked, coming out to show her what she had found. She was wearing a simple dark dress with long sleeves and a longer hemline. “I feel lucky I even found it. I didn’t think you owned anything that covered your arms.”

  “You look like a nun,” Freya said as she brushed her cheeks with rouge. “I bought that for a costume party. This is New York, Ingrid, and the party is at the rooftop of the Standard Hotel. You can’t look like you’ve come straight from the sticks. Also, it’s August. You’re going to boil.”

  “I just feel more comfortable in this.”

  “Nun.”

  Ingrid regarded Freya’s plunging neckline with a skeptical eye. “Are you sure you don’t have that dress on backward?”

  “You’re funny. Let’s go,” she said, blotting her lipstick with a tissue. “Try not to embarrass me.”

  chapter thirty-four

  The Vampires

  of Manhattan

  The Standard Hotel was located in the far west side of town, by the Hudson River. Ingrid was never one for trendy events, and so the sight of hulking gorilla bouncers and a barracuda in a black cocktail dress wielding a clipboard at the entrance made her a bit nervous. “Do you think we’ll get in? We don’t exactly have invitations,” Ingrid whispered. “And that one looks like Fafnir in a skirt,” she said, meaning the legendary dragon that jealously guarded a treasure trove of gold.

  “Relax, that’s only the doorgirl; they come with the territory. She doesn’t have any power over us,” Freya said. She walked confidently up to the velvet rope. “Freya and Ingrid Beauchamp, we’re here for the Blood Bank party. You don’t need to check the list.”

  “See?” Freya said, as the velvet rope was unhitched and they made their way to the elevators that would take them to the rooftop. The party was already in full swing, and the indoor Jacuzzi was bubbling. Ingrid tried not to stare at the human girls in the tub, some of whom seemed to have lost their bikini tops; it was hard to tell with the bubbling water. This was quite a different scene from the usual staid North Hampton affair; the vampires were breathlessly chic in white linen, with bored, blank faces, and Ingrid did feel a bit out of place in her long-sleeved dress.

  “Let’s get a drink,” Freya suggested, heading toward the long black bar and quickly procuring two full martini glasses.

  Ingrid took a sip. “What’s with all the salty foam?” she asked, wiping her lips with a napkin.

  “Just drink it,” Freya said, gazing at the crowd, keeping an eye out for the vampire princess. “Do you see her anywhere?”

  Ingrid shook her head. “Tons of Blue Bloods and their familiars but no Azrael.”

  “She’s got to be here somewhere,” Freya said. “She’s supposed to be hosting this party.” Although from living in the city she knew that just because boldfaced names were on the invitation it did not necessarily mean they would be expected to actually attend the party—it was one of those unwritten social agreements.

  All around the rooftop, small groups were gathered on massive orange lilypads that were on the synthetic grass covering the floor. A few people were playing with telescopes that were installed by the edge. The view of the city was breathtaking, but Freya was more riveted by the sight of a familiar face that stopped her in her stilettos.

  “Where are you going?” Ingrid asked.

  “Back in a sec,” she told her sister, walking to the dark-haired man talking intently to a tall brunette at one of the cocktail tables. The woman had a cold, commanding beauty, and Freya thought she looked a bit familiar, but couldn’t place her.

  “Bran?”

  When he heard his name, he looked up, and his confusion soon melted into a smile. He was wearing a blue blazer with frayed seams and a faded gingham shirt. “Freya! What are you doing here?” He excused himself from his companion and stood up, taking Freya to the side.

  “I could ask the same of you.” She did not want to feel jealous and yet jealousy was seeping in every part of her body. Who was that woman he was with? Why was Bran talking to her so intensely? They had looked as if they were arguing, and that woman had a possessive air around Bran that Freya did not like very much. “You’re in New York? I thought you were in Asia.”

  “We just got back; one of the board members couldn’t make it so we decided to fly here and do the meeting at the Rockefeller Center offices. It’s great to see you,” he said, smiling. “What made you decide to come?”

  “Ingrid had some business here, and I thought I’d tag along,” she said. It would be too much to explain, and she felt shy around him for once. After missing him for so long, it was strange to be in his presence again, as if he wasn’t quite real. She wanted to kiss him, or touch his cheek, but she could not. She could not bear him to know what she had been doing in his long absence. Sleeping with his brother, betraying every promise she had made to him from the beginning.

  “We’re supposed to go back to Jakarta tomorrow for the presentation, but I’ll tell them they can go without me,” he said, as if he could read her mind.

  “No, no . . . don’t do that. I’m only here for a night and I don’t want to keep you from your work.” She forced herself to stop acting aloof and kissed him soundly. He was sweating and nervous, dear sweet boy. “Go on, really. You’ll be back in town next week. I’ll see you then. I gotta go anyway.”

  “Are you sure?” Bran looked confused and hurt. “Can you wait a moment? I have to speak to Julia about the project—she’s one of our analysts—but I want to spend more time with you.” The woman he was with looked at the two of them impatiently and began to walk toward them. He looked over his shoulder and raised a finger.

  “Yes, don’t worry about me . . . I’ll see you when you get back, okay?” Freya said, relieved that there was nothing to be jealous about after all. Bran was just caught up in his work as usual. She gave him one last kiss and walked away to look for Ingrid.

  She found her talking to a group of Blue Blood vampires. “Bran’s here,” she whispered. “But it’s okay, he’s with his charity muckamucks. I told him I’d see him back home.”

  “You’re looking for my daughter? Excuse me interrupting.” The Blue Blood socialite who addressed them was regal and elegant, with a stately way of speaking. “I’m Trinity Burden Force.” She looked at the two of them keenly. “Freya and Ingrid Beauchamp. The witches of East End. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

  “Mimi visited our town and met with my sister. We need to ask her something,” Freya said. “Do you know where we can find her?”

  “You’ll have to travel to Cairo to do so. She left the city the other day with
her human conduit. She said she had something to finish back in Egypt that was more important than graduating from high school. No, I don’t know when she’s coming back; my daughter operates on her own schedule without informing me of any changes.” Trinity smiled thinly. “As your own mother can attest, I am the last to know.”

  “Great,” Freya said, when Trinity took her leave. “If Mimi took Molly, they’re halfway around the world by now, and she could have given her to Helda already in exchange for whoever she wanted out of there. How long do you think it will take us to get to Cairo?”

  Ingrid shook her head. “We don’t have time for that right now. We’ll deal with that later. Right now we need to find Lionel. Emily just texted me. She thinks she might have spotted him out on the farm.”

  “That’s a relief,” Freya said.

  “No, you don’t understand—all the animals on their farm are dead, and she thinks Lionel might have killed them.”

  chapter thirty-five

  The Covenant of the Dead

  Lionel Horning and Emily Foster lived in an old farmhouse on land that had once been part of his grandparents’ dairy farm, and the two artists had a small menagerie, with chickens, goats, and a milking cow. Lionel had converted the house to a loftlike space where they lived and worked. When the sisters arrived, Emily was waiting for them with tea and biscuits. “Thanks for coming so quickly—how did you get back here so fast? I thought Ingrid said you were in the city?” she asked as she poured them each a cup of tea.

  “We were on our way back when you called,” Freya said smoothly. There was no need to explain how the closet in her room made traveling from North Hampton to New York as easy as walking down the hallway.

  “When did you discover the animals?” Ingrid asked.

  “This afternoon. When I went to refill the water for the chickens.” Emily’s hands shook so badly that her teacup rattled in its saucer. “I was going to call animal services but I thought you might want to take a look.”

  “There’s no time like the present. Let’s go,” Freya said a tad impatiently, standing up. It was so North Hampton of Emily Foster to offer them tea and make polite chitchat when they were there to figure out if her husband had turned into a bloodthirsty zombie. Emily led them out through the back door toward the barn.

  “Hold on. . . . What is that? Can you hear it?” Freya asked. “Like rushing water underground.” She knelt down to touch the ground; the earth felt damp and the rumble grew louder.

  “It sounds like waves,” Ingrid agreed.

  “It’s the underground river that runs directly underneath the barn,” Emily said. “In the 1850s a well was built on this site. I can’t believe you can hear the water. I’ve never heard it myself. Lionel claimed he could feel it surging when he painted, but then again Lionel said a lot of things,” she said, walking up to the barn door. She wrapped her fingers around a brightly galvanized handle and pulled. The big door heaved and began to move sideways on a metal track. It rolled for a moment and then stopped. Emily grimaced. “You might want to hold your breath. The smell is disgusting. Anyway, if you just slip in and move along the wall for a few paces there should be a light switch on your right-hand side. Just be prepared. I would come with you, but I just can’t go in there again.” She turned and quickly backed away from the door, wiping her hands on her jacket twice and then shaking them in the air as she walked away. Freya saw her heave a sigh of relief as she exited the barn.

  Ingrid’s face puckered. A sickly sweet smell drifted out from inside the barn, acrid and rotten. “You first,” she told her sister.

  Freya smirked as she slipped slowly through the opening. It was dark inside. In the dim light she could see there was some kind of mound on the floor, but it was too dark to make anything more out of it. She felt something brush her left shoulder and shivered, but it was just Ingrid inching into the room next to her.

  “The switch,” Ingrid whispered. Freya was already reaching sideways with her right hand, feeling up and down the wall in broad arcs. Her fingers scraped the wall as she searched for the little toggle.

  “What is that?” Ingrid asked. The mound at the far side of the room was clearly moving, its surface undulating, but maybe it was a trick of the light. “Can you just get the damn lights turned on!” Ingrid begged, wishing they had thought to bring their wands.

  Freya’s finger finally hit the trim plate. The switch clicked, and there was a pause as the ballast in the old fluorescent light buzzed and cracked before kicking on. The light blinked and finally the room was awash in a pale bluish glow.

  The mound at the far end of the room turned out to be a pile of torn and bloody animal carcasses, fur and feathers mixed with blood and entrails in a chunky soup of rotting flesh. Blood splattered the walls and floor and tiny maggots crawled over everything. Freya tried not to vomit and Ingrid blanched at the sight.

  “That’s enough,” Ingrid said, looking sick. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Emily was waiting for them outside and rolled the barn door closed. “Sorry you had to see that.”

  “So what makes you think Lionel did that?” Ingrid asked, as Emily led them to a second, smaller barn that housed the artists’ studios.

  “This morning I was by the window, washing dishes, when I thought I saw a man outside. It looked like Lionel from behind, so I called out to him. He didn’t turn around, but he’d been acting so strange since he got back from the hospital so I let him be.”

  “How long has Lionel been missing now?”

  Emily looked embarrassed. “A few weeks. Almost the entire month. Since right before the Fourth of July he said he hasn’t been feeling well. Then that Friday I came home from the market and found everything in disarray.” Pulling the door open, she led them inside the cozy farmhouse to the back where Lionel kept his studio. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything earlier but he does this once in a while.”

  Tacked on the far wall were several large-scale canvases showing a silver gate, the mountain high above the hill, trails that led to unknown paths, eerily specific to the Kingdom of the Dead. One of the canvases was torn, and there was paint splattered over the canvas in a haphazard motion, in contrast to the almost photographic quality of the painting underneath.

  “But you didn’t come see me until the next week,” Ingrid pointed out. “Why not?”

  Emily shrugged and righted a chair. “He’s a bit absentminded and we give each other a lot of freedom. We don’t need to check in with each other. I thought maybe he’d gone to the city—he sometimes stays at the Chelsea Hotel—but I called over there and he wasn’t registered and no one at his gallery has seen him either. That’s when I started to worry. There’s been no activity in his accounts, and it’s not like him to be gone this long. I was sure he’d be home by now. Then this morning, I thought he was back and wanted to check on the animals. I sort of forgot about it. . . . I’ve been working, so I’m a bit distracted as well. . . . Then this afternoon when I saw what was back there. . . . I’m kind of freaked out.”

  “Is there somewhere you can go? I think it’s best if you don’t stay here,” Ingrid said.

  “I could go to my sister’s, I guess. Ann’s in Wainscott; it’s not too far. Why? You don’t think he would come after me, do you? I’m not even sure it was Lionel, it might have been someone else.” She shook her head. “You think this might have had something to do with what your mom did to Lionel?”

  “Emily . . .”

  Emily balled up her fists. “It’s all my fault. I asked for the help.” She seemed to have an internal struggle with herself. “I’ll go to Ann’s.” She looked at the sisters plaintively. “You’ll try to find him? Maybe help him? Don’t hurt him, okay?”

  They tried to assure her that all would be well as they bade good-bye. When they were alone in the car, Ingrid exchanged a look with her sister. The heads of all the animals were torn off, their entrails severed. “If something went wrong with his resurrection, it’s possible that he’s now trapp
ed between life and death,” she said. “He’s alive, but his body is decomposing and he’ll need to . . .”

  “Feed, I know. Those animals looked half-eaten.” Freya was silent for a moment as she tried to think. “It’s been so long since Mother has done something like this, it’s possible something went wrong.”

  Ingrid hit the gas and they peeled away down the farmhouse driveway. They could still see Emily in the living-room window, watching them. “Zombies,” Ingrid muttered. “What do we know about them?”

  “Other than that they’re uncoordinated, they don’t know what they’re doing, and they’re basically walking corpses with a taste for brains?” Freya asked.

  “So Lionel Horning went zombie, killed Molly Lancaster, hid her body, and then came back to the farmhouse and slaughtered his animals?” Ingrid suggested. “Seems like a lot for one zombie to do, if you ask me. They can’t even walk properly.”

  “Unless . . .”

  “Unless what?”

  “Remember the Fontanier case?” Freya asked. “When we were living in France in the twelfth century?”

  “Remind me?” Ingrid asked.

  “Jean Fontanier was a farmer; he got killed accidentally when his horse spooked and threw him. His widow came to Mother but she refused to bring him back as he’d been dead for more than twenty-four hours. So his widow went to Lambert de Fois.”

  Ingrid nodded. It was starting to return to her. Lambert de Fois was the head of their coven then. “Right.”