Witches of East End Page 21

  “Do you admit the knot on the noose looks a whole lot like the knot you made?”

  “Yes, but . . . the knots don’t work that way,” Ingrid protested. “They would never drive anyone to suicide. At best, they would unravel—”

  “So you’re saying that this little talisman, as you called it, did nothing to lead to the mayor’s death. That it was just a coincidence that it looks just like the one he hung himself with.”

  “Yes.”

  “That the knot you made did not drive him sleepless, or change his personality, or cause him to be estranged from his wife. So what does it do, then?”

  “I don’t know, but I know it keeps people together if they want to be together. It makes something more visible that isn’t there.”

  “And there is no possible way it can go wrong?”

  “Well, I didn’t say that—”

  “So there is!”

  “I don’t know,” Ingrid said, slumped on the chair. “This has never happened before. We practice white magic. We don’t—”

  “White magic!” The detective sneered. He slammed his notebook on the table. “I think we’re done here.”

  As they walked out of the police station, Ingrid turned to Forseti, who was wiping his brow with a handkerchief. “I can’t believe Matt wasn’t even there to help us. Do you think we did the right thing in admitting that we’re witches?” she asked.

  Freya sighed. Her sister was so obtuse sometimes. “If it wasn’t, it’s too late now to change things.”

  “You really think we’ll be arrested?” Ingrid asked, horrified, since their lawyer had gone mute.

  Freya’s shoulders slumped. “What do you think?”

  Ingrid had to admit that perhaps they had miscalculated their strategy.

  chapter forty-one

  The Poisoned Tree

  The end of August arrived, humid and sticky, but no arrests were made. Joanna, Freya, and Ingrid each retreated to their own corners to deal with their anxiety and frustration in private. Freya went back to the bar, surreptitiously helping out with the bartending, while Joanna spent most of her time visiting Tyler in the hospital, and Ingrid worked at the library.

  It was after hours and the library was ghostly quiet and deserted, but Ingrid took comfort in the familiar and well-loved surroundings. She sat at her desk and went through everything that had happened in North Hampton that summer. The silvery tumors she’d found in the women; the rash of unexplainable diseases affecting the townspeople; the dead animals in Lionel Horning’s barn; the underwater explosion that had released a poisonous toxin, one that was similar to others found around the world—was it possible they were all linked? There was something here she was missing, something that would allow her to pull it all together.

  It all tied back to Fair Haven and the missing blueprints, she was sure of it. Mother said that Fair Haven held the seam, but there had to be something more. There was something there that someone did not want her to see, did not want her to find out—and with a flash, Ingrid remembered the image she had taken on her phone earlier in the summer. She’d taken not only a photo of the door but of the ballroom floor plan as well and sent both to her father. She turned on her desk lamp to a brighter setting and removed her phone from her purse. Her fingers quickly tapped and swept the touch screen until the tiny image of the blueprint appeared. Yes! She sent it to a computer terminal and a few minutes later the page from the missing architectural plans was rolling out of the library’s decade-old printer.

  Ingrid examined the paper. The printer had automatically sized the tiny photo to fit a letter-size sheet, and the image was grainy, as it had been enlarged many times its actual size. She found the scrollwork in the tiny architectural drawing key, a swirl of dark lines and cryptic characters. As she examined the curving arabesques she caught sight of another faint image, lines and text running at an odd angle across the image. These characters were smaller and lighter than the rest of the text, and some of the characters looked different from those on the key.

  She brought the drawing over to the old copier, laid it on the glass, and set the enlargement to two hundred percent and the brightness to the lowest setting. A large blackened image rolled out the far end of the machine, and when she looked at it closely she noticed that the second set of text was actually written backwards, as if seen through a mirror. Ingrid puzzled over it for a moment until she realized that the bright little flash on her new phone must have shone though the thin paper, revealing the lines that had been written on the back of the sheet. She tried to think if she had ever examined the backsides of blueprints and could not remember ever doing so. Blueprints were several feet long and wide and a person reading them tended to just open the page halfway to stare at some portion of the drawing. To flip the pages completely over would have required a desk eight feet wide.

  Ingrid grabbed the sheet of paper and ran into the bathroom, excited by her new idea. She held it to the mirror and snapped another photo with a real camera, one with a much higher resolution. Using the mirror would invert the text so that it could be read. She took the camera back to her desk and printed the new photo.

  Now she understood. The text was separated into two bands; the top was written in Norse, the language she had learned as a child from her father. The second line contained the same lettering that surrounded the design tags, in a language she could not understand. The characters corresponded to one another, like a Rosetta stone. Since she understood the first language, that was all she needed to decipher the keys.

  Ingrid worked on translating quickly. The letters were faint and there were spots where words and characters dropped out, but she could still glean a basic understanding. The first sentence, a title of sorts, read: “Yggdrasil.”

  Yggdrasil.

  Ingrid leapt from her desk and dashed to the back of the library, where they kept the reserved books no one was allowed to borrow. There was a book there, one she had inherited from her father many years ago, that she had donated to the library when she first started. A book that contained their history. The front cover was nearly torn from the book when she pulled it from the shelf, although it appeared to have spent the better part of the last few decades entirely undisturbed.

  Yggdrasil.

  The word resonated with power. Ingrid sat on the floor in front of the bookshelf resting the heavy book on her folded legs. She flipped through the pages, turning them back and forth until she found the section she was looking for.

  Yggdrasil: The Tree of Life that held the Nine Worlds of the Known Universe.

  There was a picture of a mighty tree growing in the void of space. Free of the earth, its shape formed a perfect hourglass, with a circle of branches at one end and a ball of roots at the other. The tree floated, its densely woven branches forming a spiraling shape that reminded her of the Fair Haven blueprint. She compared the image in the book with the image on the architect’s drawing and suddenly, everything made sense.

  Fair Haven was somehow a part of this great and ancient tree; it housed an entryway into the skeleton of the universe. She began to translate the design tags, finding their corresponding meaning in Norse. Ingrid studied the terms one by one, jotting down the translations as she worked diligently for the better part of an hour. Her head hurt a little and her eyes felt dry from straining at the faint symbols. Ingrid penned the last character and then pulled back, her spine aching from having sat bent in one position too long, but she had found what she set out to discover.

  She read the translation again, and her mind whirled, recalling that clandestine trip to Fair Haven when she had discovered the hidden door. At the time, she had guessed that the house had been built to create the mystical doorway. But now she understood from reading the symbols that the house was not an entryway to the tree but had been created as a fortress to protect it. The house was a barrier, not a door.

  Ingrid gasped. It was all so clear now. She knew now what was causing all the problems—the silvery darkness, the u
nderground explosion, the barren women, the dead animals, the toxin in the water and in the air. It all pointed in the same direction, to the man who had handed her the plans to the site from the beginning.

  Killian Gardiner. He was a Guardian, an immortal who was, historically, meant to protect Fair Haven and the tree. But what if instead of protecting the tree, he had endangered it somehow?

  He had come back to Fair Haven after traveling the world. He had worked off the coast of Australia and on an Alaskan freighter—places where the toxin had also been found. She did not know if he had been near Reykjavík, but she would bet on it. He had traveled the globe, spreading the toxin.

  As she read the words again she found she could barely breathe. “The time of Ragnarok is at hand, when the earth is submerged in poisoned water. Thus will begin the age of the wolf, when brother will turn against brother, and the world will be no more. Lest the poison of the Nine disperse, the living should not pass the way of Yggdrasil.”

  chapter forty-two

  Götterdämmerung

  For millennia, back when the earth was new, Asgard and Midgard were connected by the Bofrir bridge, made from the bones of the dragons who came before. One terrible day the bridge was destroyed. The damage to the bridge was permanent, and the cause of its destruction came as a surprise to all, for the culprits were revealed to be Fryr of the Vanir and his great friend Loki of the Aesir, two daring young gods whose childish prank brought a terrible consequence. The bridge was the root of the gods’ power, and Loki and Fryr were accused of trying to take the power for themselves.

  As punishment for their actions Loki was banished to the frozen depths for five thousand years, while Fryr was consigned to limbo for an indefinite period since his crime had been the greater one. It was his trident that had sent the bridge to the abyss.

  With the bridge destroyed, the gods were separated. The Vanir, the gods and goddesses of hearth and earth, were trapped in Midgard; while of the Aesir, the warrior gods of sky and light, only mighty Odin and his wife, Frigg, remained in Asgard, both of their sons lost to them for thousands of years. Their sons: Balder and Loki. Branford and Killian Gardiner.

  Killian Gardiner. Loki. Killian. Loki.

  Her lover. Freya knew what she had to do once Ingrid told her about the breach of Yggdrasil. The toxin was the sap from the poisoned tree, and there was only one man in the whole universe who would find it amusing to destroy the very foundation of their world and bring about Ragnarok. The end of times. The doom of the gods. Freya realized that the sand giants were Loki’s Snow Giants, his guards. They had come back and circled the house at Fair Haven, to be close to their master. She raced as fast as she could to Fair Haven and found Killian in his usual place, aboard his beloved boat.

  She climbed on board and faced him. “I know, you know,” she said. “I know who you are and what you’ve been doing.” The realization had been slowly dawning. She’d denied it, never dared to admit it to herself, even privately, but now there was no way to ignore it.

  Killian took her hand in his. “I’m so glad. I’ve been waiting so long . . . five thousand years, with just the memory of your kiss to sustain me . . .” He gathered her in his arms and kissed her forehead. “I missed you so much. More than you will ever know,” he said.

  Even if she burned with hatred, she allowed him to kiss her and to lead her to the cabin below. She had to keep him there until Ingrid could figure out how to fix what he had broken; she had to keep him distracted and keep him company. There was the same urgency in his kisses that had been there the night of the woods, the same passionate intensity.

  And then Freya noticed they were not alone.

  “Madame said I would find you here, but I did not believe it at first.” Bran Gardiner stood in the doorway of the cabin holding a gun. His brown eyes shone with a deep despair. “So, you have what you wanted after all, brother.” Freya had forgotten: she was supposed to meet him at the North Inn an hour ago, and of course he had gone looking for her. This was supposed to be their big joyful reunion.

  Bran Gardiner. Balder. The God of Joy and Peace, of Beauty and Light, who personified everything that was good and true in the world. The best of them all. Her kind and gentle mate. They were made to be together. His mother, the goddess Frigg, had decreed that nothing on earth could hurt him. Yet she had forgotten to shield him from the most dangerous thing of all. The mistletoe. Her kiss. Her love.

  Once upon a time in Asgard, the goddess Freya had two suitors, two handsome brothers to claim her hand. She had chosen Balder as her immortal mate. Enraged and jealous, Loki vowed revenge; and on the eve of their wedding, his poison-tipped arrow met its mark. The arrow pierced Balder’s heart and sent him to the Kingdom of the Dead.

  Freya lost herself to grief and madness until her sister, Erda (Ingrid), who could see the future, gave her a ray of hope. She comforted Freya, telling her that in her lifeline, she saw that one day, in a different universe, in a different time and place, she and Balder would find each other again.

  Thousands of years later, she met Bran Gardiner and she knew he was the one she was waiting for. Her own dear Balder. They had found each other, only to be destroyed by Loki once again. This time, she had let the snake into her bed.

  Freya stood up from the bed and started to speak, but Bran shook his head. “Don’t,” he said to Freya. “I can’t even look at you.”

  “Bran, put down that gun, it’s over,” Killian said hoarsely, as he moved slowly away from the bed and toward his brother. The two men sized each other up, and Killian appeared larger than he had been just moments ago, looming over Bran with an unexpected strength.

  Bran wavered, and the gun tilted from his hand. Killian took the opportunity and knocked the gun from his brother’s grip. The weapon twisted violently around, and Killian’s fingers wrapped the trigger and squeezed. The sound was thunderous, like a crack from the heavens. This was no ordinary gun. Freya screamed. The bullet flew just over Bran’s shoulder, nipping the edge of his neck and drawing blood. Thick red blood seeped from the cut, spreading outward in a crimson circle that quickly enveloped his shoulder.

  Freya heard a snap then, like bones cracking, as the two men were pressed chest to chest; four hands wrapped the gun, both men pawing wildly at the weapon as they tried simultaneously to control the gun’s trigger and to point the barrel at the other. Killian yelled in pain and pushed back hard, heaving forward with both legs. The force of his blow sent both of them tumbling to the ground with Killian on top.

  The weapon fired twice more and both shots cut through the drapes and burst the windowpane. She couldn’t tell whose finger had triggered the shot, as their bodies concealed the gun. Anyone could be in control. Bran freed his left hand from the weapon; drawing backward quickly, he caught Killian hard in the jaw with a punch. Without stopping he drew back twice more, delivering two hard punches to Killian’s face. Two more shots fired. A stream of plaster drifted down from the cabin ceiling.

  Who had fired the gun? Freya wondered. Who was winning? She dove toward the men, her hands scrambling for the weapon, but she was too late. The barrel contained six bullets. The last shot rang out, but this time there were no broken windows or cratered ceiling. The bullet had found a home in one of the brothers.

  With ferocious strength, Freya ripped Killian off Bran, who lay motionless on the ground, and Killian tumbled away, his leg covered in blood. A hole was torn through his pant leg and blood poured from the open wound. Without thinking, she pressed her hand to the wound, stopping the flow for a moment.

  Killian groaned, and all the color drained from his face; but he would live, Freya thought contemptuously. She got up to tend to Bran, but with a shock, she saw that he had disappeared.

  There was no one else in the room.

  chapter forty-three

  The Curse of

  Freya and Balder

  Loki! What did you do! Where is he?!” she screamed. Where was her beloved? Had he left her forever?

&nbs
p; Killian blinked his eyes open and looked at Freya. “Loki? He escaped? You have to catch him . . . follow him . . .” He coughed. “Before he . . .”

  “Stop it! Stop lying. What do you mean Loki has escaped?” she said, feeling as if she were about to lose her mind, just when everything had begun to make sense.

  Killian shook his head, and he looked so wounded that it was as if a light began to catch fire in her mind. Everything that had been hazy and confused and twisted before began to dissipate into the cold, clear light of the truth. When she said his name, it was as if she were waking up from the deepest sleep. “Balder, is it really you?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.” Killian’s face, bloodied and weary, broke into a beautiful smile. The smile of the boy who had won her heart in Asgard. The smile of her beloved. He looked the way he did when she had first seen him, a beautiful boy playing his lyre at the edge of the forest. With those gorgeous blue-green eyes, merry and playful and light.

  Then Freya realized—she had recognized him, from the very beginning, at the engagement party. It was why she was drawn to him from the start, the minute she saw him, why her love for Bran had been conflicted and confusing, saddled with guilt and sadness. Now she understood why she had been so agitated that evening.

  Bran Gardiner was Loki. The God of Mischief and Chaos. Trickster. Shapeshifter. The Sly One. Con man. Liar. Thief. Loki had spun a web of lies from the very beginning, had tricked her into falling in love, had woven a spell around her heart, a powerful glamour that had bound her to him. That first night when she had met him, when her dress had slipped, she realized now, was his doing, so that he had an excuse to touch her. Then those nights at the bar, seven in all, where he had stared at her; all the while he was hypnotizing her to make sure she was the one who made the first move, to complete the spell.

  “There are no words . . .” Freya bowed her head in grief.