Witches of East End Read online

  Infatuation: A blend of hibiscus rosewater and English gin. Turn heads for the evening and inspire a burning affection.

  Irresistible: Vodka, pureed cherries, powdered cattail, and lime juice. Not for the shy. Prepare to lose your inhibitions.

  Unrequited: St. Germain liqueur, honeyed lavender, and Prosecco. Stop yearning and start loving. Guaranteed to fulfill your heart’s desire.

  Forever: Two glasses of the best French champagne, fortified with crushed daisy petals. For those hoping to rekindle their passion for each other.

  “It’s just something I put together for Sal,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t ask her too many questions.

  “Good stuff,” he said, sliding it away. “Everything you touch turns into gold.” Only Bran could say things like that without it sounding corny. “By the way, I hope that party didn’t scare you away too much.” His forehead crinkled. “Did you have fun?”

  “It was beautiful,” Freya said. “I don’t scare easy, so don’t worry.” She felt a slight shiver of anxiety and wished he hadn’t brought it up, as an image of Killian, the two of them locked in a tight embrace, suddenly sprung to mind. She turned away from Bran for a moment, her golden hair hiding her suddenly red face.

  “So what did you think of that no-good brother of mine?” he asked, his smile fading slightly.

  “He’s all right,” Freya said, hoping to change the subject. Luckily Bran didn’t seem to notice anything askew. They left the bar and walked to his car, holding hands, both of them quietly happy to be together.

  They took the bridge over to Gardiners Island, and Freya marveled again at how well Fair Haven and its surrounding grounds looked. She knew Bran had overseen the design changes and had kept much of the island’s natural growth intact, without disturbing the wildlife or the flora. He parked the car in the garage and turned to her as he cut the engine. “Listen, I know everything’s happened so fast. . . . If you need to change anything, if you change your mind . . . I’ll understand. I can wait for you. I just want you to be happy.” Then he looked at her with those kind brown eyes of his and she fell in love with him even more. Close up, he was starting to have fine lines around his eyes, but it only made him look more distinguished. “I want you to be sure of me.”

  “Sweetheart.” She sighed. “I’m not sure of anything but you.” She pulled him in for a kiss, and she understood then why she had agreed to marry him after knowing him for less than a month. Of all the guys she had ever met in her immortal life, he was the only one who made her feel this safe. She who distributed love only felt loved herself with his strong arms around her.

  Fair haven was dark and shrouded, but Bran elected not to turn on any of the overhead lights. “Shhh . . .” he said. “Let’s not wake Madame Grobadan.”

  “Let’s not!” Freya agreed. Madame might have been the boys’ stepmother, but she had basically raised them and remained a formidable presence in Bran’s life. Freya was half-afraid of her, and had let her run the engagement party and make all the decisions, meekly acquiescing to her stringent demands. Madame loved the boys like her own, and with her intimidating posture and dismissive attitude, she was in some ways even more frightening than a real mother-in-law.

  If possible, the house looked more impressive than it had at the party, with its vast open spaces empty of people. The grand piano gleamed in the moonlight, and Bran opened the French doors so they could hear the sound of the ocean. The house was so large, the main hall could hold an army, and the residential wing might as well have been in a whole other zip code. Freya walked over to the bar cart and made Bran a martini, extra dry. The bottled olives looked a little puny, but with a tap of her finger they turned juicy and plump. She fed him the olives one by one and he downed the drink in one gulp.

  Bran set the glass aside then slouched in one of the roomy club chairs by the fireplace and loosened his tie, which was his way of telling her he wanted her to sit on his lap. He had been so unsure and hesitant in the beginning, as if not quite daring to believe that she would oblige him. His masculine gentleness was so appealing, and she quickly straddled him, so that her long, thick, curly hair brushed his face. He pulled her down to him hungrily, and soon his hands were slipping her dress above her head and she was unbuckling his belt and helping him kick off his pants.

  “But what about . . . ?” she asked. “Should we move to your room?”

  “They’re miles away and asleep. . . . We’ll be quiet,” he whispered.

  In the moonlight her body looked as perfect as a statue; when she sank herself on him her breath caught at the rush of feeling, of being broken and taken, as they moved gently together, so that with each thrust she felt as if she were opened anew. He groaned, his face tense with desire as he picked her up, the two of them still joined; then they were on the floor and he was turning her over, so that she was kneeling with her back in front of him, her head in her hands, thrilling at the way he held her by the waist, the way he pushed himself into her, his hands strong as he moved her every which way, now on her back, now on her stomach, now on top, mastering his strength and keeping her gasping. He was always in control, and she had never met anyone who made her feel quite as . . .

  Well no, that wasn’t quite true, now, was it . . . ?

  There was someone else who . . .

  She pushed the image from her head . . . but there it was. . . .

  Killian, with his strong hands under her skirt, as she unzipped his jeans. . . .

  It didn’t belong there . . . especially not now. . . . Why was she even thinking of him? She didn’t want this. She didn’t want to think of him at all, and certainly not at this particular moment, but she couldn’t help but remember . . . how she’d been on her knees, how she’d taken him in her mouth, had tasted him, and Killian had pushed himself against her and she thought she might explode from desire. . . .

  No . . . stop . . . please. . . . She had to stop thinking about it . . . had to stop dreaming about it . . . had to stop thinking about him. . . .

  Then she was straddling Bran again, his hands on her breasts, and her hands on his, kneading and pinching. They clenched fists and she ground her hips on his lap, keeping the frantic, rhythmic pace . . . and she willed Killian’s image away . . . trying to focus instead on Bran’s handsome face, on his body and his lust. . . .

  But against her will, the other face came back to her mind. . . .

  She couldn’t help it, the wrongness of it, of what she had done the other night at her own engagement party—the two of them against the small bathroom wall, her legs around Killian’s waist as he pushed himself deeper into her—combined with what she was doing now . . . and she moaned and lost herself in the wicked sensation of being with one man while thinking of another. . . . She bit her lip and lost control as her body shook with spasms. . . .

  At the same time, below her, Bran let out a magnificent roar (so much for being quiet!) and slammed his body against her again and again and again until he shuddered and was still and they collapsed into each other, her body feeling the ache of longing as he pulled out from her so slowly.

  Bran kissed her on the cheek in a sweet gesture of gratitude, as if unable to believe the extent of his extraordinary luck. Freya smiled to feel his lips on her skin, her whole body trembling, and when she opened her eyes, she saw a figure move in the shadow of the hallway.

  They were not alone, after all.

  Someone had been watching them—someone with the dark hair and glittering, aquamarine eyes of the man who had ravished her only in her mind.

  But when she looked again, Killian was gone.

  chapter ten

  Witch Business

  Just as Ingrid had predicted, Tabitha was soon pregnant. It took only a week for the news to spread around town, and only a few days before certain women decided that they, too, wanted to see if their local librarian could help them with their problems. On a bright Monday morning in June, the glowing mother-to-be regaled yet another group of women gathered aroun
d the main counter with her story. It was one they had heard already, but it didn’t keep Tabitha from telling it, and her audience was happy enough to hear it once more while awaiting their turn to see Ingrid.

  “The doctors said it was a medical miracle! Because our tests came back, you know, and they were bad. They said it was virtually impossible for me to get pregnant, but it happened! All thanks to Ingrid! Did you hear what she did for Stephanie Curran? Cured her of that rash that never went away! I swear, the woman is a miracle worker! Well, not a miracle worker but some kind of witch, maybe!”

  “Witch!” Mona Boyard repeated, a bit shocked.

  “Witch, please,” Hudson interrupted, with a hand on his hip. “This is North Hampton. We prefer ‘special caregiver.’ You know, like a reader or a psychic,” he said brightly.

  No one knew exactly how Ingrid helped people, only that it worked without any obvious medical or scientific explanation. So it had to be some kind of . . . magic? But who believed in magic in this day and age? The women of North Hampton didn’t care what it was called, only that they wanted it for themselves if it worked.

  At first Ingrid had not wanted to take the credit for Tabitha’s pregnancy, or to dispense any more help or advice, but she soon found it difficult to refuse. Since no lightning bolt came flying out of the sky after she’d given Tabitha the fertility charm, it seemed only fair to help everyone who asked. Maybe Freya was right, maybe it had been so long that the Council had forgotten about them, maybe nothing would come of it this time. Ingrid was willing to take that chance. She couldn’t deny it either: practicing magic again was not only enjoyable but gave her a sense of purpose. There was meaning in her life again. She had wasted so much time and effort in denying her innate talents, burying herself in endless small tasks and taking a job at a library: one she enjoyed, of course—but still. This was what she was put on earth to do. To hell with that restriction, surely after so many years they had earned a pass? Maybe the Council wouldn’t even notice. Besides, the citizens of North Hampton were enlightened, neither fearful nor superstitious. They were curious and skeptical, but willing to try something new.

  She was surprised to find an unusual run of bad luck in each supplicant’s tale. Some problems, while minor, had been impossible to fix in the ordinary sense: strange aches and pains that no amount of medicine could cure; temporary blindness, bizarre headaches, frequent nightmares. There were several women, much younger than Tabitha, who had also been having trouble conceiving, their spirits blocked by the same silvery mass she had first seen in her coworker. Ingrid worked hard, creating pentagrams, lighting tapered candles, giving out a few little knots, a charm or a spell or two. She accepted clients, as Hudson called them, only during her lunch hour. After all, she had an exhibit to plan and documents to steam. As recompense, Ingrid asked that they donate what they could afford to the library fund, raising money by charging people for something they wanted and that she could give them. Maybe she could close the gap in that budget yet, and their ambitious mayor would drop the idea of selling off the library.

  Her last visitor was Emily Foster, an attractive woman in her late thirties. Emily was a well-regarded artist around town, known for her giant abstract murals of seascapes and horses. She lived with her husband, Lionel Horning, who was also an artist, on a farm at the city’s edge, where they raised animals. They kept the Beauchamps stocked with fresh eggs and milk and never asked for payment since Joanna regularly dropped off vegetables from her garden. “How can I help you?” Ingrid asked.

  “It’s such an odd thing,” Emily said, blowing her nose. “But I need something to . . . I don’t know . . . it’s so stupid. . . .”

  “There are no judgments here, Em,” Ingrid promised.

  “I just . . . I can’t seem to focus lately. I’ve never had this problem before . . . being blocked, you know? But it’s like I can’t even paint or anything. . . . It’s so strange. I mean, of course once in a while you get stuck . . . but it’s been two weeks now and I can’t seem to concentrate on it. It’s like my mind is just . . . blank . . . like I can’t see anything, no shapes or anything . . . just grayness.” She barked a laugh. “Can you cure artist’s block?”

  “I can try,” Ingrid said.

  “Thank you.” Emily’s eyes watered. “I’ve got an exhibit in a few months. I’d really appreciate it.”

  She placed Emily in a pentagram, lit the candle, and assessed her spirit. Yes, there it was, that same silvery mass, right in the middle of her torso, and by now Ingrid was quite adept at yanking it out. Ingrid realized it did not just block the creation of life, but it blocked the process of creation itself. Ingrid thought she might have to mention it to Joanna at some point. There were just too many instances lately to be random. There was something odd going on here.

  Later that afternoon, Ingrid resumed her real work and began the task of preparing the Gardiner blueprints for the show. She stood at the conference table and slowly unrolled the heavy set of drawings. The sheets were large, almost as big as the table, and the paper was yellowed and fragile. Ingrid expertly thumbed through the pages until she found the site plan. She always started there. A set of design plans was like a novel in a way, a text prepared for the builder, a story written by the architect on how the house should be built. The site plan was like an introduction to the novel.

  The site plan showed wavy concentric lines circling a single point at the center, a blocky shape drawn in dark pencil, which represented Fair Haven. She leaned in closely to examine the heavy pencil lines. Each set of drawings contained its own language of keys: symbols and marks that led to specific drawings for each part of the house. A design set blossomed from the outside in, from the site plan to the main floor plan to specific elevations and details.

  As she moved through the drawing set, an image of the house began to form in her mind. She glanced from the key on the main floor plan to an elevation of the main ballroom, and turned back to make sure she had read it correctly. That was odd. The elevation key was different from the one that resided on the site plan. Most architecture keys were made up of numbers and letters such as “A 2.1 /1” inside a small circle, but this number tag was elaborately decorated with twisting patterns.

  Ingrid pulled a chair out so she could sit down and look more closely at the tiny cartouche. There was something intriguing about the dense pattern of shapes. The swirling lines appeared floral in nature, suggestive of the arabesques of art nouveau, and as she continued to stare at them, the shapes began to resemble letters; but if they were letters they were from a language she could not understand, had never seen before. They weren’t Egyptian hieroglyphs or any dead language that she had a passing familiarity with in all her time on earth.

  She went through more of the drawings and found several similarly decorated tags, not just room tags and wall tags, but tags for fixtures and finishes, each emblazoned with the elaborate script, and each one unlike the other. She had never seen anything like it in any drawing set before. Ingrid was familiar with the standard architectural keys, and was certain that whatever was written around the keys was not meant for any builder or contractor. Drawing keys were meant to carry the reader from one drawing to another, but these keys had some other function hidden within them, one that had nothing to do with the architecture or construction of the house.

  Ingrid pulled her phone from her pocket, zoomed in on one of the strange tags, and snapped a picture. She dropped it into an e-mail. While she couldn’t read the language, she knew someone who might, thinking of the letters she always kept in her pocket.

  chapter eleven

  The Sunshine of Her Life

  So this is what it felt like to be a grandmother. Joanna had never been privy to that particular experience. Not with those bachelor girls of hers, who chose to live alone for centuries. Maybe it was a blessing in disguise: look at what creating all those half-deities did for the Greeks. Messy. Perhaps Freya would change her mind when she and Bran were wed, but Ingrid was probabl
y a lost cause.

  There was no doubting it, little Tyler Alvarez had captured her heart. After the incident with the blackberry pie, Joanna, like her daughters, had become more and more daring with practicing her magic. She delighted in surprising him. She made his toy soldiers come to life, and they spent hours sending their troops into battle. With Joanna in the playroom, the teddy bears talked and the puppets danced without strings. She was a nanny and a conjurer, the best kind of playmate. She even showed him Ingrid’s pet griffin. “This is Oscar,” she told him. “No one outside of the family is allowed to see him. But I want you to meet him.”

  Oscar nuzzled Tyler’s hand and swished his lion’s tail proudly as Tyler fed him his favorite snack, Cheetos.

  “It’s our secret,” she said.

  True to his word, the four-year-old never said anything to his parents about what Joanna was capable of doing. Besides, for Joanna, making a few inanimate objects approximate life was easy. It didn’t take much to entertain a toddler.

  That afternoon she was tackling the garden. She always kept a tidy little bed behind the house. Something small, although of course with her talents for keeping things growing she had the largest, juiciest vegetables in the Hamptons. She grew corn and zucchini, cucumbers and cabbage, beefsteak tomatoes as large as basketballs. She was weeding the little plot when her cell phone rang. She glanced at the number, and her heart began to race when she saw it was the Sunshine Preschool. The school did not make it a habit of calling during the day, which could only mean one thing: something had happened to Tyler. Her hands began to shake as she answered the phone.

  “Joanna?” asked the calm voice of the director. Marie May had founded the school thirty years ago, and in a small town like North Hampton where everyone knew one another the two women often made small talk when they bumped into each other at the grocery store, the gas station, or the fruit stand.