Serpent's Kiss: A Witches of East End Novel Page 2

  His voice was so gentle, and she knew he was still Killian, her sweet, her beloved. He would never hurt her, never. She knew the truth of that deep in her bones. And he was right: she was an adrenaline junkie; she liked dangerous games. “I’m sorry, too,” she said as she turned to face him, running a hand over his stubble, his soft lips. “I don’t know why I freaked out.”

  Back aboard the Dragon, they tumbled into bed and Freya looked down at him through half-lidded eyes. Killian was gritting his teeth, eyes drowsy and glazed by the pleasurable sensation of their lovemaking. His strong hands guided her by the waist, his thumbs pushed on her hips as she rocked on top of him and the cabin heaved in a rhythm.

  Afterward, Killian gave her a sleepy kiss, but Freya lay awake for a long time, as the strange, uncomfortable feeling began to grow. She couldn’t lie to herself. She had seen what she had seen, at the bar and on the bridge.

  She had looked into Killian’s blank eyes and she had seen her own death in them.

  chapter two

  Stranger in the Night

  Ingrid Beauchamp walked down an aisle of the North Hampton Public Library, humming as she shelved a handful of books on the way to the children’s reading area. Her blond bun was neatly brushed back from her face, and she was wearing a smart tailored blue suit and pretty new spectator pumps. She was taking a break from restoring an Edwardian blueprint that had been found inside an old roll-top secretary desk in a ramshackle manor on the edge of town that was going up for auction.

  School had let out about an hour ago, and kids had begun to file in, the teens to check out the latest “trauma porn” (as Hudson called the newest crop of “dark” books for the age group), or study in the carrels, the younger ones huddling up for Tabitha’s reading hour. Tabitha had a mellifluous voice, and perhaps she had missed her calling as an actress, Ingrid mused. She kept those kids on tenterhooks. Ingrid wanted to make sure it was comfy in there for Tab. Not quite five months into her pregnancy, the girl already looked as if she were about to pop.

  Ingrid let out a happy sigh as she surveyed the busy area with bay windows facing the library’s garden, out to the shore and the splashing gray-green waves. A teen lay sprawled on two oversize orange pillows, and Ingrid would need to find a small one for Tabitha’s back, so she set herself to the task. The boy had a jet-black faux hawk and was hunkered down over one of the new e-readers she’d bought at Hudson’s urging. “We can’t get left behind! The future is here, and you should know that more than anyone,” he’d said, alluding to her other talents.

  The summer’s end fund-raiser meant the library was no longer on the verge of extinction and the money had even allowed her to get a half dozen of those devices. She couldn’t imagine how anyone would want to forego the intimate experience of a book—pages whispering between the fingers, hurried glances at the colorful cover before immersing oneself again. She didn’t understand the allure of reading a flat screen, but if it kept the library alive and well, so be it.

  That the previous mayor had died a scandalous death—hanging himself in a roadside fleabag motel after killing an underage girl who had rebuffed him—was indeed a sad and tragic fact. However, it had saved Ingrid’s beloved library, her home away from home, her domain. There was a lot of silver lining there. The tragedy had ushered in a young, intelligent mayor, Justin Frond, who was all about preservation and keeping big businesses and ugly run-of-the-mill chains out of the quaint and sleepy town; he even wanted to turn the white-columned library building into a historical landmark.

  “Large cargo ahead! Coming through!” boomed Hudson, who was guiding Tabitha into the reading room, one hand on her back, the other at her wrist.

  “Hudson!” chastised Ingrid, who was arranging pillows in neat half circles facing Tabitha’s reading chair.

  “Well, it’s true,” said Tabitha. “But I still have two legs and can walk, Hudson!” Her face was rounder and her cheeks flushed; pregnancy had made her look younger, vital, full of life, her long blond hair glossier. She couldn’t stop eating, though, and had taken to packing two lunches—just in case. “I know. I’m getting so big.”

  Hudson squared the knot of the violet tie beneath his argyle vest while he studied Tabitha. He placed the tip of an index finger between his lips and bit the nail. “Mmm …”

  “For god’s sake, she’s pregnant,” Ingrid cut in.

  “Library voice, Ingrid,” he reminded. “I was actually going to say ‘gorgeous.’”

  The three friends laughed.

  “Anyway, Tab, you’ll lose the excess superfast once you start … What is that whatsy thing called again?” He snapped his fingers, searching for the word.

  “Nursing …?” asked Ingrid, not quite sure herself.

  “Yeah, that!” He lifted his brow. “Burn those calories, baby!” Hudson spun on his heels, leaving them with the rest of setup for reading hour.

  Ingrid felt worn out as she punched in the code to the alarm, then locked up the library. After-school hours had gotten especially harried, and she had stayed late, working on her magnificent new blueprint. Plus, she had resumed witching hour, or “counseling services,” weekdays from noon to one. As for payment, there was a list with a full range of suggested donations. SPONSOR YOUR FAVORITE AUTHOR TO COME TO THE NORTH HAMPTON PUBLIC LIBRARY TO DO A READING. SUPPORT LITERATURE, the sign said. THE FRONT COLUMNS AND NINETEENTH-CENTURY GARDEN TRELLISES NEED YOUR HELP! She was back in the magic business and this time she didn’t have to look over her shoulder while she practiced it. She found the work fulfilling. Helping people with her magic made her feel refreshed and invigorated. Ingrid was doing her part. Hadn’t there been a study that showed that even the smallest acts of kindness made people live longer, happier lives? Well, she would live forever anyway, but she did get a thrill out of being of service. But today, it had been bang, bang, bang, one emergency case after the next, and she was ready to go home.

  Ingrid crossed the street, making her way toward the adjacent park, tugging the collar of her light wool coat around her neck. There was a chill in the air and the wind had picked up. Autumn had finally kicked in. It was dark, and the park—filled with pines, maples, and evergreen oaks, along with a bench and lamppost here and there along the winding paths—was full of shifting shadows, most likely the tree branches lifting and swelling in the wind.

  It was quicker to cut through the park than to circumvent it, walking straight toward the beach and hanging a left on the small sandy alley that led to Joanna’s house. Ingrid always took this route, but for a moment she hesitated.

  She reprimanded herself for being such a scaredy-cat just because it was darker than usual, or for even considering summoning her familiar, Oscar, to accompany her home. Most likely the griffin was already curled up in a corner of the house, making those little snoring noises. She had done much scarier things than walk through this safe little town’s park at night before.

  Nevertheless, Ingrid braced herself as she entered the park, taking the little cement path. She picked up her speed as the trees whooshed around her. It was all so dimly lit, and the click of her heels echoed too loudly. She heard a moaning, creaking sound that made her start, but she sighed when she realized it was coming from the children’s playground ahead, most likely a swing pushed to and fro by the wind.

  As she approached the play area—it was hard to see because of the black rubber mats covering the ground and the sudden glare of a lamppost—Ingrid thought she spied something. It looked like several child-size forms on the monkey bars and the swings. Now that was weird—children playing at this hour. The few parents she knew in North Hampton advocated very strict and early bedtimes. A gust pushed through the trees, and Ingrid heard whispers, a patter of feet, or maybe she was just hearing things, mistaking the sound of rustling pine needles and leaves for something more. Maybe she was seeing and hearing things that weren’t there.

  Sure enough, as she came around the lamppost, the playground was deserted and the swings were swaying on th
eir own. She heaved a sigh of relief too soon, though. She had been so worried about the creaky noises that she had missed the lumpy, ragged silhouette lumbering toward her on the path about fifteen feet ahead. Her breath caught in her throat, and she immediately recalled a tidbit from the local news warning the residents of North Hampton of a recent rash of burglaries. No wonder she had been tentative about taking this shortcut: the information had slipped her mind, but unconsciously it must have been nagging at her. She could turn around and take off at a clip, but in her pencil skirt and heels, she couldn’t exactly sprint. The fearsome figure continued to limp toward her, stopping now and then on the opposite border of the pathway with an awkward, halting gait.

  Ingrid kept her head high and her pace steady, and did not change her course. Partly, this was stubbornness on her part. Why should she turn around? She had made it this far and was almost across the park. She didn’t have very much on her, about twenty-six dollars and change, and she would happily hand it over if the thief let her go on her merry way. In all likelihood, it was just a poor homeless person searching for a place to sleep.

  As she and the stranger neared each other, she could make him out better in the faint light: the strangely small head on that tall body, almost seven feet tall; a grimy face; a stoop or a bit of a hump; shiny, dark beady little eyes; and a long, draping coat that was ripped and frayed.

  Just a few feet apart now, she was close enough to attune her senses, quickly sweep through the underlayer to scan for the pulse of a lifeline.

  But there was nothing. Ingrid frowned.

  As they crossed each other, the stranger unexpectedly swung sideways, lunging at her, grasping her, and cupping her mouth with a hand. Ingrid screamed, or tried to, but there was something in her mouth now—a hanky steeped in chloroform—deep and noxious; she felt immediately drowsy. She sensed a disturbing commotion around her, but she just couldn’t open her eyes to see what it was: people moving this way and that, talking in hurried whispers in a language she didn’t recognize. She tried to kick her legs, fight back with her arms, but her body wouldn’t respond to her brain’s commands. She couldn’t recall a spell to undo paralysis, not a single word came to mind.

  “You’re right. It is Erda!” a voice said urgently. There was something soothing about hearing her old name. Or had the voice said Ingrid? She didn’t know any longer, and she gave in, because now she was too, too tired as she was pulled off the path and dragged over pine needles and stones.

  chapter three

  Two Princes

  Joanna Beauchamp stood over the sink, washing dirt off the root vegetables she had dug up in the garden: fat, juicy carrots, beats, parsnips, and rutabaga, encrusted with clumps of dark soil. She had baked two rhubarb pies, which were now cooling on the old Aga stove—one for her family, the other for Gracella’s. She wondered if Tyler would like the tangy sweetness of rhubarb and hoped he would. Her girls would probably complain loudly as they ate a piece or two. “Mother! Not another pie!” Freya would say while Ingrid shook her head.

  Where were they anyway?

  Freya usually came home to take a hot bubble bath or pack a small travel bag every two days or so to spend nights with Killian on the Dragon, but Joanna hadn’t seen her in—was it four days? The seas had been choppy lately and Joanna couldn’t imagine sleeping on a keeling boat, all shook up like that. She should mention to Freya that she and Killian should just shack up in one of the many rooms of Fair Haven if they were going to spend this many nights together. But perhaps the main house held too many bad memories.

  Ingrid, on the other hand, was late getting home from work again. Joanna remembered that the other week her oldest had told her about some blueprint she was excited about, and there was no telling how late she might stay at the library once she had immersed herself in a project.

  Why was she worrying? Her girls always took care of themselves, had for centuries. And just because this house had become their new pied-à-terre of late, it didn’t mean she should start fretting over them as if they were babies. Joanna finished scrubbing the dirt off the vegetables and was about to wash her hands when she noticed yet another anomaly in her kitchen. The little black flowery Chinese soap dish to the right of the sink was gone.

  All day long it had been like this. She’d found baking pans upstairs in the bathtub, cups and coffee mugs inside the oven, her hairbrush in the freezer, and now it was going to be a hunt for the Chinese soap dish. There were small items that had gone missing altogether: tweezers by the bathroom sink, along with a pair of small scissors, and, later, her sewing kit. Was Gracella busting out—to use an expression of Freya’s—new cleaning techniques? Had she lost it? But that would be very unlike Gracella, who was steady, observant, and almost too thoughtful (in the bathroom, she aligned Joanna’s lipsticks with the color labels facing upward from dark to light).

  Was one of her girls playing tricks with her? But why? Logic dictated it couldn’t have been Freya, who had seemed distracted lately and had been a no-show for several days. Freya always made a point of letting Joanna know she was home, singing audibly as soon as she walked through the door, then greeting her mother with a hug and a kiss. Ingrid wasn’t exactly the prankster type. If Ingrid had been peeved with Joanna for whatever reason, she wouldn’t take it out on her by hiding Joanna’s things.

  “Aha!” uttered Joanna as she scooted a chair out from the table after trying the breadbox and every other unlikely nook and cranny in the kitchen she could think of. The antique soap dish, which she had bought eons ago at a market in Hong Kong and had managed not to break all these years, sat smack in the middle of the chair’s seat. It was clean and contained a brand-new bar of soap. Puzzling. Perhaps Gracella had been forgetful, had had an off day. Everyone did from time to time, even the best of housekeepers.

  Joanna washed her hands, content that everything (or so it seemed for now) had been put back in its rightful place. She pulled the ancient wand out of her loose bun so that her long silver hair fell down her shoulders. She needed a shower.

  As she strode through the living room on her way upstairs, the blinking answering machine caught her eye, and she stopped in her tracks. The red button winked twice at her, then paused and blinked twice again. Ah, she thought, they aren’t as inconsiderate as I thought and are finally learning that a mother does worry even when her girls are immortal.

  She walked over to the machine and flicked her wand at it. She could, of course, press the button, both acts requiring a single gesture, but somehow this felt easier, plus Gracella had taken care to clean the vintage machine: she had seen her doing so with Q-tips and rubbing alcohol.

  “Uh … this is Norman. Uh … your husband?” the machine said.

  “Oh!” She was caught off guard. She crossed her arms over her chest and waited for Norman to continue. Why did he have to announce himself like that? They had known each other for millennia, and she certainly hadn’t forgotten his voice. What was with the upbeat word husband with the question mark at the end? Well, she had to admit that she herself didn’t know what their status was. Being apart this long, would they actually be considered divorced?

  “I’ve been thinking … How to put this? … Maybe this is not the right place to say it, Jo … I probably should speak with you directly instead …”

  Joanna waved a hand at the machine as if to urge it to speed up.

  “Yes, I know, you’re getting impatient with me right now, so I’ll get on with it …”

  Joanna snorted. She couldn’t help but feel a slight thrill at hearing Norman’s soft gruff voice, which suggested a nose-in-the-books-all-day kind of weariness. There was also the pleasure of the deep familiarity of his voice, like hearing from an old friend who anticipated her thoughts.

  Norman continued. “Ever since that little shindig of Ingrid’s—the library fund-raiser—well, even before that, I thought … Well, maybe we can just talk a little?” The latter came out rushed. “I would really like that, Jo. Call me! I was thinking
it would be truly terrific if—” Just as Norman had been gathering some momentum, the machine sounded a long beep, cutting him off. It reminded her of that Gong Show from the 1970s and she laughed out loud.

  “Hi, this is Harold Atkins calling Joanna Beauchamp,” piped in yet another male voice, this one more self-assured and to the point. “I wanted to follow up on that little conversation we had about letting me take you out to dinner. I heard about some new place down by the waterfront. Would you like to try it out? By the way, how’s that raven of yours? Hope to see you soon. Tomorrow at the preschool? Are you picking up Tyler?”

  Harold Atkins, a dashing gentleman widower, had recently moved to North Hampton. His daughter and son-in-law, both doctors at the local hospital, worked long rotation hours. Harold had proposed that rather than raise little Clay with a series of nannies who came and went, better to have the child’s own grandfather for the job. He was retired from his veterinarian practice in New York City and had nothing keeping him there any longer. His wife had died of ovarian cancer three years earlier, and the city was filled with painful reminders of the woman he had dearly loved. So Harold had sold his Manhattan brownstone for a handsome sum to buy a house on the beach in North Hampton and be a grandpa.

  Joanna didn’t find Harold’s message intrusive; it was flattering that he had taken such an interest in her instead of that bunch of sexy grannies at the preschool. What did Freya call them? Not cougars—snow leopards—slim, glossy silver–haired ladies with their light work (expressionless foreheads), weekly manicures, and monthly visits to the salon, who eagerly sidled up to him or threw him salacious sidelong glances. Harold was a very young, very urbane-looking seventy-year-old, and it didn’t hurt that he was also rich.

  She and Harold had become friendly since early September when school had started, and he always appeared especially pleased to see Joanna. She had noticed that her jeans fit more loosely lately; maybe it was that she had lost a few of her extra pounds and didn’t look so bad herself. She and Harold had exchanged numbers to set up playdates for Tyler and Clay, who were buddies.