Serpent's Kiss: A Witches of East End Novel Page 8

  She laughed, too, but she couldn’t come up with any other excuse. She could act jealous, say she suspected him of having an affair. But why would she be searching under the floorboards? Accusing him of hiding a woman inside the berth would seem a bit psycho.

  Killian leaned inside the door. He was so unflappable, his voice and movements always so relaxed, reminding Freya of their nights of languorous sex. Not that they’d been having any lately, but she couldn’t help but feel the pull.

  “You’ve been avoiding me lately,” he said. “You haven’t been sleeping here. At all. Every time I call you to ask if you need help at the bar, you say it’s too slow, whereas that never, ever mattered before, and what’s going on with you and the boat? How many times do you have to turn it upside down? What’s going on? Why won’t you tell me?”

  So much for thinking she had left the boat intact. “I lost something,” she said. There. That wasn’t that much of a lie. Freddie had lost something.

  “Are you going to tell me what it is?”

  She stared at him, pinching her lips, then adamantly nodded a no.

  “Maybe I could … help?” Killian said. “Ever think of that?”

  She was quiet for a moment and took a breath. “You can’t. I’m sorry. And I can’t tell you. Not yet. I hate it, keeping anything from you, but I just can’t.”

  “Okay if that’s how it’s going to be …” He let his head fall and his shoulders went up and down. When he looked back up at her, she saw the sadness in his eyes. It was very genuine and clear, and she felt terrible for it.

  She loved him so much, but she loved Freddie, too. There was no way her twin could be right, but she needed to find this proof, or at least be sure there wasn’t any truth in his accusations. She was in an awful position caught between two people who were very dear to her.

  The Valkyries did not let go of their prisoners, and somebody had to pay for the collapse of the Bofrir. Somebody had to go to Limbo—there was no way around it—and if it wasn’t Freddie, then who? After all, Loki had served his time. Freddie was so sure it was Killian, and Freddie had never lied to her.

  Killian suddenly punched the wall and Freya jumped back. She knew he was frustrated with what was going on, that he thought he was losing her. “Killian, don’t, please,” she said, feeling a wave of love and pity for him. But pity was death to a relationship, that much she knew, and she didn’t want to feel pity for Killian.

  He didn’t say anything. Instead he abruptly turned around and left her alone, making her feel horrible, abandoned, and suddenly the one who needed to be pitied. She ran up the deck, calling his name, and even climbed up to the cockpit, but he had vanished. She came back down and stood at the gunwale, calling his name in the darkness. “Killian! Come on! Come back!” But there was no answer. No Killian.

  She knew what he was trying to say. Go ahead, Freya. Go ahead and search my boat all you want. I won’t stop you. If you think you can’t trust me, if you think I’m hiding something from you, then go ahead and look. I dare you to find something.

  She felt like a fool.

  chapter fourteen

  Night and Day

  It was a little after two, and Ingrid had already returned the COUNSELING SERVICES placard to her drawer and begun typing a report on the new blueprint. The recent funding to the library had allowed them to replace all the PC dinosaurs with iMacs as well as acquire archiving software to keep track of the many blueprints the library owned. There was much to do: she had to go through every print and its accompanying materials to enter the data, but since this Edwardian one was still fresh in her mind, she started there.

  She looked up from the computer screen, hearing Hudson rapping at her office door.

  “Entrez,” she called.

  He swung the door open just wide enough to slip through, then quietly closed it behind him. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Ingrid,” Hudson said with a huge grin. “A very handsome officer of the law is here to see you.” He raised his eyebrows at her.

  “You can’t mean …” she huffed, then panicked, glancing at Hudson for a second. “Is it really him?” she asked as she began nervously squaring things away on her desk, arranging pens, pencils, erasers, stapler, and Scotch Tape dispenser just so.

  “Uh-huh, well, should I bring him back here?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose. Go ahead.” Her voice got a little high-pitched, and she didn’t want to make eye contact, lest he see her absolute terror.

  While Hudson went to get Matthew Noble, Ingrid worried her hair and bun with a hand, corrected her posture, then tried to decide which hand should rest on the desk. She tried one, then the other, but decided on fake typing instead, which would make her appear just the right amount of insouciant.

  Matt strode in. He was wearing his NHP uniform for a change—detectives wore plainclothes, and Ingrid thought he looked rather dashing in it—the fitted navy shirt, snug pants, gleaming heavy black holster at his hips, and shiny black shoes. He wore no hat, which Ingrid found to be an intelligent style choice.

  She rose, coming out from behind her desk, extending a hand in a formal manner. “Hello, Detective!” she said with a little nod.

  He smiled at her crookedly. “Always so formal, Ingrid,” he said.

  “Have a seat,” she said, swinging an arm in the general direction of the chair and small couch along the wall as she returned behind her desk.

  Matt chose the chair facing Ingrid’s desk and sat with his elbows on his knees, a hand on his forehead, staring down at the floor, shaking his head with what seemed like disapproval. He righted himself and looked Ingrid in the eye. He actually seemed downtrodden.

  “I thought I’d come by and talk to you directly, since you won’t answer any of my calls,” he said. “I’d rather just know in person if you have chosen to end … um … our … this … thing we’ve got going …”

  “Your calls?” she asked.

  “Yes, my calls,” Matt said sharply. “I’ve left you several messages with my sincerest apologies for the other night. I’m sorry about what happened. The cop in me kicked in. I was worried about you. I was out of line. I’m so, so sorry, Ingrid.”

  She was staring at him, eyes wide. This was the last thing she had expected to hear, and she’d been bracing herself to be the one to make an apology. She was confused, but another part of her just wanted to smile. She made an effort to keep her face neutral. “Well,” she attempted, “there must be something terribly wrong with my phone, because I never got your messages.”

  “Really?”

  She shook her head.

  Matt laughed. “Wow, we really suck at this, don’t we?” He stood, kicked at the floor, putting his hands in his pockets. He looked timidly up at her.

  “Indeed,” said Ingrid.

  They stared at each other shyly again, a hint of a smile on both of their faces.

  “Listen, you don’t have to apologize, Matt. I’m the one who acted rudely, and I’ve been feeling awful ever since,” she said earnestly. “Except I’m worse because I didn’t even try to call you. Crikey, what was I thinking?”

  “No, it’s my fault,” he said, picking up on the thirties lingo she’d suddenly adopted. “I had to go and act like a copper.”

  “Why are we talking like this?” she asked, thinking that any minute now scratchy music might start swelling in the background.

  “Well, you started it,” said Matt. “I was just picking up my cue.”

  They laughed. So they had that in common, too, not just classic American novels but sprightly golden age of Hollywood movies starring Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall, a yen for sweet but gritty black-and-white romance.

  “Can we try it again, again?” he asked. “You and I? We really ought to. You’re so swell and peachy, Ingrid.”

  “Stop it,” she said, giggling.

  “I can’t,” he said. “You’re aces.”

  “I’d like to give it another shot. I really would, Matt,” she said huskily, just like a heroine
in a film noir.

  Ingrid was certain the pixies were behind all those missed calls. They had probably messed with her phone. She wouldn’t put it past them. And that piece of paper with that girl’s number on it? Most likely another of their mischievous pranks. After work, she was going to give those mooching pixies a piece of her mind. She had to find out where they were from, pronto, so she could send them back there as soon as possible.

  chapter fifteen

  Jigsaw

  It was a few days before Halloween. Joanna had been so distressed about the spirit trail that she had barely noticed anything else, not least of which that the house was slowly sinking into its former squalor since Gracella had stopped working for several weeks now. She had also forbidden Tyler to visit the house for fear that he would be possessed by evil spirits. Joanna had mentioned it to Ingrid the other day, and her older daughter had muttered something about “refugees” and “I’m taking care of it.” Joanna had been looking forward to celebrating the holiday with her “adopted” grandson, carving pumpkins, buying candy for the trick-or-treaters, creating a real haunted house. But there was no time for that now.

  She set out, a backpack on her shoulders, Gilly leading the way to the trail of wilted flowers. They arrived at the clearing in the exact spot where Harold had called her name. It was a cloudless day, around two in the afternoon, when the sun reached its zenith, shining through the pines and lighting up the glade. In the middle was the path left by the spirit that was trying to make contact with her. The grass along it slanted in different directions, crunching into powder underfoot as Joanna followed it. Of course, it would be quicker to go straight across the glade, but she wanted to keep an eye on the path itself in case she came upon any new clues.

  When she reached the end of the clearing, she saw that the trail continued among the evergreens, but there it turned black; the pine needles blanketing the forest floor were scorched. She crouched down and studied them, picking up a handful, inspecting, sniffing; they were indeed charred and turned to soot in her hand. She clapped her palms to rid them of the black dust, then continued to climb the hill. Gilly flew ahead.

  She stumbled on a bed of stones, then got back to her feet, ascending to the top, where the ground leveled off. Here the path came to an abrupt halt, but straight ahead in this small upper clearing stood a large gnarly oak, and beneath, in the shadows of its sprawling branches, rose a singular mound with a grave marker. Gilly flew and alighted on top of it.

  Something like glass caught the light on the mound. Joanna strode ahead until she was standing before it. The stone marker had no name or epithet inscribed on it—just a blank weathered and pockmarked tombstone. But there on the mound, arranged neatly on the dirt, the pine needles and leaves pushed aside, was a message.

  The spirit had used six rune stones, two Scrabble tiles, and two dice that were missing from a fancy backgammon set that had been a gift from Ingrid. The wooden Scrabble tiles could have belonged to anyone, but the runes, made from the same matter as her dragon-bone wand, which she noticed was there, too—the spirit had used it to underscore the message—were unmistakably hers.

  She had not noticed that the runes were missing. She usually kept them in a red velvet pouch on the desk in her study. Once in a while she would consult the runes to sort out a conflict or look into the future. Unlike Ingrid, Joanna couldn’t directly tap into a person’s lifeline but instead needed the aid of these ancient Norse stones to act as an oracle.

  Joanna took care not to touch anything at first. She removed her rucksack from her back, found a pen and notebook to begin copying down the message so she wouldn’t forget it and could study it further at home. Obviously the spirit was using the runes to tell her something.

  Gilly cawed excitedly, and the sound echoed through the woods.

  “Yes, Gilly, X marks the spot,” she said. “Well, more like an E? Hmm … kind of. Thank you for bringing me here. You did well.”

  Runes were an alphabetic script, and each letter etched onto the small tablet possessed a special meaning, like tarot cards. The order in which each rune was laid out also held significance. At first glance, she saw that none of the runes was reversed, which heartened her because this meant this was most likely a propitious portent. Usually when a rune was upside down, it took on a negative meaning.

  The runes had been placed in a straight horizontal line that included the Scrabble letter tile A. There was a gap after the first three runes, then another three followed, the A among them. In the practice of ancient oracles, such as runes, tarot, or I Ching, the number 3 was commonly used for divination purposes, denoting past, present, and future, a triangle that was complete, the trinity within—blood, water, spirit. A three-rune spread was known as the Norn spread, representing the Norn sister triad, goddesses of past, present, and future, who presided over the fates of gods and men. But why the roman letter A in there, too?

  Beneath this first line was another composed with the two dice, 1 then 5, followed by an upside-down L Scrabble tile. Was the reversed L meant to be a 7? This would then indicate the number 157. What could that be? Could it be a year—BC or AD? So long ago! Because objects other than runes had been introduced, she knew this message would require more than a reading of runes to decode it; this was a puzzle to be solved.

  She sketched it out on her pad:

  When she was done with the sketch, Joanna searched around the gravesite for other clues—a stray rune or letter, maybe even another object—but she didn’t find anything, so she folded the runes, tiles, and dice up in the kerchief she kept in her bag, then knotted the pieces of the puzzle together inside it, so she could pore over the reproduced message at her desk.

  The temperature had dropped and the wind had begun to lash at the pines and maples.

  “We are done here for now, Gilly,” she said, shouldering her pack.

  “Caw, caw!” responded the raven, lifting off to lead the way back to the house.

  chapter sixteen

  Sexual Healing

  There were fewer kids than last year, Freya thought as she put away the candy bowl. Halloween had come and gone, and it wasn’t the same, not without Tyler, whom they had been looking forward to spoiling. Joanna hadn’t decorated—their mother was not herself lately—and Ingrid didn’t approve of the “commercialization” of one of their high holy days, although it had been a long time since they’d celebrated a proper All Hallow’s Eve. It was a shame. Since the Restriction had been lifted there was nothing to stop them from really getting down and dirty and—pagan. Ah, well, maybe next year.

  Freya’s phone vibrated. It was a text from Killian. <>

  They hadn’t seen each other since that last stupid fight on the Dragon. It was as if Killian had disappeared, and Freya had kept an eye on the Dragon in the evenings to see if the lights went on, but it had remained dark since she had last set foot there. This was the first she was hearing from him.

  That day after Killian had left, Freya had gone back to searching every corner of the boat, which had felt like a deplorable act of betrayal. She believed she had found all the secret hiding places, opened every last Chinese box, but the search, which lasted till dawn, had once again yielded absolutely nothing.

  Ever since Freddie had introduced doubt in her mind, Freya had been rattled. She’d been seeing things in Killian: malevolent flickers, evil intent when she had almost slipped off the footbridge. But what if it was just her imagination? She was very impressionable after all. Her emotions clouded everything. What if she was seeing things that weren’t there?

  She had holed up in her New York apartment every night, not wanting to bump into her mother or sister. They would fret and pry, and she was too vulnerable, on the verge of confiding everything. She had made a promise to Freddie that she wouldn’t reveal his secret—that he was back, that he had escaped from Limbo. If it were anyone other than Freddie, she would have told by now, but she always kept her twin’s
secrets. They were sacred, no matter what, no matter that it was killing her. Already, Joanna and Ingrid were getting suspicious about her actions.

  The worse of it was that she missed Killian. She felt as if she were missing a limb, as if some part of her had been severed, and she lay there bleeding out. It felt as if she’d lost him just as she’d found him again, but now, with this message, she felt a glimmer of hope.

  Besides, there was nothing on that godforsaken boat. Freddie was welcome to search it himself if he didn’t believe her.

  <> she texted.

  When Freya arrived at the footbridge, Killian was waiting for her on the other side, casually leaning against the railing. His face was unreadable. She hurried across, but no sooner had she reached him than he hushed her and gently slipped a white scarf over her eyes. The feeling of his fingers putting the blindfold in place, making sure not a sliver of light crept through, calmed her. He placed his hands softly on her shoulders and whispered, “Can you see?”

  She shook her head no. She knew this was his way of asking her to trust him, give him her blind faith, and at the moment she was so relieved and thrilled to be in his presence, to feel his touch again, that she would have gladly let him lead her straight to the edge of a precipice to push her off.

  He made her spin around, doing five revolutions, then spun her the other way. He took her hand. “Come on,” he said.

  He guided her along, but after all that spinning, she wasn’t sure whether they were moving toward the dock or in the opposite direction. Either way, she could still smell the brine on the air. But eventually the ocean scent thinned, so she deduced they were moving away from the water. Now he was behind her, his hands at her waist, pushing her slowly ahead, and she sensed she was on a path among trees; she heard birds chirping overhead. She guessed they were moving away from Fair Haven.