Spellbinder: A Love Story With Magical Interruptions

by Melanie Rawn

  “Shadows.”

  “Yes. Always shadows. I had to tell you there’s a change. What I saw last year—the cross still burns, but the swastika isn’t the only other symbol. The inverted pentagram is the only one I recognize. All the shapes and designs—swirls and writhings — I’m not a scholar, Elias, I don’t know what they man!”

  “Shh. It’s all right. Can you draw them?”

  “I think so.” She scrubbed her hands across her face. “I hate this. I hate this. I hate seeing what I see.”

  “Not always,” he soothed. “You’ve seen pleasant things, too, happy things. It isn’t always terrible.”

  “No. Not always.”

  “You saw David six weeks before you met him, and the wedding a month before he asked you —”

  “Yes, there are good things. Alec and Nicky always told me to concentrate on the good things —” She looked around as if suddenly becoming aware of her surroundings. “I should go—you have a guest—”

  “It’s all right.”

  “I want to go home.” Rising on unsteady legs, she attempted a smile. “I’m fine. I’ll do the drawings tomorrow. There were numbers, as well. And birds.”

  “Ravens?” he asked, remembering her vision of last year.

  “I think so. But whether they were Teutonic ravens, fugitives from the Tower of London, or just common garden variety crows —”

  Elias rose, slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Hush. It’s all right. We’ll figure it out.”

  “At least the swastika is gone. That’s something, isn’t it? I could have been mistaken originally, though, it could have been a much more ancient sun-wheel. The swastika wasn’t always a symbol of evil.”

  “Lydia. Let it go. Let me call David to take you home. It’s almost midnight.”

  If Susannah was bewildered by Lydia’s abrupt departure with her husband after ten minutes of coffee and innocuous conversation, she didn’t show it. Alone with Elias again, she regarded him with dancing green eyes over the rim of her cup and asked, “Do you get a lot of pretty women arriving distraught on your doorstep?”

  “She’s the daughter of an old friend.” This, at least, was not a lie. “And if you’re really interested, I prefer them to arrive on my doorstep in tight jeans, a pink blouse, and a blonde ponytail.”

  “What happens then?”

  “Play your cards right, Counselor, and you just might find out.”

  THE NEXT MORNING SUSANNAH DROVE to her mother’s home in Connecticut. Elias was lingering over the paper, still in his bathrobe, when a messenger arrived. The package was from Lydia, who must have sat up all night transcribing what she remembered. Bradshaw tipped the boy and shut the door, weighing the thick envelope in his hand. So much for a lazy afternoon puttering around the house.

  Upstairs, in a small library off the locked Circle room, he spent a few minutes gathering books before seating himself at the desk. Lydia’s pages before him, he worked for two hours before deciding he couldn’t stomach any more. His discoveries were, if anything, more sinister even than the swastika. Eleven symbols had been drawn, one to a page, and, of the eight he had identified, all of them were connected to the darkest, most malevolent deities in the world pantheon.

  It was somehow obscene even to admit such names existed in this serenely elegant place he had created for himself. No computer here, no telephone, no electronic or mechanical devices at all — not even a typewriter. The most modern technological device within its walls, in fact, was the lock on the door, which wouldn’t even yield to its proper key when he muttered a few words that made the place more secure than any lock. He let his gaze wander the oaken shelves, where the gilt-stamped spines of leather-bound books echoed the dark greens and crimsons and indigos of the Persian rug. Susannah might be standing in a similar room in her mother’s house right now — similar but for the polished oak and the expensive rug in Elias’s library. In the past, the Wingfields had produced any number of wealthy and influential Old and New Englanders, but Susannah’s branch had been out of the money for several generations. They had little besides the big old house built in 1796, and the books—thousands of volumes collected by an unbroken succession of rabid bibliophiles. Maybe that was where all the money had gone, he mused, knowing he was avoiding Lydia’s list by thinking about Susannah.

  “Judge Bradshaw?”

  He didn’t glance up from the file on his desk. The new candidate for assistant/ associate/gopher had arrived; great résumé, nice voice on the phone, who cared about the rest? She’d last only a few months, anyway. None of them could cope with him longer than that.

  “Good morning, Ms. — ” What the hell was her name again?

  “Wingfield,” she supplied.

  A very nice voice, he amended, not looking at her: “I don’t have time for an interview this morning. See Mrs. Osbourne and reschedule for tomorrow.”

  “Certainly, Your Honor.”

  He would never know bow she did it, but the temperature in his chambers dropped thirty degrees. He glanced up. All he saw as she stalked out the door were the outlines of a slender body and an opulence of wheat-gold hair.

  The door didn’t quite slam. He dug up her résumé. By the fifth line he was reaching for his intercom, requesting Mrs. Osbourne to have Ms. Wingfield wait.

  “Why aren’t you still a prosecutor?” he said without preamble as she walked back into his office. “Or in private practice? Or aiming for your own judgeship?”

  Seating herself in the brown leather chair before his desk, cool as cloud and just as remote, she replied, “I gkot frustrated in the prosecutor’s office. I got bored in private practice. I don’t want to be a judge.”

  “Then what do you want, exactly?”

  “I don’t have a clue. My father says I’m unfocused, my sisters think I’m crazy, and my mother wantd me to settle down and raise grandchildren.”

  “Still don’t know what you want to be when you grow up?”

  “Oh, I knew that when I was eight. I’ve just never found an aspect of the law that suits me.”

  “I don’t do guidance counseling in my spare time. For one thing, I have no spare time—and neither will you, working for me.”

  “If I’d wanted a life, she retorted, green eyes crinkling at the corners as she smiled, “I’d’ve followed my mother’s advice a long time ago.”

  “You start this afternoon,” he heard himself say.

  “If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer tomorrow morning. A friend is visiting from Virginia and I promised to take her to lunch.”

  He settled back in his chair and regarded her thoughtfully. “So you keep your promises, do you, no matter what?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  “Even if your new boss wants you to start this afternoon?”

  “I didn’t expest to get this job.”

  “Why not?”

  Before she could answer, Mrs. Osbourne appeared in the open doorway and said, “Ms. McClure is here for you, Ms. Wingfield.”

  Virginia, McClure—couldn’t be. He’d heard about her — every Magistrate in North America had heard about her: It just wasn’t believable that this would be the same woman —

  Elias grimaced, recalling his birthday dinner at Chanterelle, and the note Holly had sent him via the waiter: Wake up and smell the cappuccino — you’ll have a much happier birthday if you do. His expression resolved into a wry smile. Yellow roses for redheads, white for blondes, pink for brunettes — and red for the morning after your first night together.

  Elias pushed his chair back and rubbed his hands over his face. He had spent the day with, among others, Collin de Plancy’s Dictionaire Infernale, Francis Barrett’s The Magus, and the Grimoire of Pope Honorius. Not exactly cheery company, these pantheons of devils and hierarchies of demons, with guides to their manifestations and powers and filthy little tricks. It was disgusting to think of Susannah in this room.

  He generously gave himself the no-brainer choice between the refuge
of Susannah and the further research he knew he ought to do this evening, rose from the desk, locked the library door behind him, and went downstairs to make dinner reservations at their favorite restaurant.

  Twelve

  “ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT to do this?”

  “You went to Easter Mass with me,” Evan replied. “The least I can do—”

  Holly slouched in a kitchen chair and peered up at him. “I still don’t know why we went to church. You didn’t confess, you didn’t take Communion —”

  “I took you to church to see if you’d melt when you touched the holy water.”

  “What am I, the Wicked Witch of the West?”

  “Don’t let any houses fall on you today. I got plans for tonight.” He leaned down to kiss her nose. “I’ll bring the wine—and the food. Don’t you go near that stove.”

  When he was gone, Holly chewed a thumbnail, caught herself at it, and scowled. Why he would want to witness a Sabbat was perfectly understandable; why he would want to participate was completely beyond her.

  Well, of course, she thought suddenly, and laughed aloud. It’s Beltane. And if we’re gonna do this, we might as well do it up right, with all the pagan bells, and witchy whistles.

  So she phoned her two favorite authorities—Alexander Singleton and Nicholas Orlov — for advice on planning the perfect Beltane.

  DENISE DIDN’T PLAN RITUALS. She starred in them—and Beltane was her truest role. Invitations had been arriving since March; all she need do was select a venue.

  After some sorting she had decided on three possible locations: an estate on Long Island, an oceanfront mansion in New Jersey, or an exquisite Manhattan penthouse. Each had drawbacks. The beach property was a dream, and as private as could be wished, but it was owned by the Ken and Barbie of wannabe vampires. The penthouse gig would include a predominately gay audience – entertaining in their way, but inappropriate for the holiday. So Long Island it was.

  A phone call to her host announced her acceptance of his invitation; he was thrilled, and promised to send a car for her at seven. She made a mental note not to be ready until seven thirty; half of being a true diva was making them wait. The other half was giving them even more than they expected when she finally showed up. She had honed both to a fine art.

  EVAN ARRIVED AT HOLLY’S PLACE before sunset, juggling grocery bags and a florist’s box while he let himself in and locked the door behind him. Luscious fragrances were in the air. He wondered about their meaning and purpose—everything had meaning and purpose in ritual magic. That was the whole reason for rituals: to make a person think beyond the ordinariness of everyday life.

  How ordinary could life be when you were in love with a Witch?

  Grinning to himself, he walked through to the kitchen, noting that the living room door was closed, and began unloading the sacks of food. His research had been fun — though he’d been astonished at how many different foods were considered aphrodisiacs. Bananas, okay, that was obvious—but pine nuts?

  He’d chosen asparagus and celery to dip into salmon mousse and feta pesto, featuring the puzzling pine nuts. And there was red wine, in which he’d steeped ginger, cinnamon, and a split vanilla bean according to a recipe. After choosing a couple of wineglasses and dumping the munchies into serving bowls, he arranged everything on a silver tray and left it on the kitchen counter. In the same cabinet as the tray was a cut crystal vase; he filled it with water and the flowers, hoping Holly would appreciate their symbolism. Three each of red tulips, yellow tulips, orange roses, crimson roses—all of them having to do with love, desire, and passion—and a single golden rose for perfection. Standing back from his work, he nodded satisfaction, and then went looking for Holly.

  A note was taped on her bedroom door: Try the bathroom. He did. On the mirror was another note, this one a list of instructions.

  1. Light the candles. Fill the tub. Use the bath salts from the green bowl.

  2. Choose one stone from each glass bowl on the counter, and place in the water.

  3. Take a bath.

  4. Put on the bathrobe.

  5. Get your gorgeous Irish ass into the living room, and bring the stones with you.

  Fifteen minutes later, clean and relaxed and wearing the thin white silk bathrobe, he went through the Show Office to the living room. And found it transformed.

  The furniture had been pushed back against the walls, leaving a cleared space before the hearth. A circular sisal rug about ten feet across had replaced the worn old carpet, and on this was her little triangular table. To one side was the vase of flowers; to the other, the tray of food and wine. Four unlit candles rested in flat silver dishes at what he assumed were the cardinal points of the compass: green, yellow, red, blue. Exactly the colors of the four stones in his hand, he realized. Holly, her hair loose on her shoulders, her body covered by a white robe that matched his, stood by a window. She turned as he entered, and smiled.

  “The flowers are gorgeous.”

  “Y’know, I actually had fun doing the research. What do we do first?”

  “You really want the whole thing?” she asked. “Casting the Circle, calling the Quarters?”

  “I want the whole thing,” he affirmed.

  “It’s been a while since I did this on my own. I had to read up on it and—”

  “Stop blithering and get on with it.”

  “Yassuh, Marshal Lachlan, suh.” Gesturing for him to join her on the sisal rug, she knelt in its center. He sat facing her, cross-legged, glad for the silk that separated his bare ass from the scratchy weave.

  “Let’s see which rocks you picked,” Holly said, and as he handed them over she grinned. “I might’ve known. The blue one is lapis, Stone of the Pharaohs. Malachite—the green one—is the masculine principle. You don’t bother to hide it, do you?”

  His only reply was a look of sweet innocence. “What about the others?”

  “I’d need Uncle Alec to interpret the more esoteric stuff, but the basics are —” She laughed. “—pretty basic! Just what I’d expect from you. I’ve seen people pick out rocks that are as accurate about their personalities as any psychological testing. Red jasper is very lucky, very protective—and is said to help maintain passion,” she added mischievously. “The golden topaz is the most interesting of the bunch, actually. Mental clarity and personal power, among other things.”

  “And yours? What do they say about you?”

  “Now we’re getting into magic,” she smiled. “Yours and mine together are something fierce. Garnet, citrine, aventurine, and turquoise — briefly, sex and devotion, confidence and energy, love and healing, happiness and luck. Between us, we’ve got it all pretty much covered.” She rose and placed her four stones beside the four candles, matching color to color. “Set yours on the other side of mine. Good. Now we’re ready.”

  She lit the incense—not with a match, but simply by gazing at it a moment and gesturing very slightly with her right hand. A tang of cinnamon wafted on the smoke. Then the candles, similarly lighted. Next she lifted her small chalice of water, and finally held up a little dish of salt. All the while she chanted:

  “East is Air, and sweetest scent of lovers’tryting passiones spent.

  South is Fire of deepest red to warm our souls, our hearts, our bed.

  West is Water; sweetly flowing, cleansing, freeing, wisely knowing.

  North is Earth that yearns for tilling, rich soft soil, warm and willing.

  Sweet Lady, Queen of Earth and Night, Proud Lord, King of Fire and Day.

  We our passion and trust do plight; bless us lovers this First of May.”

  IT WAS THE MOST INCREDIBLE house Denise had ever seen—not that she would admit it to her hosts. They were dot-com zillionaires who, lacking anything resembling taste, still had the smarts to hire someone to do their shopping for them. Either that, Denise reflected as the limo pulled around the circular gravel drive, or they simply told their minions to buy the absolute unqualified best.

  Which
this mansion definitely was. A robber baron of the Victorian era had spared none of his questionably acquired fortune to build a Gothic fantasy of turrets and spires, crenellations and pointed arches. Originally the summer residence of a large family, forty-six rooms and who-knew-how-many baths were centered around a courtyard, where the limo purred to a stop.

  Denise waited for the driver to open her door. Her host and hostess, dressed in the epitome of tweed country-house taste, emerged from a double oak door to welcome her.

  So pleased you could be here, such a delight, read all your books and love them, what can we get you to drink, come meet our other guests. Denise smiled and nodded and was hard put to contain her surprise when she glimpsed an unexpected face at the far end of the living room.

  The bookstore owner. What was his name? He saw her, silvery-blue eyes suddenly alight, and made his way through the throng to her side.

  He was introduced as Noel, and whereas his gray trousers, casual black shirt, and battered sneakers were nowhere near appropriate, Denise sensed the authority of real power that made everyone else seem not only overdressed but insignificant.

  Interesting, she decided, accepting a small glass of very old, very pricey sherry. Reminded of her weeks-ago encounter with him, she was also remembering her first try at snagging Holly McClure’s lover. Bon dieu de merde, what a night it would be if he were here —

  “I think you and I are the only true aficionados present,” Noel said softly.

  He had followed her over to admire a hearth big enough to roast an ox, a stag, and a couple of small boar, and still have room for the soup cauldron. Denise ran a fingertip along the outline of a flower carved into the stone — hyacinths were prominently featured in all the decor, presumably the original owner’s favorite flower—and glanced up at him through her lashes.

  “Amateur night,” she murmured. “But entertaining nonetheless. I’m surprised to see you here.”