Spellbinder: A Love Story With Magical Interruptions

by Melanie Rawn

  AS THEY REMOVED THEMSELVES TACTFULLY to the kitchen, Alec muttered, “We’d still hear her yelling even if we went all the way back to Connecticut.”

  “I don’t think there’ll be much yelling, actually,” his partner mused.

  “That’s not so good. When she doesn’t rant, she’s really mad. How d‘you think she’ll start? ‘Don’t you even consider it’ or ‘What, you think you’re immortal?’”

  “I’m betting on ‘Why does it have to be you?’”

  Alec hitched a hip onto a stool at the breakfast bar, nodding. “At which point he’ll say he graduated two academies, swore oaths to protect and serve, it’s his job, he won’t risk her or anybody else, and what kind of man could he call himself if he refused?”

  Nick glanced around from the coffee grinder. “Jerusalem Lost was a novel! Life imitating art imitating life? Do me a favor! She’s no medieval damsel embroidering tapestries while her White Knight fights the Crusades.”

  “How many medieval damsels really just sat around embroidering tapestries? With the men gone, there were castles and farms to run, justice to be meted out, serfs to be flogged—”

  “Spare me the history lesson,” Nick snapped. “Holly has to be protected. She’s too important.”

  “I agree. And now the one man to whom she is vitally important—in the only ways she really wants to be important—is going to do this crazy thing.”

  “At our behest.”

  “At Bradshaw’s behest. You’d have objected if you didn’t agree with him. Holly will have to wait until it plays out, just as Elisabeth did with Guillaume.”

  “With happier results, I trust.” He measured fresh grounds into the coffeemaker, frowning. “Oh, very well. You and I will take up guard duty while poor Evan gets in touch with his inner Lucifer so he can play his part. Which all could have been avoided, if —”

  “Don’t say it, Nick.”

  “Say what?”

  “That this is your fault to begin with because you sold the store to Noel. He would’ve found her anyway. That’s the way life works.”

  “Is it?”

  Hearing the bitterness in the softly accented voice, Alec murmured, “Yes. That’s the way life works. That’s why they call it ‘life’ instead of ‘art.’ Life is messy and complicated, with outrageous coincidences that would get Holly laughed out of an editor’s office if she put them into a book. What are the odds, for instance, that a Mayflower descendant and a Hungarian Rom would stumble across each other?”

  “You’re forgetting the magic of it, Alyosha.” Nick smiled. “Which of course was precisely your point, yes?”

  NOBODY HAD HEARD FROM DENISE by the next afternoon. Holly pretended not to notice. Alec and Nick spent the day renewing old wards and setting up new ones; Evan observed for a while, then took out his frustrations in the basement gym.

  Mr. Hunnicutt, carrying a large padded envelope, arrived at Holly’s door at the same time Evan returned. Thanking the former, she wrinkled her nose at the latter.

  “Bathtub, stinky.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Stuff.”

  He growled and strode off to her bedroom. She ripped open the package, poking a finger in to rummage the contents, and inhaled deeply of the scents within. She hoped Kate had provided everything requested by phone this morning—

  “What’s that?”

  Evan’s words, Nicky’s voice. She turned too quickly, saw him coming down the stairs, dropped the box, and swore.

  “One did hope,” Nick said as he helped gather up all the little silk bags strewn across the floor, “that you might outgrow tripping over your own feet, béna.”

  “Stop calling me clumsy. You startled me.”

  He untied one of the pouches. “Sea salt? Holly Elizabeth, what do you have planned?” Then he sat back on his heels and gave her his most adorable smile. “You’re going to Work some magic!”

  Cramming the envelope full, she went into the living room knowing he would follow. “You told Evan you’re protecting him. Well, I don’t see any signs of it yet, so I’m going to make myself useful. Don’t go away. I’ll be right back.”

  At the door of her bathroom, she paused for a steadying breath. Evan always took off his St. Michael medal for a shower or bath, in case the chain broke. It would be simplicity itself to purloin it from the countertop. As she opened the door, he surfaced from a dunking to rinse his hair and burst into song, a gruesomely off-key rendition of “New Kid in Town.” Holly winced.

  “Enough!”

  He glanced around, hair dripping. “Oh, c’mon—I hit most of the notes.” “Not the ones the Eagles had in mind.”

  “Bradshaw call yet about Denise?”

  “Nope. Tell me, love of my life,” she went on, casually leaning against the sink counter, one finger just barely touching the medal’s silver chain, “how can you possibly not sound as bad to yourself as you do to everyone in a five-mile radius?”

  “Bitch, bitch, bitch. Why don’t you join me? I’m gonna be in here a while—I think I pulled something,” he added in aggrieved tones, stretching a shoulder.

  “You didn’t happen to see my cell phone anywhere in the bedroom, did you?”

  “No, I haven’t seen it — or anything else in that mess.”

  “Bitch, bitch, bitch.” She escaped, the medal clasped in her hand.

  Back in the living room, she found Nick lounging in a chair by the hearth, the contents of Kate’s package on the worn carpet at his feet. Holly sank down near him, ignoring his analytical gaze as she sorted supplies. At last she could stand it no longer and looked up at him.

  “Are you going to help me or not?”

  “That’s contingent on one or two things. A commitment, for starters. An acknowledgment of the gift you’ve been given, and your responsibility to use it prudently. Perhaps even wisely.”

  “I’ve never refused a bloodletting,” she retorted bluntly.

  “And you’ve never really participated in a Circle, either, have you?”

  “Are you going to help or not?” she repeated.

  “Oh, I’ll help. But the Work has to be yours.”

  “What Work?” Alec asked, entering with an armful of logs from the service porch bin.

  “Protecting Evan,” Holly snapped. “Nicky, please!”

  He leaned back, folding his arms. “Evan is your responsibility. Which of course is exactly the way he feels about you. Is he trusting anyone else to do what he knows he can do better than any one of us?”

  “I need you to help me!”

  Alec, crouching by the hearth to lay a fire for that evening, glanced over his shoulder. “No, you don’t. You just think you do. But you don’t.”

  “Feri ando payi sitsholpe te nayuas.” Nick laughed gently. “‘It was in the water that one learned to swim.’ Put another way — Bi kashtesko merel i yag. ‘Without wood, the fire would die.’”

  “Stop mixing your obscure Romany metaphors,” Alec chided, “and tell her what you really think.”

  “Are you going to help or not?” she snarled for the third time.

  “You don’t need us, cailleach,” Alec soothed.

  “Since when do you speak Gaelic?” Holly muttered.

  “I know the word for ‘witch’ in sixteen languages.”

  “And I know it in twenty-nine,” Nick said. “We’ll call a Circle, how about that? The rest of it is up to you.”

  It was as much as she was going to get, and she knew it. Pushing herself to her feet, she said, “All right, a Circle. Facing South.”

  “Fire and Michael,” Alec interpreted, nodding.

  “And Brighid,” Holly added. “The real, original, accept-no-substitutes Irish cailleach. You’ll find candles and things over in that cabinet.”

  FRANKINCENSE. BLACK POWDERED IRON. Sea salt and oak moss. Sandalwood oil on a large white candle. Think clearly about what you need. Set a goal. Avoid distractions. Use meaningful symbols. Oh, she knew the hows of spellcasting; she just d
idn’t trust much to her own ability to Work one and make it stick.

  This time, she would have to be sure.

  Her uncles cast a Circle, waiting for her to enter it before closing it. She sat facing South, the St. Michael medal in her palm, and lit the white candle — with only a thought this time, eliminating the gesture that was a holdover from needing to be visually reassured.

  With mortar and pestle she ground all the dry ingredients together. Then, on a bit of parchment, using red Dragon’s Blood ink that smelled of white wine and cinnamon, she wrote Evan’s full name, once in English, once in Gaelic. Rolled and tied with a black thread, she set the parchment aside.

  She wrote his name again along the white candle with the tips of four different obsidian arrowheads, using each to inscribe a pentagram on the candle as well. These she placed at the base of the candle, aimed at the cardinal points of the compass.

  Alec and Nick, who had taken guardian positions in the West and North, watched without expression or comment. She was grateful for that; she had enough trouble concentrating, keeping everything in proper sequence, remembering to keep a corner of her mind chanting Evan’s name in two languages.

  Because she felt nothing.

  Urgency, yes; fear; anger. But not magic. Not the steady flow of arcane strength and calm power and even delight so often seen in other practitioners of the art. Her Work here was no humble petition for bright protective wings to fold around her beloved; she would beg, demand, storm heaven and earth alike to keep this man safe.

  Why? Because she loved him? Inadequate reason. Worse, presumptuous. Who was she to command the safety of one man merely out of love?

  She wanted him safe because it was right that he should live, grow old, father children, teach them to love what was beautiful and know what was right and to be like him, to have his honor and courage, his humor and strength. Éimhín, her Evan—he deserved the notice of the All-Mighty because he was a good man.

  All at once the fire laid in the hearth caught, and blazed. Holly stared at it, into it, and felt herself slowly rocking, back and forth, back and forth, to the rhythm of her chanting of his name, of her own heartbeats. Of her own blood. This wasn’t what it meant to be a Witch. This was what it meant to be human. To connect; to listen, and know that even if you didn’t consciously hear, something inside heard anyway, and understood. What she had felt in Kenya stirred within her, elusive but real. Scents of cinnamon and sandalwood, of wine and burning pine logs, of the woolen rug on which he and she had made love—the heat and brilliant light of the flames, the silver oval clasped in her palm, the sound of her lover’s name in her ears and its taste on her lips—

  Magic.

  With each whetted arrowhead she pricked her left ring-finger, smearing blood down each fire-sheened black length before replacing them at the compass points. Squeezing up more blood, she ran her finger across the letters of the name carved into the candle. She pressed her fingerprint to the parchment and to the silver image of St. Michael holding a sword. Finally she placed the parchment into the bottle, sifted in the herbs and iron powder, and corked it. The candle she lifted from its flat glass holder, tilting it so the wax dripped to seal the cork as she turned the bottle widdershins. All the while she rocked gently, whispering.

  Éimhín Liam Lochlainn

  This Work I do for thee alone

  Flesh or blood, breath or bone,

  No hurt shall come to thee, my own,

  From secret foes or enemies known.

  This geas bound by power of Three

  As I will it, eo mote it be.

  Éimhín Liam Lochlainn

  This thing I swear to thee alone

  Flesh and blood, breath and bone,

  No hurt shall come to thee, my own,

  From secret foes or enemies known.

  This geas bound by power of Three

  As I will it, so mote it be.

  Éimhín Liam Lochlainn

  This spell for thee, and thee alone

  Sealed by blood, writ in bone,

  No hurt shall come to thee, my own,

  From secret foes or enemies known.

  This geas bound by power of Three

  As I will it, so mote it be.

  Twenty—six

  AT ONE IN THE AFTERNOON of the thirty-first of October, Denise Josèphe was picked up by taxi for the drive to The Hyacinths. That this taxi was driven by a tall young black man Denise vaguely recognized did not help her mood.

  “I know you. Where have I seen you before?”

  “Sweetness, I’m so tickled that you remember.” He grinned and bowed her into the cab with an exaggerated flourish. With the sound of his voice, she did remember—and cursed under her breath. He was the one who, with Holly, had taken her Measure.

  “Lovely weather we’re having,” said another voice, smooth and cold, from within the cab.

  Denise flinched back from Evan Lachlan. “You’re my protection? You?”

  “Me,” he replied, his eyes taunting her to challenge him.

  Rebellion was the last thing on her mind. True, he had no magic—but if anything was guaranteed to bring Holly McClure to the ritual, her lover’s presence was it. Once she was there, Noel would have what he wanted and Denise would require no protection—and could get away from Noel once and for all.

  Leaning back with an air of exaggerated ease, she remarked, “When Bradshaw said to tell Noel I’d be bringing along a good-looking stud, I had no idea it would be you.”

  The driver opened the sliding window between the seats and said, “We have a little planning to do, so listen up.”

  Arrive, identify Lachlan as a friend and fellow celebrant, listen to Noel’s plan for the Samhain rite, agree to whatever he said, and get out—yadda yadda, who the hell cared? She could smell Lachlan’s body, remembered vividly from the Sunday afternoon she’d laid him.

  Had he told Holly? For a delightful minute she fantasized the scene: his protestation that he’d been tricked by a shape-changing spell, her mortification that Denise was her superior in magic and in bed as well as in prose. The vision faded as she remembered the day she decided to pursue Lachlan, after literally bumping into him at the bookstore.

  “Does Noel know who you are?

  “Why should he?” His voice was silk, his eyes stone.

  She wanted to smack him. This was her life he was playing with here. If Noel recognized him, and knew him for a cop—But if Noel remembered him at all, it would be as a customer. That would lend credence to her claim that he wanted to join the Samhain ritual. Denise relaxed a little. If she played it right, she just might come out of this ahead after all.

  GO IN, GET THE DETAILS, get out. That was all Denise knew about this afternoon’s little outing. As for Holly—as far as she knew, Evan would immediately arrest Noel and that would be the end of it. Lachlan, however, had a different agenda: evidence. Something was going to link Noel to Susannah’s murder. She’d done her best with the handful of dirt, but her geological gamble hadn’t paid off. Courtworthy evidence was needed; even if Noel turned out to be a talkative egotist who wanted his genius admired, Lachlan wanted to nail him with physical proof. Just what that might turn out to be, he had no idea. He was open to inspiration.

  Someone had been caring for The Hyacinths during its long months of desertion. The lawns and hedges were tidy, the gravel drive free of weeds, and the beds where, presumably, the namesake flowers grew in their season were neatly kept. For the rest—size and sumptuousness didn’t impress him much.

  Neither did Noel, who appeared at the front door and sauntered out to meet the taxi. Lachlan remembered him from the bookstore, and hoped brazenly that Noel didn’t remember him. Tall, lanky, with cold silvery-blue eyes and lots of hair raked back from his face, there were faint grooves cut into his forehead now and framing his mouth, as if the last eighteen months had been a strain. Lachlan supposed that hiding out in Elk Fart, Idaho, hadn’t been a picnic.

  Evan made a show of paying the driv
er, who arched a questioning brow at him; when he shrugged by way of reply, Ian grimaced and nodded. “Thanks, buddy. Have fun,” he murmured, and drove off—but only to the main road, where he would wait out of sight.

  “Denise! Good of you to come,” Noel was saying. “And this is your friend?”

  “Dillon,” Lachlan supplied, shaking the long, thin hand extended to him and suddenly wishing he’d worn gloves. Not that he was chilly; a black cashmere sweater and leather jacket were keeping him warm. He just didn’t like the way touching Noel’s skin made him feel. “When we gonna rock ‘n’ roll?”

  “Ah, the enthusiastic type.” Noel grinned. “After nightfall. Come in, let’s get started.” As they entered the foyer, he added, “I’ll show you the venue—you’ve seen it before, Denise, but I’ve made a few alterations. Dillon, if you have any suggestions, I’d be pleased to hear them.”

  “I’m kinda new at this,” he admitted, looking around the foyer. All the furniture had been cleared out; remaining were some unlit wall sconces and an appalling chandelier dripping a gazillion multicolored crystals. “I’ve done a couple before, just along for the ride. If it’s okay, I’d like to get more involved, y’know?”

  “Great!” Noel clapped him on the shoulder, and again Evan had to hold himself from recoiling at the contact. “I can guarantee you the time of your life.”

  He led them down a long hallway where all the doors were closed except the one leading to the stairs. Lachlan wondered which room Susannah had been held in. Someplace with a chair to sit on, and a table to write on, and rats to kick—he swallowed hard and reminded himself to look as if he were paying attention to Noel.

  “—the usual attire, nothing fancy. We’ll meet in the hall as we did on Beltane, then relocate belowstairs.” He opened a heavy wooden door and lit their way down with a fat black candle. “I replaced the couch with one of the stone benches from the back garden—we’ll need the organic power of the granite.”

  “Sounds cold, hard, and miserable,” Denise remarked testily.