Witch Moon

by Maggie Shayne

  Yeah. That was all it was.

  Her hair wasn't all that striking-even though it was the blue black of a raven's wing. And her eyes were not that enticing-just because their marbled green color was so vivid. Like malachite. Probably colored contacts, he imagined. And her shape was nothing to get this worked up about. Sure, she was willowy, leggy, lithe. But so were a lot of women these days. It wasn't that unusual.

  The only thing different about her was her heroism in the face of a speeding truck. And the dirty smudges on her proper pearl-colored skirt and matching blazer. The run in her nylons. The bruise on her pretty cheek where she'd come between his precious Rowan and the pavement

  Yeah. No wonder she looked good to him. It wasn't attraction. It couldn't be attraction, because he didn't do attraction. Hadn't been drawn to another woman since Ashley died.

  "I...um....can get someone to bring my car to the clinic. You can just drop me and go on your way. I don't want to make you late for work," she said, when she turned and caught him staring.

  "I think the DA's office will survive the morning without me."

  She went a little stiller, and he saw her eyes flare just slightly wider. "You're a prosecutor?"

  "Not nearly as exciting as it sounds. Ezra Township is pretty much typical of the entire district. Rural. Quiet. We don't see a lot of crime out here. At least...not until recently."

  He parked the car, got out, and she did too, even before he could get around it to open her door. He walked close to her, in case she had another dizzy spell or stumbled. Or...that was why he told himself he was walking so close. She shivered when his arm brushed hers, and he wondered why. Was she feeling this odd attraction as well?

  "Are you talking about the animal mutilations, Mr. Hawthorne?"

  "Disgusting, isn't it?" He sighed and shook his head.

  They stopped outside the door of the clinic, and she turned, looked up at him. "Do you think the police have any idea who's behind them?"

  "I'm sure they do. But um...I can't really discuss it beyond that."

  "Of course not."

  He opened the door, held it for her, and she went inside. He stood back while she checked in at the receptionist's desk. Then she came back to him. "It's a slow day," she said. "They can get me right in."

  "Great. I'll be waiting."

  She bit her lower lip, worrying it with her teeth in a way that made his stomach clench up. He said, "Unless...you're not comfortable with me sticking around a bit longer. I only want to be sure you're all right."

  "No. I....No. It's fine."

  She was uncomfortable with him. He could tell. It made him wonder why. Made him want to find out. He supposed that was in his nature. His role at work lent itself to a good deal of investigating. Legwork. Some of the lawyers in the office preferred to hire investigators. He preferred to do it himself.

  He sat down, picked up a magazine, and watched her disappear through the door and into the exam room. A half-hour later, she came out again, and the only real difference he saw was that she'd washed the smudges off her face. Dr. Plummer came out behind her, a chart in her hand. She was the stereotype of a small town doctor in every way except gender. She was aging, white haired, kindly, and brilliant.

  Jonathon got to his feet. "Well?"

  "I'll live," Mirabella said with a nervous little smile.

  The doctor looked up from the chart. "She probably has a slight concussion, but that's not serious."

  "Then...she should be in a hospital, shouldn't she?" Mirabella sent him a quick frown, but he pretended not to notice.

  "Not necessarily," Dr. Plummer said. "She just needs watching for the next twenty-four hours. Any vomiting, fainting, severe dizziness, just call me. I don't think there will be."

  He licked his lips, sent Mirabella a silent look. She sent one right back, telling him to keep his mouth shut. He did, but he didn't like it. She hitched her purse up higher on her shoulder, thanked the doctor with a smile, and headed out of the clinic. Jonathon really had no choice but to follow.

  He waited until they were back in the car, no longer. "So how are you going to be watched closely for twenty-four hours if you live alone?"

  She swung her dark eyes right up to meet his. "How do you know I live alone?"

  "Well, I...I mean, I assumed...." He frowned. Since when did he stammer around a female? "It is Miss Saint Angeline, isn't it?"

  She shrugged. "Sure. But I could live with someone."

  "Do you?"

  She averted her eyes. "No, but that's beside the point."

  "Actually, it's not." He sighed. "So where do you live? I'll drive you home."

  "I'm not going home. I'm going to school."

  He braced his hands on the wheel, turned to look her dead in the eye, and said, "Please don't."

  She blinked as if in surprise.

  "Look. I'm way out of practice at this knight in shining armor routine. And if I take you to work, and you keel over halfway through the day, it's gonna ruin the entire effort. And make me look really bad to my daughter."

  Her expression softened a little. He thought she might have almost smiled. "She means a lot to you, your daughter."

  "Rowan is all I have in the world."

  She frowned, tilted her head to one side. "I think your wife would disagree with that."

  "My wife died ten years ago."

  "I'm so sorry," she said. "I...didn't realize...."

  "Look, the point is, you are my daughter's favorite teacher. And I had every intention of calling you today anyway. And now you've gone and hurt yourself protecting Rowan from a runaway truck, and you don't even want to let me see you home. Put yourself in my shoes for a minute, will you?"

  She looked at him oddly, as if she suspected him of some dire ulterior motive. But softly, she said, "All right. You can take me home. It's out on Sycamore."

  "That's only a few blocks from us. We're on Highland." He smiled and put the car in gear, pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward her house.

  "And on the way," she said, "maybe you can tell me why you were planning to call me today."

  "Right." He took a breath, chose his words with care. The last thing he wanted was to say anything that seemed negative about his daughter. She was brilliant, and deep, and thoughtful and wonderful. "I wanted to talk about Rowan." He glanced sideways at her, watching her reactions.

  A quick frown bent her brows and she looked at him intently, all defenses, all wariness gone. He liked that, that swift, concerned reaction. "Why"? Is something wrong?"

  "I was hoping you could tell me."

  He dropped her off at her home, insisted on walking her to the door, and left his card with his beeper and cell phone numbers on the back for her to use in case she needed anything.

  She went inside, closed the door, and watched him until his car was out of sight. Then she snatched up the phone and called Gwenyth.

  "I know who he is!" she all but shouted when her best friend picked up.

  "What? Who? Bella, what are you talking about?"

  "The man. In the dream! I know who he is. His name is Jonathon Hawthorne and he's a prosecutor for the district attorney's office. His daughter is a student of mine. Rowan."

  She could almost see Gwen's frown. "Is this the girl you pushed out of the path of that truck this morning?"

  "Yes!"

  "And that was her father you drove away with?"

  "Yes!"

  "Are you freaking out of your mind, Mirabella?"

  "Yes! No. I don't know." Bella pushed a hand through her hair and paced the room. "He said he was going to call me anyway today. To talk to me about Rowan. He says she's been going through some drastic changes, lately, and he's worried about her."

  "What is she? Thirteen? Fourteen?"

  "Fourteen."

  "And he's worried about changes?" Gwen blew a sigh. "Fourteen-year-olds are made up of changes. If you cut them open, changes are what you see writhing around in their insides. What is he, from Mars or s
omething?"

  Bella paced the floor, licking her lips. "No, there's more to it. He was holding a lot back, I could tell. But he was talking to me about her...he says she's starting to show interest in the Craft-or, the 'occult' as he calls it. She's been asking questions that make him uncomfortable. And he seems determined to put a stop to it."

  "Do you blame him? The only things he probably knows-thinks he knows-about the Craft are butchered kitties and defaced tombstones." She sighed. "Why doesn't he have Rowan's mother talk to her? I mean, women tend to understand these things...."

  "She's dead. Died ten years ago, he said."

  "Oh. Oh."

  "I don't know what to do here. Gwen. I mean...if I talk to Rowan about the Craft-"

  "You can't do that! Good grief, after that dream? Are you insane?"

  "But in the dream the girl committed suicide! If she knew the truth about things, that never would have happened. Maybe it was because I didn't get to her soon enough. Maybe she's going to get involved with this group of phony wanna-bes who go around murdering animals. Maybe my telling her would-"

  "He's a prosecutor. You saw a vision that was supposed to warn you away from this pair, not send you straight to the stake!"

  "That part was symbolic and you know it."

  Gwen sniffed indignantly. '"You hope."

  Mirabella sighed. "I'm going to go meditate on this for awhile. I'll call you later, okay?"

  "Sure. Later. In the meantime, though, hon. be careful. Watch your back. I mean it."

  "I will." With a sigh, she hung up the phone.

  Several hours later, Bella's doorbell chimed.

  Mirabella turned toward it, only to see Rowan Hawthorne standing on the other side, looking in at her.

  Chapter Four

  Jonathon sat in on the unofficial questioning of Bryan Marcomb. Bryan was seventeen, all limbs, with dark greasy hair and a goatee he must have thought looked cool. His mother had brought him in at the police department's request. He had a lawyer with him, but not a very good one. The guy was dead silent throughout the interview.

  "You understand, you're not being charged with anything yet," Officer Cantone said. "But you were seen running away from that cemetery the other night. We know you were there." The final line was delivered with a grimness that let the kid know he was in trouble. Cantone was a good guy-his only faults, so far as Jonathon could tell, were a beer belly and a lack of tolerance for the foolishness of youth.

  The kid rolled his eyes.

  Cantone narrowed his. "The only reason we haven't charged you yet is because we haven't decided what to charge you with? The kid's eyes widened just a little. "What, you're surprised by that?" the officer asked him. "You thought we brought you down here to play patty-cake? All I wanna know is this—did you participate in whatever sick little party was going on out there that night? Or were you just a spectator?"

  The kid lowered his gaze and pressed his lips together.

  His harried looking, dough-faced mother gripped his arm and squeezed. "Answer the policeman, Bryan."

  With a sigh. Bryan looked up at Cantone again. "I was just hanging out."

  "Then why did you run?" the cop asked.

  He shrugged. "Why'd you chase me? When someone chases me, I tend to run."

  Cantone's sigh should have sent papers flying off desks. "Look, you couldn't have been there and not seen something. So either you tell me what it is, or I have to assume you're a part of it! Got that?"

  No reaction. The cop looked at the mother. "I thought you said he'd cooperate."

  "She don't speak for me," Bryan spat. "I don't know anything. I'm not saying anything."

  For just a second there was something in the kid's eyes. Something that made Jonathon frown and look closer. It had been brief, that flash. But for just a second, the kid had looked afraid. Truly afraid.

  Almost as afraid as Mirabella Saint Angeline had looked when she'd first seen him this morning, Jonathon thought. And then he wondered how she was doing and thought about giving her a call. The woman had been haunting his thoughts all day. He could get lost in her eyes, even when he only saw them in his mind. What the hell was it about her?

  He forced his mind back to the task at hand, back to the kid.

  "Have you ever been inside a shop called Gwenyth's Chamber, Bryan?" Officer Cantone asked.

  "That Witch shop in town, you mean? Sure, I've been in there. She has cool stuff. What's that got to do with anything?"

  "Just let me ask the questions, here, all right? What kind of cool stuff does she have that interests you?"

  "I don't know, just stuff."

  "Do you know the owner?"

  Bryan frowned. "The blonde who runs the place? Not really." Bryan looked at his mother. "Can we just go now? Please?"

  Mrs. Marcomb pursed her lips, looking mad as hell. But Jonathon thought it was more worry for her son than real anger. She loved the kid, though he was probably driving her nuts.

  "You can go," Jonathon said. When Officer Cantone opened his mouth to object, Jonathon shot him a silent message. The cop read it, and nodded, and the mother and son hurried out of there.

  "He was there," Cantone said.

  "Yeah, but he's not fooling anyone with that tough-boy routine. I don't know if he's a part of this or not, but I do know he thinks he's in serious trouble if he talks to us. He was scared, Billy."

  "So what do you suggest we do?" Cantone asked.

  "I think you gave him a lot to think about here. Let's give him a few days. I have a feeling he'll be back."

  Pursing his lips, the cop nodded. "Okay, we'll try it your way."

  Jonathon left and hurried down the hall to his own office in the small, two-story County Building in Branwich, the biggest town in the district, which was still a small town by most standards. It boasted a Wal-Mart, a handful of grocery and drug stores, one movie theater and two pizza places. Ezra Township was fourteen miles away.

  He closed his office door, picked up the phone, and punched in Mirabella Saint Angeline's number...which, for some reason, he'd already committed to memory. Probably from having almost dialed it at least ten times today. He supposed it was natural to want to check in, make sure she was all right. Hell, she was all alone out there in her little cobblestone cottage with its vine covered walls and its big front porch. He didn't think he'd ever seen so many sets of wind chimes in one place before.

  Her telephone rang three times. He was about to hang up and head over there to check in person, when she picked up on the fourth ring.

  "Hello?"

  "Mirabella?"

  Bella heard him say her name, and she shivered down deep in reaction to it. It wasn't just out of fear, either. There was something deeper. Something primal that experienced the sound of his voice like a physical touch.

  It occurred to her that it was the first time he'd called her by her first name. And for some insane reason, she responded the same way. "Jonathon," she said, when she could catch her breath. "I'm...surprised to hear from you."

  It was a lie. She'd been all but staring at the phone waiting for his call today. She lifted her gaze as she spoke, to watch his daughter, pacing in the next room. Mirabella had only just let her in when the telephone had interrupted them.

  "I thought I'd check in. Just to, you know, make sure everything's still okay."

  "Everything's fine."

  "No dizzy spells or anything?"

  "Not a one."

  "Good."

  He went silent for a long moment. She cleared her throat. "I...have company." she said. "So I really should—"

  "Man or woman?" he asked.

  She blinked in surprise at the bluntness of that question. But licking her lips she said. "Woman. Why?"

  "Curiosity got the best of me, I guess. I, um... never mind."

  "No. Tell me, what were you going to say?"

  When he spoke again, his voice was much deeper, and a lot softer. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about you all day." He paused. "
I know, that sounds like the world's worst pick up line. It wasn't."

  "I know."

  "Do you?" He cleared his throat uneasily. "Does that mean you feel there might be...something going on here. Between us?"

  She closed her eyes, and her stomach knotted up. "There's something, Jonathon."

  He sighed as if in relief. "I'm glad it's not just me. If you knew how unlike me this is. I...." He stopped there. "You said you had company. I'll let you go."

  "Thanks."

  "But I'll call again later on."

  She shook her head. "You don't need to."

  "Actually, I think I do."

  She frowned "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Damned if I know. I'll talk to you later, okay?"

  "Okay."

  "Take it easy. Rest, like the doc said."

  "I will. Good-bye, Jonathon."

  "Bye."

  She hung up the phone, stared at it for a moment, and wondered why her heart was fluttering wildly in her chest. Why the stroke of each tone of his voice against her eardrums had been an erotic experience. Why she was breathless by the time she said good-bye.

  She gathered her composure, bit by bit, and finally, lifted her chin, and walked back into the parlor where Rowan waited. "Sorry for the interruption. We can talk now. Please, sit down."

  Rowan did, choosing the claw legged chair with the embroidered upholstery and looking like a nervous princess, taking her throne. The girl was nothing less than stunning. And her eyes could stop traffic.

  "How's my dad?" she asked.

  Mirabella blinked. "You were listening?"

  "Only a little. Thanks for not telling him I was here."

  "I didn't think he'd approve of you leaving school over an hour early any more than I do. Care to tell me why you did that?"

  She shrugged. "I told Principal Hayes I was shaken up and sore from the accident. But really I just wanted to come and see you."