Bewitching the Bachelor

by Suzanne Marie Calvin

  "Miss Frank,” Bob began, his slender face perspiring and his eyes gleaming. He was obviously flustered. “You need to curb that tongue. Unless you'd like to spend a night behind bars."

  Wrenching free from Miles, she snapped in an acidic tone, “Hey—curb this!"

  Miles managed to grab her hand before she could flip Officer Bob the bird.

  In exasperation he shook her. “Fallon, in light of this—” He eyed Bianca's flame-engulfed house. “I won't be available to bail you out of jail tonight. So unless you want to be some tough girl's sweetie-pie for the evening, I think you'd better put that finger away."

  She scowled and jerked her hand free.

  "And I can't believe you dated a cop,” he added, shaking his head. His brow furrowed as he stood there, watching Bianca's Victorian house become a charred memory.

  "He used to be cute,” she groused.

  "A month ago?"

  "Whatever. God...what is taking so long for the firemen to get here!” With a frantic glance at the house she cried, “And where's Bianca?” Fallon took to pacing an angry circle, screeching like a banshee, and tearing at her hair.

  Miles, who internalized everything, knew exactly how his sister felt. He wanted to rage past the barriers. Grab someone by the throat. He needed answers. Was Bianca alive? Would she make it out of the house? Was she even in there at all?

  Instead brother and sister stood there, helpless and unable to help, imprisoned by yellow tape and police officers with dwindling patience.

  A crowd of townspeople collected behind them. Some wept. Others reacted with alarmed gasps or whispers amongst themselves. Already starting fresh gossip and calculating their own warped little theories as to why the town witch's house was burning, he reckoned.

  In his present foul mood, Miles wanted to chase them away. Run them off the property. Surely they had better things to do than stand there gawking and gossiping. His actions no doubt would just cause more gossip. The town homosexual going berserk, chasing away the crowd of onlookers while his witch-friend's house burned to the ground.

  Then Miles saw them.

  They appeared in the doorway, surrounded by smoke and flames. Bianca ... and Luke.

  "Oh ... my ... God!” Miles gasped, frozen, watching. “He came back. He actually came back..."

  As the two wove between flames that came dangerously close to attacking, Miles realized it wasn't Luke helping Bianca. It was Bianca helping Luke.

  Miles rushed past the yellow tape, heedless of the police officers trying to stop him. Fallon, cackling gleefully, was on his heels.

  When Bianca and Luke were a safe distance from the fire, his arm slipped from her neck. He slumped to the ground with a gasp. Shaking, choking and sobbing, Bianca gave Flora, the frightened black cat, to Fallon who cradled the skittish feline as Miles grabbed his best friend by the arms, yanked her close, and hugged her tight.

  "Thank God! Bianca ... Are you okay?” he wailed, holding her at arm's length then dragging her in again. “I thought—” He reconsidered. “Forget what I thought.” Some things were better left unsaid.

  "Luke ... he found me. I wouldn't have been able to get out otherwise.” Bianca's voice was smothered against his chest, as she struggled to free herself from his tight embrace. When she managed, Bianca brought tearful eyes up to meet his and whispered, her voice hoarse, wracked with agony, “Miles ... I saw ... He's ... Luke ... Death ... is coming for him..."

  Bianca fell to her knees beside Luke, relieved to tears that he was still breathing. Barely.

  But she'd seen. She hadn't meant to. The premonition had come, unwanted, after he'd plowed through the bedroom door, rescuing her and Flora. When Bianca had taken Luke's hand as he'd led her down the stairs, she'd seen.

  Luke was going to die.

  There were two knife wounds. Blood loss was great. And smoke inhalation. It was all too much for him. He'd spent his final energy, his last drop of life force to save her.

  "Luke...” Whimpering his name, she brushed the hair from his forehead. Kissing his mouth Bianca tasted smoke, blood and death. She pulled away, shuddering, her stomach retching, her heart throbbing. Terrible regrets assailed her, none more powerful than the ache of knowing she didn't want to live without him.

  When he searched her eyes she saw calm, peaceful understanding pass over his face. He licked his dry lips and managed in a hoarse, gritty and fatigued voice, “You saw."

  She choked back an angry scream, though it clawed its way up her throat. Tears, one after another, hot and excruciating, slid down her cheeks and she nodded.

  He swallowed painfully against a parched throat and stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. “I'm sorry about your house."

  She shook her head. “I don't care about the house.” Misery deeper than she could bear became an ocean she was drowning in. Her voice shook with sobs but she managed, “You came back, Luke."

  The pain in his eyes was unbearable. It reached deep into her chest to scorch her heart. Bianca had to bite her lip to keep from crying out.

  "I had something to show you. I think I dropped it inside the house.” He winced, closed his eyes, then said, “Rebecca's diary.” Taking her hand but too weak to hold on, he whispered, “Bianca ... I'm not ... a Halestrom."

  Then his hand dropped, his eyelids fluttering closed.

  Bianca felt her heart jump into her throat. Oh, God! Was this it?

  Panic like a jolt of electricity flickered through her. She finally drew air when he opened his eyes again. Those honey-brown pools glistened, moist with a current of emotions. Agony, despair, regret. Things a man who knew he was dying felt. When he spoke his voice was rough as sandpaper, weak and tired. “I'm a Samson. The ... the boy you saw ... in your...” He wavered, pressed his lips together, closed his eyes and took a shaky breath. The effort to speak was sapping what was left of his rapidly diminishing energy.

  Bianca nodded. “The boy I saw in my vision?"

  "Yes.” He swallowed audibly and the painful sound caused a constriction in Bianca's own throat. “That boy belonged to ... Rebecca Halestrom and ... William Samson. I came from ... his line ... not Liam's."

  Bianca gasped, the sound more like a sob than a gulp of air. Swiping angrily at her tears, she demanded of the very universe itself, “Then—why?” Why was Luke dying?

  A sympathetic gleam passed over his eyes. “No regrets about ... tonight ... I was ... supposed to ... to be here ... So that you wouldn't..."

  Die in the fire...

  She threw herself on him, kissed his cheeks and his lips, crying, “I love you, Luke. I couldn't help myself, no matter how I tried, I fell in love with you."

  He smiled. A single tear left the corner of one eye then trickled to his soot-blackened temple. His mouth opened but the raspy gasps for breath made her realize that he wasn't able to continue to speak. He was slipping away, rapidly. But he managed to raise a weak and unsteady hand to his chest, touched his heart, then with great effort touched her heart.

  She clasped his hand as it fell back. “Oh, God, Luke! You ... you love me, too..."

  A thin smile skittered across his lips. Then his whole body went limp and his head lolled to the side.

  "Luke? Luke! Luke!"

  "B...” Miles’ hand was on her shoulder.

  She turned a frantic gaze to her friend and demanded, “Where are the paramedics? Where are they?"

  Miles gaped at her, his eyes wide, his face contorted with agony. It was Fallon who cleared her throat and said, “There was another fire across town. They're coming, but ... it may be a while."

  Bianca dropped her head, painful sobs wracking through her.

  "Bianca, darling,” Miles said gently, “you have a gift that would really come in handy right now."

  She rocked back and forth, holding Luke's hand like a lifeline, her sorrow a high-pitched keen in her very soul.

  He grabbed her by the shoulders, giving her a quick shake, insisting, “Damn it, B, you can heal him! What the hell a
re you waiting for?"

  She stopped still, her heart racing like crazy. She turned her tear-streaked, soot-stained face to her friends. “What? I don't—I'm not sure if—I've never—” She pressed her eyes closed, took a deep breath, then stated flatly, “I've never done anything that huge before. This is Luke we're talking about here, not some poodle or plant. Luke!” The tears started rolling down her cheeks again. “I don't even know if ... if it will work..."

  "You've never tried, have you?” Miles insisted.

  "No ... but—"

  "You can do it, B,” Miles said encouragingly. He squeezed her shoulder lovingly. “You can do this. And we'll help."

  Fallon nodded eagerly, as the lights and sirens pulled into Bianca's driveway. Three fire trucks and a crew of paramedics. Bringing her determined, confident stare to Bianca, Fallon blurted, “Hurry, before the paramedics come and spoil the fun."

  All three fell to their knees, surrounding Luke, creating a circle of bodies and joined hands.

  "B, hang on,” Miles said urgently, tensing beside her. When she looked at him, concern darkened his eyes. “I know you have to do this, but it's dangerous. Just ... be careful."

  Bianca smiled softly. “I love you, Miles."

  "He's close to death, Bianca,” Miles flatly stated, glancing at Luke then dragging his gaze back to her. “Don't do anything ... stupid."

  "I won't.” She forced a shaky but reassuring smile. “I promise."

  Eagerly Fallon bounced on her heels, chanting, “Let's go, let's go, let's go."

  Squeezing the hands of her two closest friends, Bianca dug deep inside herself and found strength and courage she'd never dreamed she possessed.

  Luke was unconscious, slipping fast. Eyeing the almost-nonexistent rise and fall of his chest, Bianca tried to ignore the sinking despair in her stomach. He needed her now. Her power. Her gift. Not her sorrow and desperation.

  He had saved her. Now, Bianca would return the favor.

  In a hushed tone, she told Fallon and Miles, “Clear your minds.” It wasn't easy to drown out the noise of the fire. The pungent sting of smoke. The flying embers. The heat. The murmur of the crowd. The sirens. The aggressive shouts of firefighters in the distance. Their zealous attempts to quickly unload equipment. The hum of voices as they assessed the situation. But with focus and determination all of it became a distant, muffled drone. Finally it slipped from Bianca's consciousness altogether.

  Until there was only Luke.

  There were times during her life when Bianca felt that her magic was a burden. Times when she might have, in a split-second decision, abandoned her gifts or gladly given them away. This was not one of those times.

  It was time to draw on the magic inside of her. To mingle it with the natural magic the universe provided, blend it with what Fallon and Miles had to offer, build up that energy, and pour it into Luke's healing.

  From some hidden recess in her mind, Bianca summoned the words.

  "As we three Wicca surround thee,

  A healing light we all shall see.

  For life, it pulses from these hands,

  Flesh and blood, unto this man.

  Heal all wounds that threaten death,

  That long to cease his heart and breath.

  Let blood flow warm within his veins,

  That all he is shall not be in vain.

  Make him healthy, make him whole,

  Give back to him what evil stole.

  Take from him pain and injury,

  Then set it free. So mote it be."

  It hit hard and fast, zapping the air from her lungs and wracking her body with pain so intense every nerve ending seemed raw and exposed.

  She gasped and retched. Felt as if her skin burned, ached and bled. The pain was so unbearable she might have welcomed death without further consideration. Blood roared in her ears, then voices. Inaudibly, they chanted in unison, words she couldn't decipher, though they grew louder until she heard nothing else.

  When her body couldn't withstand the insufferable torment any longer, Bianca let herself slip away into darkness that was icy and fluid. Then all sensation was gone.

  THE FUTURE

  "Ouch! Damn it! Son-of-a—"

  "Potholders?” Miles waved a couple of oven mitts as Luke dropped the hot cake pan onto the counter.

  Instinctively bringing his burned fingers to his mouth, he glowered at Miles, who was two seconds too late with his offer. “Gee ... thanks."

  Not bothering to hide his amusement Miles replied, “You're no better in the kitchen now than you were six months ago."

  "Are you here to help? Because so far you're not much better at helping than you were six months ago, either,” Luke irritably snapped. He jerked open the freezer door.

  He looked up at the ceiling and took a deep breath. When he was able to speak without the voice of a raving lunatic, he apologized. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean that."

  "Oh, please, Luke,” Miles groaned, rolling his eyes. “I've had just about enough of this ‘I'm indebted to you for the rest of my life’ baloney you've been tossing at me since—” He paused, cleared his throat then finished, “—the fire."

  Luke grabbed a handful of ice cubes from a bucket in the freezer then shut the door. Meeting Miles’ gaze, though fleetingly, Luke's words were thick with emotion still too fresh in his mind even if his physical wounds had long ago healed. “I'm not the mushy type, Miles, but—"

  "Well, you could've fooled me,” he interjected.

  "But, well, I know things are, sometimes, kind of, you know, awkward between us and—"

  "You're not my type, Luke."

  Luke's face burned hot. “Come on, Miles, knock it off!"

  Miles laughed loud and hearty. He slid into a chair at the small oak dinette Luke had designed himself, having taken up woodworking as a hobby. Casually plucking an apple from the fruit basket, Miles turned it over in his hands, saying nothing.

  Luke lifted a brow. “Can you work with me here?"

  "Probably not.” Miles bit into the apple, chewing as he considered. “I still haven't figured out whether or not I like you yet."

  "You said I wasn't your type."

  Miles chortled, wagging a finger. “That's a good one. You're funny."

  Luke snagged a dishtowel, wrapped the ice cubes with it then held the icepack to his fingers, which were already blistering. “I'm just so damned nervous."

  "Oh, come on.” Miles waved a hand. “She's harmless."

  "It's the first time I'm meeting the woman, Miles, and first impressions count for a lot."

  "In which case I'm not sure why you baked that cake.” Miles pointed toward Luke's lopsided effort at a pound cake cooling on the counter. “Especially if you're concerned about first impressions."

  Luke opened his mouth to retort when Fallon barged in through the swinging door, cradling Flora in her arms. “Okay,” she grumbled. Her dark overly made-up eyes shot daggers at Luke. “Cat box is cleaned. Don't ever ask me to do that again."

  Luke swiped the perspiration from his forehead and muttered a sheepish, “Thanks. I got behind on ... things."

  "Oh, look! It's snowing again!” she exclaimed moving to the window. “Isn't it beautiful? Do you think her flight will be delayed?"

  "God, I hope not. Luke might spontaneously combust if she doesn't get here soon,” Miles quipped, biting noisily into his apple and ignoring the glare Luke sent him.

  "Besides, I guess we would've gotten a call by now. They should be here any minute.” She glanced up at the kitchen clock. “I hate that stupid apple clock. It's too hard to tell the time."

  "Each seed represents a number, Fallon, dear. Too much for your little pea-sized brain?” Miles teased his sister.

  With a tart little smirk she dropped the cat on his lap.

  He squealed, shifted, grabbed the cat and snapped, “Fallon, you're wicked."

  "So I've heard. How's the cake?” She meandered over to the counter. “Um ... Luke ... You've managed a cake that'
s both lopsided and deflated.” She arched a brow at him, her eyes gleaming in amusement. “Do you know how difficult that is to accomplish?"

  He raked a hand through his hair. “I'll frost it. That will hide its ... imperfections."

  "Pound cakes aren't for frosting, sweetie,” she said in a tinny patronizing voice. Winking, she grinned then gave his cheek a pat. “Next time order a pie from Marion at The Pie Place.” Poking a finger into the cake's center, she giggled. “Oh, yummy. Just the way I like it. Burnt on the outside, gooey on the inside.” She made a gagging face. “Luke, this is ... inedible."

  He hung his head. “Damn."

  "I'll tell you what, handsome,” she purred, rubbing up against his arm with her own. “Just because you're so cute and I, unlike Miles, actually like you, I'll make a run to The Pie Place and pick something up right now."

  "I don't want to put you out—"

  "Oh, I'm sure I'll need some kind of ... favor ... someday.” She winked again and made a kissy face at him.

  The thought of being indebted to her sent a chill tumbling over his spine, but Luke realized he was no longer in control of the situation.

  "I'll take your Jeep,” she insisted, plucking the keys from the nail where Luke kept them. “Back in a flash."

  "Be careful!” Miles called out. “It's snowing."

  She rolled her eyes, looking more like a petulant teenager than a twenty-five year old woman. “Duh, Miles. Thanks."

  * * * *

  "Oh, darling!” Blythe breathed in approval. Turning to her daughter, she beamed. “It looks wonderful!"

  The tears in Mother's eyes made Bianca's sting with emotion. “I know, Mother. Doesn't it?"

  From the pick-up, Blythe surveyed the Victorian home—an almost exact replica of the house great-great-grandmother had designed more than a century before.

  Blythe gasped in amazement. “And the whole town really helped to build this?"

  Bianca smiled, remembering when Luke brought her back to her plot of land on Hummingbird Lane after the fire. The burnt and charred remains of the old house had been completely cleared away and the foundation laid for a brand new one. An entire construction crew had been there to greet her, to build Bianca a new home. They came every afternoon for months, after working their jobs all day, and often labored until late in the evenings, rebuilding the Victorian home.