Maggie Shayne - Return of the Light

by Return of the Light

  “It’s nothing. Jason, don’t—”

  Too late. He bent and snatched the sculpture out, rising with it and brushing coffee grounds off it. He held it up, staring at the nude female form standing atop the crescent moon.

  “Looks old,” he said.

  “The figure is a reproduction.”

  “Of?”

  She sighed. “The Goddess. It’s one of the older images of her, known as the Nile Goddess, I believe. The modern artist added the moon and the starry backdrop.”

  He lifted his eyes to hers. “So what’s she doing in the garbage?”

  “I don’t know.” She lowered her head. “I don’t know anything anymore.” That tears sprang into her eyes angered her, but she managed to keep them hidden. She heard water running, and when she looked up again, he was rinsing the sculpture clean, holding it almost reverently, his hands sliding over her to brush the coffee grounds away. Dori brought him a towel from the rack. He took it from her and patted the figure dry.

  “What happened, Dori? You decide to stop believing in magic?”

  She pursed her lips. “I decided to. I tried to. But I don’t think it took.”

  He smiled. “Let’s hang her back up, hmm?”

  “Not yet. I should do a cleansing first.”

  He frowned, a little furrow in his brow that made her want to smooth it away with her finger—or maybe her lips.

  “I…thought that’s what I just did,” he said.

  She smiled. “A ritual cleansing. It’s a little different.”

  “Will you show me?”

  “Oh, come on, Jason. You aren’t really interested in seeing—”

  “I really am.”

  He sounded so sincere. The teakettle whistled. Dori found herself conceding. “All right. If you’re sure.” He nodded. “You make the cocoa, then,” she said. “And bring a bowl of snow from outside. And I’ll get the room ready.”

  Chapter Five

  The minuscule amount of reading Jason had done since learning the truth about Dori didn’t prepare him at all.

  She had surrounded the room with candles, and converted her coffee table into an altar by draping a white cloth over it. It held ordinary items. A wineglass with some of the snow in it, rapidly melting. A bowl with something in it that appeared to be sugar or salt. A stick of incense. A small candle. An old iron cauldron in the center.

  When he entered the room, he found her kneeling in front of the coffee table, holding her hands over each item, whispering words too softly for him to hear. He stood in rapt silence, watching as she lit the incense, the candle. She sprinkled some of the white stuff into the water and lifted the glass high, bowing her head. Finally, she set the glass down and rose to her feet.

  “I used to have the prettiest tools,” she said. “My athame—that’s a ritual dagger—had a sterling blade and a hand-carved onyx handle. My wand was tipped in the biggest quartz crystal you ever saw. My cauldron was a replica of the Gundestrup artifact.”

  “I don’t know what that is,” he admitted.

  “Oh, it was a beautiful piece. Found in a peat bog in Denmark. It dates back to around one hundred BCE. It was Celtic, maybe used by the Druids in their rites, and has images of more than a dozen gods and goddesses engraved on its sides.”

  “Sounds like something special.”

  “It was.”

  “What happened to all those…tools?” he asked.

  She looked at him and he thought her eyes were sad. “Had to sell them. Even the crystal ball.”

  “When you were first learning all of this, did you have fancy gadgets then?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “But you managed fine without them, huh?”

  She met his eyes. “Yeah. I did. I used to tell my students, ‘It’s not about the tools. It’s about you.’ Come here.”

  He came closer. She reached to the table and picked up the wineglass. “The cup is the female. The womb of life. And the dagger is the male. The phallus. To bring our rituals to life, we lower the dagger into the cup. The combination of male and female—force and form—creates the spark of life. The source of all things, and magic.”

  “That’s kind of sacred and sexy at the same time.”

  “Sex is sacred in the craft. We call this ritual the Symbolic Great Rite.”

  He was liking this side of her. Deep and intimate. Mystical and wonderful. “That would imply there’s a…nonsymbolic version?”

  She smiled mysteriously at him. “I don’t have my dagger anymore. Will you help me?”

  He nodded, all but holding his breath wondering what she was going to do next. She scooped some of her water into her palms and held them cupped loosely. “My hands can be the womb.”

  “I get it.” He lifted his own hand. “Mine can be the phallus.” He slid his fingers between her hands, over her skin, sinking them into the water in her palms. She closed her eyes and he thought she shivered. For melted snow, the water she cupped seemed awfully warm. Her hands felt downright hot. And he was burning up.

  He withdrew his fingers slowly. She opened her eyes, and they glistened. Then she held her palms over the wineglass to release the water back into it. “You’re a natural,” she told him.

  It had felt natural, he thought. About as natural as pulling her into his arms and kissing her senseless would feel.

  But he didn’t do that. Instead, he stood quietly watching as she walked around the room. She moved in a circle, carrying the water with her. Then she did it again, carrying the smoking incense and wafting it around the room. The third time, she lifted the candle. When she finished, she moved back to the altar and picked up the Goddess sculpture. She held it over the smoking censer, so the spirals of smoke wafted around it.

  “I cleanse and consecrate you by the powers of Air, emblem of the Goddess.”

  She moved the sculpture over the flame of the candle. “By the powers of Fire, I burn away all negativity.”

  Then she dipped her fingers into the water and sprinkled the sculpture. “All malignancy I wash away by the powers of Water.”

  She picked up the salt—he was sure it was salt now that he’d tasted it on his fingers—and dusted the sculpture with it. “By the powers of Earth, be you cleansed, purified.”

  She lowered the sculpture into the cauldron, then held her hands over it. “By the power of Spirit I…” And there she faltered. “I…I’m sorry.”

  Frowning, Jason moved closer to her.

  She dropped to her knees, her hands still over the cauldron; trembling now, she said, “I’m so sorry. I remove every negative emotion I sent to you. I cleanse you of my anger. Of my fears. Of my doubts. I…”

  Tears slid silently down her cheeks. This was a powerful thing that was happening here, he thought. More powerful, maybe, than even Dori realized.

  Jason lowered himself to his knees behind her. He folded his arms around her, stretching them out alongside her arms, his hands sliding over hers above the cauldron. His fingers extended the length of hers, his thumbs bending around to her palms.

  “I cleanse myself in you,” she whispered. “Goddess, take this darkness from my soul. I so want to live in the light again.” Her head bowed, and she cried softly.

  Moved beyond words, and unsure what to do, Jason felt her relax back against him as she wept. He wrapped her in his arms, held her there. Then, without knowing why, he reached for the incense. He brought it close to her and used his hand to waft the smoke over her. He couldn’t quite remember her words. “Cleansed by Air,” he said softly. “Let it blow away the darkness, Dori.”

  He saw her head rise, her brows bend. Sitting on the floor with her legs folded under her, she slid around to face him, searching his eyes. He set the incense down and picked up the candle, moved it under her chin, up and around her body. “Cleansed by Fire, everything bad is burned away.”

  She closed her eyes, and more tears spilled over. Her shoulders trembled. He put the candle down, dipped his fingers into the water,
then drew them out, dripping, to her face and wiped the hot tears from her cheeks. “Cleansed by water, everything sad is washed away.”

  Then he reached for the bowl of salt, gathered a bit in his palm. “Cleansed by…” He hesitated. “Salt?”

  “Earth,” she told him.

  “Right. Earth. Cleansed by Earth—solid, dependable Earth—everything that hurt you in the past is gone. And you’re starting over, right here, tonight.” He grinned as he sprinkled some of the salt over her head.

  “You’re amazing, Jason.”

  “Yeah, we’ll get to that.” He sat down, glad to see the tears had stopped welling up in her eyes. “Finish this first.”

  She nodded, and then she got to her knees again to remove the sculpture from the cauldron and bring it to her lips. She whispered thanks to the powers of the Universe, and then walked around her circle, in the opposite direction this time. When she finished, she knelt and pressed her palms to the floor, eyes closed, and sat silent for a moment.

  Finally, with a deep breath, she lifted her head, opened her eyes. “It’s done.”

  “It was something,” he said. “No eye of newt or testicles of a righteous man.”

  She smiled slowly. “I’m saving those things for your second ritual.”

  “Right.”

  Her smile died. “What you did for me, that was—”

  “That was nothing. I haven’t got a clue what I’m doing. I’m not even sure what made me try.”

  “It was perfect. It was…wonderful.” She leaned closer and pressed her lips softly against his, for just a moment.

  Jason thought his insides were going to shake themselves apart. Somewhere deep down a little voice was warning him not to let himself fall too hard, too fast. She could easily walk away and destroy him again.

  “Thank you for that, Jason.”

  He drew a deep breath. “It was the least I could do.” He reached for the cooling cocoa and handed it to her, just to put some distance and perspective between them. Otherwise, he was going to sweep her into his arms and—

  Best not to think about that.

  “Are you feeling better?”

  She nodded. “A little.”

  And now he had to tell her what he had come here to tell her. “I hate to bring you down,” he said. “I can’t believe how much I hate it. I felt like we…oh, hell.” He closed his eyes.

  “Jason, what’s wrong?”

  “I have to be honest with you, Dori.” He opened his eyes, gazed into hers. “That research I did on your background?”

  “Yeah.” She looked worried now.

  “The secretary found it on my desk and took it to hers to file it. She was looking through it, and some other people read over her shoulder. Including the good town supervisor, Thomas Kemp.”

  She blinked. “You mean everyone in the police department knows I’m a Witch?”

  “Yeah. And pretty soon everyone else in town will, too. Kemp called the newspaper, and one of our local ministers, Reverend Mackey.” He prayed she wouldn’t hate him for this. “I’m sorry, Dori. I’m so sorry. I never meant to spread your secret like this. I…if I could undo it…”

  “But you can’t. Oh, Jason, what’s going to happen now?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t believe people are as narrow-minded as you think they are. Give Crescent Cove some credit. Have a little faith.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “It’s a good thing you’re telling me this today and not yesterday.”

  “Yeah? Why?”

  “’Cause yesterday I didn’t think I had any faith left.”

  He sighed in relief. She hadn’t thrown him out. Yet. And if she was feeling she had a little faith left after all, then hope wasn’t lost. He reached for the sculpture they had just cleansed. “Can I hang her up for you?”

  “You’d better. I’m going to need her.”

  So he hung the plaster image up for her. And he thought about kissing her before he left, but in the end, he didn’t. In fact, as she stood there at the door, saying good-night, it was all he could do not to. But the night had been an emotional one for her. He didn’t want to scare her off or send her into a panic, much less convince her that his motives were less than decent. And he was scared; he was still damn scared that the minute he let himself fall head over heels, she’d get the job offer she’d been waiting for and walk out on him again.

  Because despite all that had happened—she still hadn’t told him she wanted to stay. And damn, he couldn’t risk his heart until she did. And then that little voice inside him asked him if he really believed it wasn’t already too late.

  THE TELEPHONE WAS RINGING by the time Jason left, and Dori picked it up with a sigh.

  “Doreen Stewart?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Grace Merrill from the Crescent Cove Chronicle. I’m doing a story about you and I was wondering—”

  “I don’t want a story done about me.”

  There was a brief moment of silence. “You don’t understand. You see, I’m a—”

  “This is my private business here, and I don’t want it spread all over the pages—”

  “Some of it’s a matter of public record, Ms. Stewart.”

  “Maybe I can’t stop you then, but I’m certainly not about to help you.” She hung up the phone, feeling just a bit guilty for having been mean. The reporter had seemed respectful enough, been decent on the phone. But she did not want this. And she knew the press well enough to know anything she said could be twisted around and used against her.

  She cleaned up the living room, skipped dinner because her stomach was roiling, and went to bed early. But she barely slept. That morning paper might very well have the entire town talking and she did not want to deal with the gossip.

  But she didn’t think she had much choice.

  All those worries paled in comparison, though, to the big issue on her mind. And that was—she thought she just might be falling in love with Jason Farrar. All over again.

  THE NEWSPAPERS WERE STACKED on the end of the counter for the customers, just as they were every morning, when Dori went in to work. She avoided looking at them as she tied on her apron, put on three pots of coffee, filled the sugar dispensers and cream pitchers and set them along the counters and on the tables.

  The bells over the door jangled, and jangled again as the morning crowd came in. “’Morning, Dori. Got my coffee ready?”

  “’Morning, Sam,” she said, not meeting the old fellow’s eyes, afraid of what she might see there. Instead, she filled four foam coffee cups, added fixings, snapped on the lids and stuck them into a cardboard carrier. “Here you go. Four large, two cream no sugar, one sugar no cream, one black. Three-fifty.”

  He dropped a five on the counter. “Keep the change, hon. Have a good one.”

  She looked up only as the man took his standing order and headed for the door. That was odd. He always read the paper before he came in, always knew about the day’s news.

  Bill tapped his cup on the counter. “Hey, Dori, you gonna top this up with coffee, or just wiggle your nose?”

  She frowned at him.

  He grinned and sent her a wink. “Hell, I’ve done it now. I’ll be a toad before the day’s out.”

  She carried the coffeepot over and refilled his cup. “You were a toad to begin with, Bill.”

  “Yeah, but I’m still your favorite customer,” he said.

  Then he went right back to work on his breakfast. Nothing negative, nothing dark. He didn’t seem the least bit upset about the newspaper’s revelations.

  A throat cleared. She glanced up and saw the Reverend Mackey sitting at the counter. Great. He never came in here. Pasting a smile on her face, she walked up, grabbing a heavy mug and bringing the coffeepot. “Coffee, Reverend?”

  “You bet,” he said. “I read your article in the paper this morning.”

  “Wasn’t my article,” she said as she poured. “I didn’t really want my private life plastered all ov
er the front page, but I didn’t have much choice in the matter.”

  “Really?”

  “Do you need a menu? Breakfast, or just coffee?”

  “No, no breakfast. Mainly, I came in to talk to you.”

  She met his eyes. They were kind and blue. He had a blond crew cut and looked more like a marine than a minister. “Please tell me you’re not here to try to convert me.”

  His brows went up high. “I imagine you’re expecting that. Might get it, too, from some folks, including some clergy. Nasty mail, phone calls, a protester or two. Are you ready for all of that, Dori?”

  “I guess I’ll have to be.”

  He nodded, sighed. “I assumed you could handle it. You handled New York, after all. Besides, you’re clergy, according to the newspaper. Quite highly placed clergy at that.”

  She stared at him, half expecting some kind of a trick. He reached a hand to hers, and she realized she was still pouring his coffee and damn close to flooding the cup. She stopped and took the pot back to the burner. “I used to be considered an elder,” she said. “But it’s hard to be highly placed when you’re one of a kind.”

  He smiled slowly. “That’s why you were against the article? You think you’re the only Wiccan in town?”

  She lifted her brows. “I am.”

  “No, Dori, you’re not. You might be the only Wiccan clergy in town, though. Which is why I’m rather glad that article ran. There are people here who need you. Now, I admit I’d prefer they come to me, but my beliefs don’t fulfill the needs of every person in Crescent Cove, and I’ve learned to accept that and recognize there’s more than one way to find God.”

  “I can hardly believe what I’m hearing,” she whispered.

  “Aha!” he said, and pointed at her. “You, of all people, giving in to preconceived notions and expecting me to come in here threatening you with eternal damnation for your beliefs just because I’m a Christian minister?”

  “You’re right,” she said. “Shame on me.”

  “It takes all kinds to make a world, Dori. Now, here. Take this.”

  She picked up what he slid across the counter to her. A card with his name, address, phone number. She flipped it and saw a date and time scrawled on the back. “What’s this?”