Burning Bright

by Anne Stuart; Maggie Shayne; Judith Arnold

  “Five minutes are up,” Mort called. “C’mon, Dori, we have customers.”

  Dori got to her feet, though she felt her head spinning. Five minutes with a small-town cop, and suddenly she was questioning everything.

  Everything.

  “Here’s a tip for you, Dori,” he said. “At the craft fair, bring something to sell. Mark it up the same amount you usually charge for a reading, and give a free reading away with every purchase.”

  She frowned at him. “So I wouldn’t be charging for the readings.”

  “And you wouldn’t have to use the disclaimer.” He gave her a wink, picked up his sandwich and dug in.

  Tilting her head, she studied him. She had never seen this side of him before. Open-minded, accepting, even…spiritual, though she doubted he would call it that. “Thank you, Jason.”

  “My pleasure. Now, go. Mort’s glaring at you.”

  She glanced at her employer, sighed and got back to work.

  Jason finished his sandwich and left, but his words stayed with her all day. She had been fighting this; he was right about that. But since when did a small-town cop spout wisdom like a spiritual guru? It was as if he’d looked right inside her soul and diagnosed the problem. Was it possible she’d missed something so simple?

  And God, he had kept her letter. She must have meant so much more to him than she had ever realized. And she’d walked away, left him with barely an explanation. He should hate her for that. But he didn’t.

  When her shift ended, she stepped out of the diner and into the cold air. Christmas carols wafted from every store and business she passed. Sister Krissie’s Bar and Grill, the best restaurant in town, was filling up with hungry customers, and every time the door opened, strains from Manhein Steamroller wafted out into the streets. As she passed BK’s Grocery, a stream of bundled children came out with foil-wrapped chocolate Santas in their mittened hands, as their harried mom tried to herd them toward the car while juggling grocery bags.

  Dori hurried across the street and down the block to where she’d left her car. She swept off the snow, started up the engine, and sat behind the wheel rubbing her hands while it warmed up.

  “A car is a car,” she said softly, trying hard to see things from a new perspective, as Jason had suggested. And this wasn’t a bad one. Only two years old, with a good heater and working AC, a radio and a CD player. It wasn’t rusty and it ran well. It even had studded snow tires and front-wheel drive.

  She didn’t want just a car, though. She wanted her Mercedes.

  She sighed, pulled into the road and began the drive back to her cabin, only to find that the road out of town was blocked by road crews hoisting holiday lights. Damn. A small Detour sign pointed left onto Evergreen. Dori turned, and realized she’d rarely been on this side street. It meandered among small homes and a handful of shops.

  Then out of the blue, her car—which she was working very hard on believing was as good as a Mercedes—spit and sputtered and quit.

  “No.” She turned the wheel, coasting to a spot near the curb, then put it in Park and tried twisting the key. Nothing. Dead. And no onboard assistance button to push for help. No cell phone. She’d let it go, to eliminate the extra bill.

  “Damn.” Her mood—which had been improving—took a nosedive. She wrenched open the door, got out and looked around.

  The building in front of her, nestled on the corner of Evergreen and Hope streets, looked for all the world, to be a haven. White lights in the windows surrounded the words Burning Bright. The window display had candles of every imaginable shape and color. And the sign on the door read Open.

  Well, she was going to have to use a phone somewhere. Call a garage. A tow truck. Something.

  She opened the door, and a bell jingled as she walked inside.

  And then she just paused and breathed. The place smelled of sandalwood incense, and dragon’s blood oil, and the hot melted-wax smell that always transported her. It smelled like a sacred circle. It smelled like her religion and her craft. It smelled like magic, and the scents hit her hard, like a fist to the gut. Tears burned in her eyes and she wasn’t sure why.

  “Well, hello, dear.”

  Dori looked up, startled because she had thought the place empty. But it wasn’t empty at all. A woman stood there, an old women with a face that was craggy and lined yet somehow beautiful. Her eyes were huge and ebony, and her jet-black hair was streaked with vivid white and hanging loose, halfway down her back. She wore a black caftan, printed with rich gold swirls, that reached to the floor, long dangling earrings that were silver spirals, and a strand of huge beads around her neck, amber and jet.

  Amber and jet!

  In her hand, she held a broomstick.

  Dori stared, stunned to her bones. The image of the Dark Goddess, the Crone, stood before her, so vivid and so real that she bowed her head and very nearly fell to her knees. Those black eyes sparkled, and the Crone said, “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  Chapter Four

  “My goodness, child, don’t look so frightened.”

  The Crone set her broomstick aside and brushed her hands against each other. “I’m Helen. This is my candle shop. Every candle, handmade.”

  “He-Helen?” Not Hecate or Holda or—but she’d said she was waiting for her.

  “I saw you sitting in the car out front,” the old woman said as if reading her thoughts. “I was wondering when you’d get around to coming inside to get warm.” She smiled and offered her hand.

  Dori took it, surprised that it was warm and entirely human. “I’m Dori,” she said.

  “Good to meet you, dear. My but you still seem rather distraught. Is anything wrong?”

  Everything was wrong. Including the fact that she thought she’d just had a visit from the Dark Goddess Herself. “I…my car broke down. Do you have a telephone I could use?”

  “Of course.” She reached for the broom again, bent to the dustpan Dori hadn’t seen before and swept up a nearly invisible pile of dirt. “I’ll be right back with the phone. Feel free to browse around. You never know, you might find just what you need—even if you didn’t know you needed it!”

  With another smile, she carried her dustpan away through the shelves and shelves of candles. She jingled when she walked, and Dori glimpsed bracelets adorning her wrists and her ankles. Dori blinked and tried to give herself a mental shake. But it didn’t work. She felt the way she did when she was in an altered state: very relaxed and open, her heart and pulse thudding slowly, her body heavy, her vision slightly out of focus. Part of it was this place; she knew that. The smells, the candle glow—these were triggers that told her body it was time for spiritual practice, for ritual, for magic. But there was something more about this place that was working on her.

  She’d spent a lot of time in this town, yet she didn’t remember a candle shop here. She’d been back for nearly a year, and never heard of or seen it.

  Every shelf held candles and holders and snuffers. Tapers and pillars glowed from every windowsill and stand.

  When Helen returned, she wasn’t carrying a phone but a candle, the most unusual candle Dori had ever seen. It was as if three strips of wax—silver, gold and white—had been braided together to form a single piece. “I have something for you,” she said.

  Dori looked at the candle the old woman held out. “It’s the most beautiful candle I’ve ever seen,” she said. “But I couldn’t…”

  “It’s a special candle. Waiting for just the right person to come and claim it. I think you’re that person, Dori.”

  Dori smiled, lowering her head. “I couldn’t possibly—”

  “Why not? Not celebrating the Solstice this year?”

  Dori looked at her sharply. How could she know?

  “You see, child, the silver is for the year that’s about to pass.” As she spoke, she stroked the silver parts with a long, gnarled finger. “And the gold is for the new one, the one about to begin. And the white is the bond that connects all thin
gs, every ending and every beginning, every death and every birth. It’s the perfect candle for you, especially at this time of year. Here, smell.”

  She held it closer, and Dori inhaled its scent. Hazelnuts and cedar and cinnamon. She closed her eyes.

  “Take it, child. There’s a little magic in this candle. And it’s meant for you, I’m sure of it.”

  Opening her eyes, no longer sure this wasn’t a visitation from the Goddess after all, Dori clasped the candle in her hands. How could she have doubted, turned her back on her own faith? she wondered. Surely this was proof…this was a sign…this was—

  “That’ll be five-ninety-five, with the tax.”

  Dori’s eyes popped open wider. “Huh?”

  “Now, where did I put that phone?” the woman said, turning again in a slow circle and searching blankly around the shop. “Maybe it’s in the back.”

  “I’ll just try the car again,” Dori said quickly. If she let the woman out of her sight, she’d no doubt find something else to force her to buy. Visitation from the Goddess, hell. Helen was sly and ultra-observant. Nothing more. Dori dipped a hand into her jeans pocket, even though she knew there was no money in there, and came out with a five and a one. She must have shoved some tips into her jeans and forgotten about them, she thought, and handed the cash to the woman. “Thank you, Helen.”

  “You’re welcome, Doreen. Don’t stay away so long next time.”

  Dori was out the door before she processed any of that. She’d never told the woman her name was Doreen. She’d said Dori, not Doreen. And what did that “Don’t stay away so long next time” bit mean? She looked at the candle in her hand. Its scent teased her senses, and called out to her like a lover calling her home.

  She got into the car, wondering which place on this street would be a better bet for finding a phone, and twisted the key just for kicks.

  The car started without a sputter, and ran perfectly all the way home.

  JASON RETURNED to his office, glanced at his desk and frowned. “Uh, hey, Sheila?”

  The receptionist peered in through the open door.

  “There was a folder here, just some uh…Internet research I was doing.”

  “Oh, you mean all that stuff about Doreen Stewart being a Witch?”

  He bit his lip to keep from swearing.

  “Who’d have guessed, huh?”

  “Sheila, that stuff was private.”

  Her smile faded. “It was?”

  “Where is it?”

  “I took the folder to my desk when I gathered up the others. I was just filing stuff, Jason, I didn’t mean to…” She licked her lips, lowered her head.

  “What happened to it?”

  “Some of the guys saw me reading through it.”

  “Which guys?”

  “Joey, Frank…and Mr. Kemp, he was here.”

  Jason closed his eyes.

  “I tucked it in my desk drawer. But…well, if it was supposed to be a secret, Jason, I’m afraid it’s not anymore.”

  “Kemp knows.”

  She nodded.

  “Hell, Sheila.” He lowered his head, shaking it slowly. Now what? He sighed. “Get me Kemp on the phone.”

  “I’m really sorry, Jason.”

  “Yeah. My fault. I shouldn’t have left it lying around.”

  He went to his desk when she left, waiting for the phone to ring, picked it up. “Kemp?”

  “Jason. Wanted to call you anyway, thank you for that research you did on the Stewart woman.”

  “That research was not meant to be public knowledge.”

  “No? Well, kind of late now.”

  “What did you do, rent a billboard?”

  “Tipped off the local press. Reverend Mackey, too. Figured he ought to be aware of what was brewing. Get it? Brewing? Witch?” His hearty chuckle made Jason’s stomach knot up.

  “Got it. Not smiling. This is her personal business, Kemp. What earthly good is it going to do to spread it all over town?”

  “Might show her who she’s dealing with. We’re a Godfearing town, Jason. We don’t need her kind coming in trying to corrupt the youth.”

  “Corrupt the—Jesus, Kemp, she’s a decent woman.”

  “Best brush up on your scriptures, Jason. And trust me, law or no law, there’s no way in hell she’s getting a table at our Christmas Craft Fair.”

  “Holiday Craft Fair,” Jason corrected. “Remember you changed the name for the sake of political correctness?”

  “Name or no name, it’s the Christmas Craft Fair and everyone in this town knows it. That’s the way it’s always been, and that’s the way it will continue to be. Period.” The decisive click told him when Kemp had hung up.

  Jason sighed, unable to argue with dead air. Now he’d messed things up thoroughly. Dori was going to be furious. This was the last thing she wanted. He hit the flash button, got a dial tone, and reached to the keypad to punch in her number—but then he thought better of it.

  This kind of news ought to be delivered in person.

  Or maybe it was just that he wanted to see her again. God, he wanted to see her again. When he’d touched her today in the diner, held her hands, it had been like…like taking his first breath after too long under water. He hadn’t breathed like that in ten years. She was his air. He needed her. But now…now he’d probably blown any chance he’d ever had.

  DORI WALKED into Uncle Gerald’s cabin and shucked her winter clothes. Then she took the candle from the little bag in which the mysterious old woman had packed it. A year ago, she wouldn’t even have questioned the significance of the encounter. A year ago, everything in her life had made sense. Everything mundane had spiritual implications and everything spiritual affected the mundane. Her life had been integrated, or she thought it had been.

  But she’d changed her mind about all of that. Decided she’d been deluded. There was no such thing as magic, or if there was, it had abandoned her. Just as the Goddess had.

  So why was she questioning this now? Why was some doubting voice in her mind telling her it had all been more than just a coincidence? The detour, the car breaking down, the woman looking the way she did, the shop that had never been there before, the candle.

  Had she really stopped believing in magic? Or had she only told herself she had?

  Sighing, she went into the living room, to the mantel. The glass-enclosed candle holder there resembled a lantern and had always been her favorite because she could use it indoors or out. But a long time had gone by since she’d done either. It held a long since burned-out stump. She swallowed, feeling guilty.

  She lifted off the glass chimney and plucked the old stump free. Then she carefully placed the new candle in its place and lowered the glass over it again. She spent a moment, staring at it, reviewing the feelings that had rushed over her when the old woman had first appeared in front of her. She hadn’t felt that way in a long time—that surge of certainty that she was in the presence of the Divine. Not really. And now that she really thought about it, her spirituality seemed to have been flagging long before she lost her job and all her money.

  She went to the wastebasket and looked down at the Goddess sculpture that lay, face up, atop a banana peel and some coffee grounds.

  Someone knocked. She lifted her head and went to the door. Why did her heart jump just a little when she saw that it was Jason? Okay, so she was attracted to him. What woman wouldn’t be? But did she have to react like a teenager with her first crush?

  Yes. Because she felt like a teenager with her first crush. Hell, he had been her first crush.

  “You came back,” she said, and in spite of her best efforts, her voice sounded breathless.

  “You didn’t think I would?” He was doing that thing with his eyes, again. Looking at her in that way he had. He focused on her toes first and then her face.

  She shrugged. “No, I really didn’t.”

  Jason sighed. “I’m afraid you’re not gonna be glad I did. And you can’t believe how sorry I am
to say so.” He stomped the snow off his boots and walked inside. He was avoiding her eyes.

  She pursed her lips. “So this isn’t a social call?”

  “Not really.” He was in the process of prying off his boots as he said it, but he stopped and looked up quickly, as if to gauge her reaction to that. “Did you want it to be?”

  She shrugged, and avoided his searching look. She wasn’t surprised. His learning the truth about her might have cooled any notion he might have had about starting things up again with her. He might be open-minded, but being open-minded and dating a Witch were pretty different things.

  “I owe you an apology, Dori.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Jason. I’m the one who walked away. You don’t owe me a thing.”

  He licked his lips, shrugged out of his coat and draped it on a hook inside the door, next to Uncle Gerald’s old hurricane lamp. Then he stepped away from the snowy entry rug, leaving his boots behind. “I’m not talking about what happened ten years ago, honey. I’m talking about what I did today.”

  Dori frowned at him. His tone was so gentle it frightened her.

  “I mean, not that I don’t want to talk about our past—I do. I’d love it, it’s just—”

  “What did you do today that requires an apology?”

  He lowered his head, walked across the kitchen to the stove and turned on a burner. Picking up the teakettle, he gave it a shake, heard enough splashing to satisfy him and set it on the burner. He glanced over his shoulder at her. She was standing in the doorway between the little kitchen and little living room, leaning against one side, watching him, arms crossed over her chest.

  “You have cocoa?”

  “It’s in the second canister.”

  He nodded and took out a couple of packets of hot cocoa mix, snatched two mugs from the wooden mug tree on the counter and emptied the packets into them.