Winds of Salem: A Witches of East End Novel

by Melissa de la Cruz

  He smiled. “Here you go!” he said in the lightest, most cheerful tone as he handed her the used towel.

  Gert took a sniff and gritted her teeth. “This stinks! God, Freddie! I asked you to wash the whites—I left Post-its, I texted…” She shook her head. “Go! Close the door.”

  Dejected, Freddie went and sat on the couch and turned off the TV. He should clean up the place. That would make Gert happy. He rose, ambled to the kitchen, got a garbage bag, and began throwing out everything that appeared superfluous: old magazines, newspapers, take-out bags, empty Chinese food containers, and so on.

  Lately, things had just gotten too tense in this cramped apartment. He and Gert argued incessantly over the most mundane things. Who cared if the bathroom sink and mirror were spattered with toothpaste? Who cared if Freddie couldn’t find a video game after Gert had done the straightening up? They had both gotten so petty lately. They fought about the tight quarters, but they were together, and wasn’t that what was most important? Sometimes the brawls ended in mad, hungry sex, but lately it was just pointless arguments with no make-up sex afterward. How lame was that? He and Gert had been married for less than two months, and their marriage was already in the dumps.

  He had to do something about it.

  “All right!” he said. “I’m vacuuming.”

  Freddie got the vacuum out of the narrow cabinet in the kitchen and plugged it in. In the living room, the machine sounded as loud as a Harley. No wonder they never used it. Buster ran for his life into the bedroom, where he hid under the bed on which Gert was now studying, books sprawled all around her.

  In the living room, Freddie had begun to use the bare metal tube to suck the crumbs out of the couch. That felt satisfying. Then Gert was upon him, hands on her hips.

  “What are you doing?” she boomed over the machine.

  “Um… what does it look like?”

  Gert flicked the button on the vacuum cleaner off. They stood in a silent face-off. Freddie admired his wife, thinking she looked incredibly hot standing there with her warrior face, a small glimpse of her true nature as the jötunn goddess Gerðr. He wanted to do her right there and then. He was so hard up, and sort of getting hard at the thought. But then she spoke.

  “Can’t you see I’m studying? What are you doing—trying to sabotage me?”

  “What? No!” he said. “I just thought you would appreciate some cleanliness and order around here.”

  “What I would appreciate is a clean towel after a shower when I don’t have time to wash any!”

  There was no winning. But Freddie was the bigger man. He wasn’t going to get into it and explain that he had decided to turn a new page and that doing laundry had, in fact, been on his agenda. First, he had decided to fix the pigsty aspect of the place (Buster had nothing to do with it… but he didn’t want to think about their other little problem—or more like problems, plural—at the moment, which was probably one of the main reasons Gert was so tense). He would get her what she wanted. He would be a model husband. He decided to give his spouse some space for now, take a walk and pick up some groceries. He would fix this marriage even if Gert had given up.

  He put on a cap, a coat, and gloves and walked outside, striding quickly down the sidewalk, the sun in his face. It was a beautiful winter day, and he cut across the park, admiring the silhouettes of the empty tree branches, and Freya surfaced in his thoughts. What was she doing now? He could almost sense her. It was a reassuring feeling, like a second heart beating in his chest.

  At the store, he bought laundry detergent, paper towels, sponges, and three different cleaning products—one that was purple and had a whimsical Spanish name, Fabuloso. The pretty cashier batted her thick black eyelashes at Freddie. As he bagged his items, he winked at her. In turn, she licked her lips. Even if Gert thought he was lame, it was nice to know he still had it going on.

  He stopped by what looked like a little hole-in-the-wall. The window read FOOD SHOP. The place was run by a chef who made delicious dishes he knew Gert loved. Freddie chose eggplant Parmesan, beet and goat cheese salad, quinoa with lentils, and green beans in olive oil and garlic. They had been eating so much junk food lately—maybe that was the cause of their foul moods. Too many French fries and milkshakes. Too many fried mozzarella sticks. Hadn’t his mother always said that eating well meant feeling well?

  Last on his list of errands, he purchased a small chocolate cake, a bottle of Cabernet, and a bouquet of lilies. The flowers reminded him of Gert on better days. Suddenly, he felt terrific. He felt Fabuloso. The evening was going to be A-OK. He was going to win Gert back. It was ridiculous that their relationship had come to this so quickly. Their vows might have been exchanged at gunpoint, after he had blown his chance to be with her stepsister Hilly (Brünnhilde, whom Fryr had loved since time immortal but could never have), but he did love Gert. He was even monogamous for a change. He had just thrown away the receipt with the cashier’s number on it.

  When he returned to the apartment, it appeared his wife had the same idea to get them back on track. A better idea, even.

  “I’m so sorry, Freddie, I have been such a bitch lately. After you left, I cleaned up. I feel like an asshole,” Gert said as she greeted him at the door in a satiny white peignoir.

  “I’ve been the asshole,” said Freddie.

  “We both have been… It’s just having the pix—” she began, but Freddie didn’t want to be reminded of that, so he pressed a finger to her lips. He showed her what he had bought, thinking they could have an indoor picnic.

  “Oh, Freddie!” Gert gasped, and she pulled him into a kiss, pressing her body against his.

  Freddie became instantly hard again, aching to be inside his sexy, bitchy wife, for the hot, sweet sensation of their lovemaking. The force of their kisses sent them toppling onto the couch, groping, pulling, pushing at each other, panting heavily.

  Gert’s peignoir had fallen to the floor at this point, and they couldn’t get Freddie out of his clothes fast enough. She tore off his T-shirt. Freddie bent over to pull off his shoes, as she gripped impatiently at his leather belt to get the big brass hipster buckle undone.

  One of Freddie’s Chuck Taylors hit a wall, while the other flew into the air over the back of the couch.

  “Got it!” came a hoarse voice, and the clap of a sneaker caught in midair.

  “Erggggggh!” said Freddie, half undressed, grabbing the peignoir off the floor to hand to Gert.

  “They’re here?” she said, sitting up, donning the robe. “I thought you said they went skiing!”

  “They were supposed to,” said Freddie, glaring at Sven, who was holding up the sneaker, as the other pixies bustled into the apartment, carrying skis, snowboards, snowshoes, and what looked like the handles of a snowmobile. Freddie shook his head.

  Sven, whose hair was now turquoise, looked as scruffy as he usually did, cigarettes tucked in the sleeve of his T-shirt, which featured the grim reaper holding a scythe standing among cute puppies and a penguin with a bow tie. Val sported a spiky crimson Mohawk, a blush in his cheeks from carrying five pairs of skis up the three flights. Irdick, the round-faced one with the pale platinum hair, cried out, “Hey, Mom, Dad, we’re home!”

  The girls—fair-haired Kelda in Lolita heart-shaped sunglasses and dark, olive-skinned Nyph in star-shaped sunglasses—giggled. “Yeah, um, hi!” they said in unison.

  “Oops! I think we interrupted something?” Kelda peered above her heart-shaped lenses at Gert, who was tying the belt of her short robe. Then she looked at Freddie, still shirtless, his hair mussed.

  Gert shook her head but the pixies were not having it.

  “We totally did!” Nyph snickered. The pixies were ageless and immortal, but had a childlike air, like a group of loud preteens.

  “Gross!” said Sven.

  “Sorry!” Kelda said, giggling even more.

  “What are you doing here?” asked Freddie, disgruntled. “You promised to go on a ski trip! What the hell?”
>
  Gert was incensed. “I lent you my car, for God’s sake! Can’t Freddie and I have the place to ourselves for once?”

  “Yeah, about the car…” said Irdick.

  “No!” said Freddie, knowing what was coming. “You didn’t!”

  “Yeah, we did,” said Sven.

  “T-t-t-totaled,” said Val.

  Gert screamed, a scream that lasted forever, ending in a single sharp note that made everyone cover their ears.

  The pixies, who had been Ingrid’s wards, had somehow become Freddie’s responsibility. He wasn’t sure how that had happened. Something to do with Ingrid having to concentrate on her research, and soon they were just underfoot. Ever since they had moved in a few weeks ago, his marriage had deteriorated. The pixies were supposed to have stayed away the entire weekend, finally giving them a little peace. But here they were again. It was a total nightmare.

  Talented thieves who had gotten Killian in trouble in the first place, they were in charge of stealing back the trident from whoever had taken it (they swore they couldn’t remember who had assigned them the task of stealing it from Freddie originally), but after a few days on the yellow brick road, they claimed to have “lost the scent.” They were waiting to pick it up again. No one knew when that would be. They were useless, total mooches, not to mention the messes they made and that they never lifted a finger to clean. All they wanted, as Sven put it, was to have “some goddamned fun.”

  And now they had totaled Gert’s antique Jag, the only thing Mr. Liman had ever given his adoptive daughter.

  Freddie sighed as he picked up the phone to call the insurance company.

  chapter ten

  The Most Important Girl in His Life

  That morning a note had been left on the kitchen table for Ingrid. “Gone to find Uncle Art in Ohio. Love, Mom and Dad.” It was Saturday night, about six in the evening.

  When Ingrid had called Joanna’s cell earlier, her mother had sounded harried. What could have been so urgent while they were still on the road? Those two were behaving like delinquent teens taking off on a joy ride. Ingrid wished they had told her what it was about—but she decided to stop worrying for now. Her parents could take care of themselves. She had something far more pressing on her mind.

  Matt was on his way. They had made special plans for tonight and she hoped it would go smoothly—no awkwardness, discomfort, or fumbling. It was her way of making it up to him for not being available lately.

  Ever since Ingrid had returned to the elusive little seaside town to be closer to her family after years of living abroad and working in American universities, she had remained in the room upstairs next to Freya’s in her mother’s old colonial. She spent so many hours at the library that she hadn’t the time to look for an apartment. Plus, she had been comfortable here, with her mother and sister for company, and for a while it had been a treat to have the entire family together again, with Freddie back and even their father, Norman, welcomed into their old homestead. But as the maxim went, good things never lasted.

  Tonight, though, it was really quite perfect that she had the house to herself, logs burning in the fireplace, scented candles lit. She had prepared dinner and set the table in the dining room. Perhaps she should flick more lights on? Would that be better? She decided to turn the ones in the dining area on, dimmed, in addition to the candlelight, so they could see each other while they ate. She headed upstairs, passing her griffin, Oscar, in the hallway, his lion’s tail looping around her ankle.

  “Oh, no, this won’t do, my dear, you have to be out of sight this evening. You are just too scary even though you’re a pussycat.” She grabbed him by his feathery scruff and brought him to the pixies’ old haunt up in the attic. “Sorry,” she said sadly, locking the door. “Not tonight. Another time, perhaps.” She returned down the stairs. Yes, witches do possess familiars, but they certainly do not suckle them. Good gods! thought Ingrid. How gross. They really got so many things wrong back in Salem.

  She went inside her bathroom. “Yikes,” she said, glimpsing herself in the mirror. She had worn her hair down, as Matt liked it, but it looked a fright—witchy, really. She ran a brush through it, then sprayed it with some serum Freya had recommended so that it looked glossy and smooth. Ingrid smiled at her reflection. There was a pink flush in her cheeks, her gray-blue eyes shone, but her lips looked pale. She found a berry-red lipstick, but when she put it on, it looked too scarlet.

  She dabbed her lips, then finished them off with a touch of gloss. “There!” She didn’t look half bad, she thought—not too pale or bookish or bland.

  The doorbell rang and she started, losing hold of the perfume bottle, which fell to the sink. She placed it back on the counter, deciding against it. Too overbearing.

  Everything had to be perfect tonight.

  Tonight was the night!

  Downstairs in the front foyer, she took a deep breath. She steeled herself and opened the door.

  Matt Noble stood in the doorway with a shy grin. “Hey there!”

  Ingrid tingled all over at the sight of him.

  Then she turned to the girl beside him. “Maggie! How are you? It’s so great to meet you—I’ve heard so much about you from your dad!”

  Tonight was the night Ingrid was finally going to meet the most important girl in Matt’s life. His daughter.

  “Likewise,” said Maggie, giving Ingrid an impressively firm handshake for a twelve-year-old. Maggie looked unabashedly at Ingrid, her big brown eyes aglitter. And she was so pretty. Beautiful was more like it, but more olive toned and exotic looking than freckly, Irish Matt. “What a pretty dress!” Maggie said. “Is it vintage? And you have such great hair!”

  “Well, I could say the same to you.” The child was delightful. “I always wished I could be brunette.” Ingrid nodded.

  “The proverbial grass is always greener,” said Maggie.

  “Exactly!”

  “Um, I’m here,” piped Matt.

  “Oh, right!” remarked Ingrid.

  “But please, I don’t want to interrupt the lovefest.” He grinned.

  Maggie giggled.

  “Come in,” said Ingrid, and once Maggie strode through the door into the house, she and Matt took a moment to exchange a kiss.

  His cheek came around to hers, tenderly nuzzling it, and she felt his breath on her ear, which made her melt. “You’ve got this one!” he whispered.

  “I hope so, I’m nervous,” she said, then softly, “I’ve missed you!”

  “Tell me about it!” he boomed.

  Maggie was a quiet, watchful child but, at the same time, engaged and inquisitive. She was polite but also confident. Over dinner, she asked adultlike questions, sometimes encouraging the conversation if there was a lull. Matt’s daughter sought to put people at ease, and Ingrid felt grateful for it. She felt insecure about her cooking—she was no Freya in the kitchen. Had she over-grilled the scallops? Was the reduction of blackberry vinegar too tart or too sweet? Did Maggie even like scallops?

  “As a matter of fact, I’m a pescatarian. I don’t eat red meat,” Maggie reassured her. “It’s perfect. Really! These are so moist and yummy.”

  Ingrid laughed, sipping her wine. “So is it an ideological or health choice to be a pescatarian?”

  “Ideological to a degree but also a texture thing. The texture of meat makes me think of the poor animal. I worry about lobsters, but I just love the way they taste. Have you ever read David Foster Wallace’s essay?”

  “ ‘Consider the Lobster’?” asked Ingrid.

  Maggie nodded, batting her eyelashes. Matt winked encouragingly at Ingrid. She had scored points. “It does make you think. So sad about the author’s suicide. Dad says he was a genius but he hated all of his footnotes.” She laughed. She was indeed a precocious child, thought Ingrid. “So Dad says you’re doing some research on Salem? The witch hunts and trials?”

  Ingrid was a little taken aback and looked to Matt for reassurance. She wasn’t sure how much the young
girl knew about her background.

  “Maggie’s always been fascinated by the macabre, haven’t you, kid? I thought I’d tell her a little about your work… as an archivist and history scholar.” Matt coughed.

  “I’ve been digging into it a little—trying to see if I can figure out what was the spark—what started it…”

  “It was the girls, wasn’t it?” asked Maggie. “Girls my age.”

  Ingrid nodded. “You’re familiar with the story?”

  “A little. I know it started with girls having weird fits.”

  “Yes, Betty and Abigail. It was in the parsonage, the house of Reverend Samuel Parris, Betty’s father and Abigail’s uncle, where they started having those strange convulsions. When they wouldn’t stop, rumors began circulating that the girls were bewitched. Things took a bad turn when one of their neighbors, Mary Sibley, decided to take matters into her own hands, asking Parris’s Caribbean Indian slaves, Tituba and her husband, John Indian, to bake a witch’s cake.”

  “What’s that?” asked Maggie, her eyes full of wonder. She had pushed her plate aside to lean forward toward Ingrid.

  Ingrid looked to Matt. She smiled uncomfortably. “I don’t know if I should… It’s not particularly appetizing.”

  “Go ahead, she can take it.”

  A witch’s cake, Ingrid explained, was to be used for countermagic. It was to be baked with some of Betty’s and Abby’s urine, then fed to Parris’s dog. If the dog became seized with fits, it would prove that dark magic was at play. Or the animal might also run to the witch responsible for the girls’ fits, thereby pointing out the culprit.

  “So what happened?” asked Maggie, breathless. “Did the dog lose it?”

  Ingrid shook her head. “Mr. Parris found the cake as it was cooling, before it was actually fed to the dog. He beat Tituba to a pulp once he found out what it was and chastised poor Mary Sibley in church before all the parishioners, stating that with Mary’s actions, ‘the devil hath been raised among us.’ ”