I turned around and headed back down the steps one at a time and unlatched the lynch gate, letting myself into the side yard. The tinkling of the wind chimes coaxed me around the side, reminding me there was a back door into the kitchen. It was creepy to be back here again. I could see the graveyard off in the distance, the place where Sam MacDonnell had died many years ago. Some things had changed. Móraí now had a garden. I took a deep breath and let myself be soothed by the abundance of vines and flowers.
It was cooling off, the way most Dublin nights did, even in summer. I’d once heard someone describe Ireland’s unpredictable weather as four seasons in one day. Couldn’t say I disagreed—well, maybe three; there hadn’t been snow yet today.
I turned the knob. The backdoor swung inward, creaking just like a haunted house. I rolled my eyes and mentally reprimanded myself for being so melodramatic.
The kitchen was empty, so I continued through, pausing in the doorway of the living room, watching Alana and Móraí. I felt voyeuristic but it wasn’t my fault no one had answered the door. They sat on the floor with eyes closed, presumably meditating. Alana looked so rebellious in her tight rust-colored jeans. A Kiss T-shirt with the arms cut off.
On a worktable under the window there was a large assortment of herbs and oils, wax, and small charms. Incense burned in the corner, giving me a mild tension headache, and for a moment the floor seemed to tremble ever so slightly beneath my feet. A tiny little corner of my mind wondered what they were up to.
Móraí opened her eyes.
“Sophia.” She seemed a little embarrassed to be caught off guard. Funny. Móraí had always given the illusion of being an uptight socialite. I pictured her as I’d always seen her in the upstairs wing of Cullen’s parents’ home: hair pulled back in a tight chignon, sporting only designer labels. What a contrast. Her silver hair was braided and hung limply down her back. She wore a long dress, reminiscent of an old hippie with a Celtic star pendant hanging around her neck.
Cullen was right. She’d gone Wiccan.
Alana opened her eyes, too, and looked up.
“Mum. I was just thinkin’ about ye.” She looked at Móraí. “I guess the conjure balls do work.”
Móraí smiled.
“Hi, baby. I brought a peace offering," I said, holding out a new diary. “One with a sturdy lock.”
"Is this a trick? Where’s the spare key."
"I don’t have a key. I swear, and if you promise to talk to me more openly and honestly, I’ll never invade your space again," I replied.
She got to her feet in one swift movement, far more gracefully then I ever could have—and that was saying a lot because I did yoga twice a week.
"Does that mean you’ll come home?" I asked.
Alana’s only response was to pull on her leather jacket and grab her bag but it was enough and inside I secretly did a happy dance. I wasn’t sure when it had become a contest between myself and Móraí but it felt like I’d just won a small battle.
Alana followed me into the kitchen to where I’d left my shoes.
“That’s a lovely garden you’ve got, Móraí,” I said as she trailed us outside. “I didn’t know you had a green thumb.”
“Her friend has been helping her,” Alana said, cutting in.
I bent down to touch one of the berries. “Wow, these look like shiny black marbles.”
“Don’t touch, dear,” Móraí said grabbing for my hand. “These plants are sensitive,” she said, steering me away.
I mumbled an apology and climbed into my car.
As soon as we were on the main road back, I turned to Alana.
“I have to stop by the bookstore to make sure it got closed up properly—what with Deirdre’s accident, we’re short staffed right now. Do you want to come with me or should I drop you at home?”
I was pretty clear on what a conjure ball was, but I wanted to double-check with Leslie, who had now consumed almost one third of the books we’d just received and was already more familiar with spell books than I.
“I’ll come with. What do ye mean Deirdre’s accident?”
“Oh, right, I haven’t told you yet. A vase fell from one of the top shelves and knocked Deirdre out this morning. She was rushed to the hospital in an ambulance.”
I debated bringing up the hex but decided to wait until we’d been back on good terms for at least an hour. Better yet maybe Leslie would bring it up.
The closed sign was already flipped when we arrived but, just as I figured, Leslie was still there, nose stuck in a book.
“Can you be a normal person even for one night, Leslie? You’re supposed to be getting ready for the concert and instead you’re reading about,” I bent my head down and read the cover, “scrying and crystal balls.”
“What? The concerts not til eight. We’re good, right, Alana?”
“Plenty of time, it’s only five.”
I shook my head and set down a paper cup. “Here. We brought you a coffee.”
“Thanks! I just finished a cup of peppermint tea but I do so love caffeine. Did you bring me a cupcake?”
I ignored her. “How was the rest of the afternoon?”
“It was good.”
Alana wandered into the back office, calling for Daphne.
I lowered my voice to a whisper. “I need some books on magic. Load me up.”
Leslie offered up her signature high-pitched giggle. “All right, Harry Potter. What sort of books on magic and why?”
“What do you know about conjure balls? Are they good magic or bad?”
“Umm…I think both, some conjure objects and some conjure spirits. I was reading about the objects last night.”
She struggled with a stack of books, pulling one from the pile and opening it. “Here it is: love balls include talismans, like a wedding ring, a lock of a loved one’s hair.”
I gave her a look and she lowered her voice.
“There are luck balls which might include dice, horseshoes, and herbs that attract good fortune. But there are also ones that conjure spirits. Only a true caster can cast these spells correctly. When these spells are cast incorrectly the caster is usually haunted for the rest of their lives by the tormented soul they tried to conjure.”
“That definitely sounds bad,” I whispered.
“Why do you need to know about conjuring?”
“Why else? Móraí,” I said, rolling my eyes. “She’s acting weird—weirder than usual, that is. She was wearing a pendant and Alana joked they’d conjured me. Oh, and she has a garden now. Since when does she garden? I bent down to pick one of her berries and she all but slapped my hand away.”
“A garden?” She pulled a thick Witch’s Guide to Poisons off a bookshelf. Setting the book on the table, she began reading. “Do you think it was a witches garden?”
“Am I supposed to know what that is?”
She flipped several pages. “You know—botanicals used in brewing potions, plants of the deadly variety? Did it look like this?”
“Yes. It did,” I said, reading the name Belladonna.
“It’s also known as deadly nightshade—very poisonous. That’s why she wouldn’t let you touch it, silly.”
“I saw this one, too,” I said, pointing to the other page featuring club moss.
“Witch’s dust.”
“I’ve heard of that. You see it in movies or magic shows when people want to distract and disappear. Its oily yellow spores explode when ignited, like mini fireworks.”
Alana rounded the corner, taking in the new supernatural section, and Leslie and I stopped talking.
“Mum, I didn’t know you were into magic. This is brilliant. I’m gonna ring up Móraí and tell her about this–she is absolutely going to love it. This is very cool.”
For the first time in many years Alana looked at me like she used to, like I knew something and like she respected me. I smiled on the outside but inside I frowned. “Shall we go? You ladies have a concert to get to.”
Chapter Eight
een
Go Ask Your Father
Hunedoara, Romania, 1494
“Elena, allowing Sofia to run away with Costin will only inflame the situation. Costin must remain. When Sofia returns I’ll explain why fleeing with Costin is too dangerous. Then the two of you will pack and I’ll see you both away tonight. There is no other choice.”
“Costin will not understand, Vilhem. Don’t you think I tried?”
“I’ll speak with the boy myself and make him understand. Your safety and Sophia’s comes first.”
“He’s convinced that he is the only one who can protect her. It’s too late. I’ve made arrangements on their behalf and I know where they are going. They’ll be safe enough as long as they get away in time. We don’t have any choice and, besides, the farther away she is from that castle, the safer she is.”
“Safer?” Vilhem spat. “Tell me the plans. I’ll send a messenger on your behalf and see that the plans are cancelled.”
Sofia watched with guilt as her mother dropped her head into her palms. She was clearly torn between protecting her and listening to him. A moan escaped her mother’s lips and Sofia grew angry. By what right did this man—her mother’s lover—have to dictate orders with regards to her? He was nothing to Sofia.
“No. I can’t tell you,” Elena said. “I promised that I wouldn’t.”
Vilhem stepped forward and rested his hand on Elena’s shoulder.
“Elena, don’t be foolish. Allow me to protect her. I’m her father and I know what’s best for her. I’m her father.”
Sofia’s cheeks flamed with anger. Vilhem admitted to being her father. So, Alexandra had been telling the truth. What else was that devilish woman right about? She considered marching back inside and confronting her mother, but Vilhem’s presence stopped her. She had suspected he was her father at times but her mother had denied it—telling her that her real father was dead.
She turned her gaze back to the window just in time to see her mother jerk away as if Vilhem’s touch had burned her. “Do not presume to tell me how to raise my daughter. I am her mother and I know what is best. If you don’t want her running away then I have no choice. I will go to the castle and use my magic on the old woman, if I save Alexandra’s mother, she will be indebted to me and as payment I will ask that she step aside and allow the two to marry.”
“She will refuse,” Vilhem said.
She shook her head in disbelief. “Then I’ll strike the bargain before I save her mother.”
His mouth curved in the first smile of the night, despite the sadness in his gaze. “So strong,” he said softly. “And so very stubborn. All right, then. You play a very dangerous game but you are a worthy opponent. Come, let us save the old woman—although she’s hardly worth it. She’d see you hang, just as her daughter would.”
Growing uncomfortable, Sofia shifted her weight. Something cracked beneath her foot. She froze. Her mother’s gaze snapped to the window. Sofia ducked down. Holding her breath, she stood perfectly still, her blood pounding in her ears until they resumed their conversation.
“You must go. It will only anger Alexandra further if we arrive together. Go to her and tell her I’ll be there in the morning. There is something I must first do.”
Vilhem’s gentleness vanished, replaced by disbelief and anger. “I’ll not allow you to approach the castle alone. The villagers are incensed and they’re looking to find fault. You’re deceiving yourself if you think they will protect you just because you healed them a time or two. The ignorant fools would gladly call you a witch and see your neck snapped.”
“I said go!” Elena shouted. Sofia jumped. She’d never heard her mother shout at a man before. “Get out!”
Vilhem backed away, his jaw working as if he might chew through Elena’s resistance and then his head dropped. “I’ll go, as you wish, but I’ll keep a watch for you from the castle.” His fervent gaze met Elena’s smoldering one. “Please, Elena. Be careful what you do in front of Alexandra. You can’t trust her.”
Sofia pressed herself flat against the smooth boards of the cottage and waited for Vilhem to disappear through the trees. She barely felt Daphania nudge her with her wet nose. Her chest rose and fell as her mind reeled with the information she’d just gathered. Surely her mother couldn’t spell someone’s illness better. Surely she wasn’t all powerful. Or was she?
Chapter Nineteen
Tastes Like the Past
Dublin, Ireland, 2031
I took a deep breath as I stepped inside, moving from room to room until I reached the kitchen. The house carried the fresh aroma of lavender and pine, clean laundry, and freshly washed floors. Cullen had done a bang-up job getting the house ready for company. The copper pots and pans were all neatly hung over the butcher block and the antique china dishes all freshly washed and piled to the left of the farm sink. All that was missing was dinner. Time to get to work, I thought, pulling tomatoes and red peppers from the fridge.
Cullen had disappeared—soaking in the hot tub—but Alana kept me company, putting on a mini fashion show while I chopped, sautéed, and prepped dessert. Amidst the floral-patterned skirts, crop tops, and black leather tights, I noticed a faint tattoo of a crescent moon on her inner wrist. It might have only been henna but I couldn’t get a close enough look. Having just made up, I decided now was not the time to get into it, so I played it cool and pretended I was tattoo blind. Not that I have a problem with ink, I had one myself on my ribs, but she hadn’t even consulted me, and why a crescent moon? The backdoor opened and in popped Leslie, saving me from my thoughts.
“Mmm. Something smells exotic.”
“I know, right? I’m salivating,” I answered, reaching inside my cupboard of spices. I pulled out some oregano and chili flakes and ran my hand over the door as I closed it. It was scarred from an incident with Alana when she was little. She’d decided to draw a picture with a fork. Funny enough it also looked like a moon.
“Hey, did you know Alana got a tattoo?” I asked Leslie. She didn’t respond, so I turned to look for her but she had disappeared.
“Where’s Alana?” She asked bouncing back into the kitchen, a bottle of wine in hand.
“I think she’s braiding her topknot. Or she could be changing her outfit again.”
I rolled my eyes and Leslie laughed.
“Don’t act like you don’t do it too.”
True. My dressing room looked like a tornado zone at times.
“I’m kind of sad I have to go and miss this epic dinner party,” Leslie said, stealing a piece of meat out of the pan.
“Hey! That’s not cooked all the way through yet.”
She shrugged her small thin shoulders and grinned.
“Open the wine, would you? I’ll pour you a glass. You can steal the cheese as I cut it.”
She grinned as I set the glasses on the counter and poured.
One glass of wine, several pieces of cheese and two ladles of arrabbiata sauce later, Leslie was happy but not satiated.
“Did you by chance do any baking this week?” she asked.
“I bake like twice a year. How do you always know when? I swear you are part hound.”
She laughed. “Your predictable is what you are. You always bake around Alana’s birthday. Why do you think I visit more around this time of year?”
I pulled out a tin of fresh-baked oatmeal raisin cookies from the cupboard and watched her pry it open.
“Mmm . . . scrumptious. Homemade cookies make everything better.” Her mouth was full of cookie as Alana finally descended the stairs. Her long, strawberry-blond hair hung down to her small perky breasts, much of which were on display above a scoop neckline. Her eyes were glossy like she’d covered them in petroleum and heavy black liner, accented by ruby-red lips.
“Come on, Les. We’re gonna be late. I told Sinead we’d be there to pick her up like fifteen minutes ago,” she said, rushing to the door.
I gave Leslie a look and we both smirked. Teenagers.
“H
ave fun. Behave yourselves—especially you,” I said, pointing at Leslie who stuck out her tongue and gave me the universal rocker hand symbol.
Alana laughed and joined in.
I couldn’t help but once again notice the mark on her wrist. I was almost positive it hadn’t been there last week, so she must have gotten it in the last few days. Móraí probably took her to get it for her birthday. Leslie would surely give me the lowdown later.
The door slammed shut and I pushed the frustration away—time to get dressed. I walked up the stairs and into my closet and instantly relaxed—it was every woman’s dream. Cullen had done an amazing job customizing it for me but it was still crowded. A problem I didn’t mind having. Speaking of that handsome man of mine, I could hear the water running in the bathroom as I swiped the clothing to the side—everything from cotton slip dresses to one-piece pant suits. I finally settled on a white crop top and beige palazzo pants. I skipped the rows of shoes, hats, purses, and jewelry and had just made it back downstairs when the doorbell chimed.
“Oh, hello. Come on in, Sandra and…”
“Remus Ceaușescu,” the salt-and-pepper-haired man said, holding out his hand with a half-hesitant smile. Dressed in a navy blue jacket over khaki pants, he exuded wealth, privilege, and innate confidence. He had one arm wrapped around Sandra Brun, who oddly enough appeared quiet and fragile, almost lost in the Kennedy-esque glamour of her ensemble. She handed me a bakery box. “For dessert, my dear. A little birdie told me you like tarts.”
“Thank you, Sandra. I was craving one of these earlier although I hardly need it. My jeans have begun a revolution against me. ”
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