by Liliana Hart
“So that’s it then.” As if the words spoken aloud were all that was needed, the air relaxed, as if it were breathing a sigh of relief, and everything whooshed back to normal. He hadn’t realized how quiet it had gotten—how the birds had stopped chirping and the leaves had stilled even though the wind was blowing.
“And with a name like Cauldron’s Hollow, the story ideas are going to flow like wine.”
Barrett got back into his car and took the fork in the road. And he wasn’t disappointed. He’d driven more than a mile before the trees cleared and the town opened up. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing up so high he had the urge to reach up and rub them down again, but he kept his hands steady on the wheel.
“I’ve been in war zones and lost in the Amazon. You think this place is going to scare me?” He was a loner by nature—most writers were—so he’d gotten in the habit of having conversations with himself to keep his imagination from running away from him at inopportune moments.
Driving into Cauldron’s Hollow was like falling into Brigadoon, where everyone was still caught in the past. The streets were cobbled, and at any moment he expected to see horse drawn carriages lumbering across the rutted roads, the sounds of hooves clomping and the smack of riding crops as they were urged to carry their loads from one place to another.
Dark gray clapboard buildings with white trim and large bay windows lined both sides of the street, and gaslights swayed from the underside of the balcony. Like many of the buildings in that part of the country, they were all attached, and matching black awnings hung over the doorways. Most of them were two-story, and the buildings on each corner had a nice curved balcony with white spindle railings.
“Post office, bank, barbershop, doctor’s office, mercantile, apothecary…” He shook his head. “This book is going to write itself.”
The sidewalks bustled with traffic and people stopped to talk to each other as they went about their daily lives. As he passed by, heads turned to stare in his direction and he gave a friendly wave. But few waved back.
“Alrighty then. Friendly kind of place. Good to know.”
He came to a large roundabout at the end of the block—a crossroads that led in four directions with a fountain in the center—and a bronze statue of a woman had been erected in the middle. Her head was thrown back and her arm stretched toward the sky as the water from the fountain shot up around her. The metal showed patina from age and the elements, but she was beautiful.
There was power there, and he thought she must have been someone incredible to warrant such a place of honor. She was immortalized at that particular moment in time forever. But there was no marker indicating her name or who she was. Only her likeness for those to remember her by. And Barrett found he very much wanted to know who she was.
The clock on the dashboard showed it was just past six o’clock in the evening. In another fifteen minutes the sun would be hidden completely behind the trees that seemed to surround the small village, fading into the brilliant oranges and reds until it looked as if the entire town was ablaze.
A vision of just that entered his mind so clearly that he stopped the car in the middle of the roundabout and put his throbbing head down on the steering wheel. Fire and smoke and the screams of the innocent. Blood and fear as chaos erupted in a place that had never known such things and didn’t know how to defend itself against them. And a large black rock, surrounded by people—some weeping and others jeering—as the axe fell on a woman’s neck. The woman at the center of the fountain.
“Jesus,” he said, scrubbing his hands over his face, not happy to see that his hands weren’t quite steady. “It’s gotta be jet lag. Time to find a hotel and get some sleep.”
But the images stayed with him as he drove on. Ideas for his books usually came to him in scenes much like that one, but never had it been so vivid. So intense. To the point where he could still taste the acrid stench of smoke in the back of his throat.
As he continued on the main stretch of road, houses—all of them white—lined the streets, though they varied in size from cottages to larger Victorians. Flowers spilled from planter boxes and fall wreaths hung from doors. Sidewalks were cracked from tree roots and lawns were well manicured. He could practically smell homemade pies cooling on the windowsills; such was the perfect picture it made.
“Which makes it all the more perfect for something a little nefarious to go down. It’s always what’s below the surface where the good stuff is.”
He’d seen the church from the moment he’d entered the town—or at least the steeple that jutted high over the trees. The closer he got, the more uneasy he became. Snippets of the vision kept flashing through his mind. It was the same white church he’d seen, though a man with a torch no longer stood in front of the wooden doors that were supposed to lead to sanctuary for any who needed it.
“Maybe sleep isn’t the answer,” he said, thinking he was in for a night of interesting dreams. “Maybe a pub and a pint instead. A lot of pints. Maybe you’ve finally lost your mind, Delaney.”
A centuries old cemetery sat in front of the church, trees shading the crumbling stone markers. But it wasn’t the cemetery and the history there that drew him. The black rock was large—large enough for a man to lay across it—or be tied down on it. He shook that image from his mind, knowing good and well it had been used for exactly that at some point in history. His palms grew damp and his heart pounded and fell straight into his stomach.
“Christ, it’s real.”
The rock sat in a place of honor, out in front of the cemetery in a small clearing of grass. It was the same rock that had flashed through his mind only moments ago, but it was also different. It looked as if it had been cleaved in two, leaving a gap large enough to walk through.
He didn’t know what kept him from examining the rock closer, but he kept his distance. It almost felt…disrespectful to invade the same space. An overwhelming sadness came over him, so he felt as if part of his soul was being ripped away. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away from it. Couldn’t keep his heart from thundering or the vision of the woman immortalized in the fountain out of his head. His heart literally felt like it was breaking.
He took a step back. And then another. All he wanted was to escape and hide in his grief.
“Are you all right?”
The voice penetrated the fog in his brain and he looked around sharply to see a woman examining him much like he had been the black rock. The expression on her face was a mixture of concern, sympathy, and annoyance, and he wondered how long she’d been standing there trying to get his attention.
“Sorry,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’m fine.” He looked back at the rock one last time and then gave her his full attention. She probably thought him a madman. “I’m just a bit jet lagged.”
The woman was tall, only a couple inches shorter than his six-foot-two, and hair the color of ink fell down to her waist. His first thought was that she’d have looked splendid in battle gear, leading warriors into battle and wielding a sword with as much strength and skill as any man. Her eyes were vividly green and intelligent, and dark brows arched as she waited for him to finish his observation. She was stunning and blatantly sexual. But his body didn’t thrum and his blood didn’t stir at the sight of her.
Much like with the rock, he felt he needed to keep his distance. She was dangerous, but not a danger to him. He had no idea where that notion had come from but he felt it to be true. She made him wary. And as much as he’d traveled and experienced in his life, there weren’t many things that had the ability to do that.
Her voice matched her looks—sultry and seductive. “We don’t get many visitors here. Are you lost? Do you need directions?”
He cleared his throat again and wondered when he’d lost the ability to think with a clear head. Pretty much the moment he stepped foot into Cauldron’s Hollow now that he thought about it. He knew how to work crowds and charm anyone with a smile or quick story. It was part of the
job. But it was like his brain was no longer connected to the rest of his body.
He laughed once, shaking his head, and gave her a sheepish smile. “No, I’m not lost. I think I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. This place—” he looked around, at a loss for words. “I think I just need to find a hotel and a place to eat.”
She gave him another one of those long, observing looks, and he resisted the urge to squirm. It felt like she was peeling him apart, layer by layer, until she could see all his secrets and the deepest parts of his soul.
“You’re staying,” she said definitively, as if she’d made the decision for him. “My family has an apartment. Just there.” She pointed down the street toward the row of shops he’d been admiring. “Really, it’s my sister Eloise who owns the apartment. And the little shop below. But you’re welcome to it and welcome in Cauldron’s Hollow.”
“Staying?” he asked, realizing he must sound like a complete idiot.
“You were planning to stay, weren’t you? You might as well use the apartment. No one else is.”
And before he could talk himself out of it, he heard himself say, “I’ll take it.”
“Of course you will,” she said. “Follow me.”
Chapter Three
Barrett thought back to that day a week before when he’d followed Minerva Goodnight down the street like a lost puppy. He still couldn’t explain the pull. The compulsion. But the little apartment had been exactly what he’d needed, and the location allowed him to see everything that happened along the main stretch of road. He hadn’t seen Minerva again since then, as if she’d never existed at all.
He’d moved his meager belongings into the loft-style apartment and felt right at home. His typewriter sat on the long trestle table in front of the window—he’d never owned a computer, and even with his success refused to purchase one. He liked the feel and sounds of the typewriter keyboard clicking away beneath his fingers. The ding after each line was written and the clatter as he pulled each finished page from the machine. It felt more real somehow. More tangible.
After Matilda had handed him the key and told him to slip a check under her sister’s door to cover the rent, he’d ventured out only long enough to by food and other necessities at the grocery store. Something about Cauldron’s Hollow made his creative juices surge—the vision that had greeted him upon his arrival had only grown in strength and vividness as he slept—and he knew he’d have no peace unless he wrote the story.
So he’d written—for days at a time with nothing more than a quick nap or a sandwich to sustain him. He knew better than to fight the urge when it came. He’d crash eventually, but for now the words were flowing. His novels tended to run toward the macabre, and this one would exceed his reader’s expectations—curses, and witches, and death.
“Oh, my,” he said, under his breath, chuckling at the quip. Then he shook his head. “Too much time alone when you’re making jokes as bad as that one, Delaney.”
Barrett stretched his arms above his head and looked at the clock. It was well past midnight and he knew there was no point in venturing outside. Everything in Cauldron’s Hollow shut down by six o’clock except for the pub and the church. He guessed their thinking for the late closings was that everyone needed food for the stomach or the soul, but even those had a ten o’clock curfew.
He heard a thump come from the apartment next door, and just as he had been the first time he’d heard it, his curiosity was piqued. His landlady kept unusual hours. In fact, he wondered if she slept at all. Not that he’d had the chance to ask her. He had yet to run into her face to face or speak to her at all. Sometimes he got the impression that she was avoiding him altogether.
But he could admit he’d spent some time looking out the big window in front of his desk as she dashed in and out and about town. She was pure energy, and never seemed to slow down. And there was something—familiar about her. He kept watching, hoping it would click into place, but so far he was drawing a blank.
And he never in a million years would’ve guessed she was related to Minerva. They couldn’t have been more different in looks if they’d been born on different planets. Eloise was constant motion. Her fiery red hair was cut in a close cap around the elfin features of her face. She was tiny, but the way she moved made it seem like she could accomplish a thousand things at once. He hadn’t gotten close enough to her to see her eye color, but he envisioned them as a rich brown.
The truth was, Eloise was playing havoc with his system—this unknown woman who fascinated and distracted him. The way she went about her business and her life with such determined focus, as if she was working off a debt of some kind.
And he was ashamed to admit the fascination had manifested itself into dreams—erotic dreams that woke him in the middle of the night with the taste of her on his lips and the feel of her skin against his. Her pale limbs wrapped around his body, the sheets tangled around them, and her soft cries of pleasure as her nails scored his back were as vivid as all of the other visions he’d had since coming to Cauldron’s Hollow.
His body tightened at the memory and the urge to give himself the release he needed was tempting, but he hadn’t given in to the need, no matter how strong the urge became over the last few days. It hadn’t seemed right when he’d never even met the woman, though plans to change that and change it soon were already formulating in his mind. The compulsion to know her grew stronger by the day.
He scrubbed his hands over his face and unbuttoned his jeans to make room for the part of his body that wouldn’t listen to reason.
“Christ. The curse of an overactive imagination. Snap out of it, Delaney. You’re not a fourteen-year-old kid looking for his first score anymore. ”
Annoyed at the memory, he pushed back from his work and went to the kitchen to make a sandwich. A loud thump came from next door and then the sweet scent of cinnamon and cloves wafted through the shared vent between their apartments.
He’d gotten used to the different smells that had permeated his space for the past week, except for that one evening when licorice seemed to be what was on her menu. He hated licorice, and he’d almost left the book in the middle of a scene to escape the apartment and the smell.
Still, the middle of the night seemed like an odd time to cook anything. But night after night, he could hear the clang and thump of pots and pans, followed by the occasional mutter through the vents. Though he wasn’t able to understand the words clearly, only the sentiment behind them.
Barrett took one last moment to think of her before going back to work—her face flushed with the heat from the kitchen and damp tendrils of hair curled around her face.
Eloise Goodnight was planted firmly in his mind. He only hoped she found him half as appealing.
Chapter Four
Eloise considered herself a patient witch.
She liked to think that particular virtue was just part of being the oldest. Dealing with Minerva and Lily growing up hadn’t always been a walk in the park—especially since Minerva liked to use magic first and ask questions later. She could deal with her sisters. It was the man next door who’d managed to push her past the point of her well-restrained control.
Click, click, click…click…click, click, click, click, click…
“Oh, for crying out loud.” She stirred the thickening liquid in the cauldron with a little more force than necessary, banging the spoon against the iron pot. She resisted the urge to kick something. It would only hurt her toes and she’d have to throw out the entire batch of face cream she was making. She’d probably have to throw it out anyway.
Her emotions always went into her magic, and that included all of the homemade products she sold out of the shop. And because one man had the ability to get under her skin, she was going to have to waste an entire night’s work. Not to mention the time it had taken her to pick the right herbs and flowers. She wouldn’t be able to collect new specimens until the full moon came again.
“What do you think, Nicodemus
? Should we put a spell on him?”
Nicodemus seemed unimpressed with her threat—understandable considering he was a cat with little patience. He stared at her with one green eye and one yellow, swished his tail once, and then stretched lazily before turning his back on her completely and finding another comfortable spot to lay in.
“Right. Good advice. No spells on unsuspecting, inconsiderate jerks. That’s Minerva’s point of expertise anyway. No reason to steal her thunder.”
The cauldron bubbled and hissed, and she swore as she realized clumps were burning to the bottom of the cast iron pot. She shouldn’t cook when she was distracted. She knew better.
She swung the cauldron out so it was no longer over an open flame and tossed the hand carved wooden spoon onto the long work table with a thunk, splattering a few drops onto one of the loose leafed pages in her recipe book. She winced, saying a small prayer of forgiveness, and quickly wiped it down with a hand towel she kept nearby.
The leather bound book of spells had been passed down to the oldest Goodnight female for more than a thousand years—long before they’d settled in Cauldron’s Hollow, searching like so many others for freedoms they’d never been allowed in England. And since that time, each generation had added her own magic until it was time to pass it down to the next daughter.
Eloise caressed the book lovingly, feeling the power flow through her and calm her temper like a balm. She took her work seriously, and she took pride in the reputation the Goodnight name had in Cauldron’s Hollow. She was letting one man have the power to flush all of her hard work right down the toilet.
Okay, so maybe that was an exaggeration. But still, it was the principle of the thing. It was the middle of the night, when any self-respecting, working citizen should be tucked into bed. Herself excluded, of course. Just her luck, the new neighbor was probably a meth dealer or a gigolo.