Recalling the conversation now, Lauren was touched again by Gabe’s concern, but it didn’t change her mind about slowing down their relationship. As she drove into Lexington, heading for Todd’s, the wind kicked up and the last remaining leaves fluttered in the sunlight. She needed to give Todd a chance. For his sake, for Drew’s, and for her own.
Todd had rented an apartment in Somerville not far from the elevated section of Route 93—if you could call his converted garage an apartment, and if you could call the garage converted. Two pretty big “ifs” as far as Lauren was concerned. The garage was squeezed behind two seedy triple deckers, its back pushed up against a rusted chain link fence. The place had no pretensions of being anything other than what it was: an old garage in which indoor-outdoor carpet had been laid and a side door and toilet added. The previous tenant had left a small refrigerator, and Todd had bought a hot plate. Drew thought it was really cool. Lauren and Todd hated it.
Lauren climbed from her car and locked it quickly, checking over her shoulder a couple of times as she walked between the shabby houses toward Todd’s garage. But she need not have bothered. On this cold Sunday afternoon, no one was about. The only sound was the roar of the highway.
Drew threw open the door as soon as she knocked. “Look what Daddy got me,” he cried, turning and running to an old card table next to the refrigerator. He lifted a videotape and waved it at her.
Lauren followed and grabbed him. “It’s nice to see you too, Drew,” she said, laughing and nuzzling his neck. “I missed you a lot.”
He squirmed out of her arms. “It’s about witches, just like your book,” he said, handing her the tape box. “Hocus Pocus. Can we go home and watch it right now? Please, please, please, please, please? I’ve been waiting since yesterday.” Todd didn’t have a VCR.
Lauren glanced over Drew’s head to where Todd was sitting on the edge of the bed. Todd stood and she was struck by how handsome he looked. He was wearing a forest-green cotton shirt that brought out the green in his hazel eyes and a new pair of jeans that accentuated the narrowness of his hips and the broadness of his shoulders. His dark hair had been recently cut and, if she hadn’t known better, she would have thought he had blown it dry. He gave her a characteristic lanky shrug and grinned. “It was on the buck table at the store,” he said.
Lauren blinked, so affected by Todd’s physical appearance that she didn’t understand what he was saying. She felt breathless and a bit light-headed. “Buck table,” she repeated stupidly.
“At Caldor’s,” Drew explained with exaggerated patience. “We went to get Daddy a clock radio and I saw it on a table. It was only a dollar, so Daddy said I could have it.” Drew pulled at her sleeve. “Can we go home now? Please?”
Lauren wasn’t listening to Drew. She was still looking at Todd, who was walking slowly toward her. “That’s a pretty dress,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers. “You don’t usually wear that kind of style.” He smiled at her. “You look like one of your Puritan women.”
Lauren looked down at her long gray dress. She smoothed the crossed linen stays of the bodice, then tugged nervously at the lace cuffs. “I went into the secondhand store to buy a short dress,” she said, her voice reflecting the amazement she still felt at her choice, “but somehow when I saw this, it looked so perfect on the hanger, and I-I just wanted it.”
“It becomes you, Laurie.” Todd kissed her cheek lightly.
“Thank you.” Lauren pulled Drew to her as if he offered protection against the onrush of feelings. She felt the imprint of Todd’s lips on her skin long after he’d stepped away. Looking at his craggy, familiar face, she wanted to tell him she had broken up with Gabe, that she wasn’t sure she wanted to go through with the divorce.
“I—” she began, but stopped. “I have plans Sunday afternoon,” Todd had said. The clothes. The haircut. Lauren suddenly realized why Todd looked so nice. He had a date.
He smiled at her, that big-toothed smile that always sliced through her. “You …” he prompted.
She looked down at the videotape in her hand to hide the tears that had sprung to her eyes. “You, ah, you told me you had someplace to go this afternoon,” she said quickly, then turned to Drew. “This looks good, honey. It’s set in Salem, where the most famous witch trials were held. The same time as my book.”
“Can we make popcorn and watch it together on the couch?” Drew begged.
Lauren knelt down and pulled Drew to her. She held him tightly. “Sure,” she said. “It’ll be fun.” She gave him a perky smile, but what she really wanted to do was cry.
When Lauren and Drew arrived home, Drew went straight to the VCR while Lauren made popcorn. By the time she joined him, he was already lost in the movie. Lauren snuggled down next to her son, hoping to lose herself too. But she couldn’t rid her mind of the picture of Todd with another woman.
She kissed Drew and whispered that she would be right back. He nodded distractedly. Wandering into the hallway, Lauren heard Natasha, the four-year-old who lived downstairs, singing a “Sesame Street” tune in a tiny, high voice. There was something lonely and plaintive in the little girl’s song that wrenched Lauren. She went to the kitchen window and gazed through the bare branches at the empty street below.
Although the leaves on the big oak across the street were past their prime, an amazing number still clung to the tree. Here it was, almost the end of November, and the leaves were still fighting to hang on. Conceding to winter doldrums was no way to deal with her problems. She had an afternoon to spend with her son, and a week stretched before her with no distractions, no mysteries of either the heart or the mind to solve. With no Todd and no Gabe, she would be able to concentrate on her work. With no Deborah—at least until the Immortalis more than two weeks away—she would be able to separate herself from everything associated with the supernatural. She would focus on the historical Rebeka Hibbens and give Drew all the love and support Dr. Berg said he needed.
Turning from the window, she headed back to the living room. She picked the little boy up and placed him in her lap, pretending to be as interested as he was in the movie.
When the movie was over, they had a quick dinner and played Boggle Junior until it was time for Drew to go to sleep. Lauren showered and climbed into bed with the latest Anne Tyler novel, just out in paperback. But as much as she loved Tyler, within minutes the book sagged in her hand. Lauren turned off the light and was quickly asleep.
She dreamed she was having lunch with Deborah in Gabe’s dining room. Deborah did not look well. She was much older and more worn than when Lauren had last seen her. Deep wrinkles were etched into her skin and the red cloak that hung around her shoulders was ripped and dirty. But Deborah didn’t seem to notice how old she had become or how she was dressed. She nibbled on her salad and smiled at Lauren. “A mother is responsible for the fate of her child,” she said.
Lauren took a bite of her sandwich and looked at Deborah questioningly.
“If something bad happens to a child—perhaps that child dies—then it is the mother’s fault. Especially if the mother did not heed the warnings.”
Lauren was filled with terror. What did Deborah know of Drew’s troubles? Of the warnings they had received? But before she could speak, Cassandra walked out of the fox-hunt mural on the wall and stood before her. She was as disheveled as Deborah, her dress ripped at the shoulder and her long skirt streaked with dirt.
“You are not only responsible for what has befallen your child,” Cassandra screamed at Lauren, “you are responsible for all that has transpired.” Then she fixed Lauren with a piercing stare. “You have betrayed us, and for your sins you shall be punished.”
Lauren started to stand and inform this awful woman in the soiled dress that Drew was safe in his bed, but when she tried to rise, she found she was frozen in her chair; her arms and legs were like lead and even her lips refused to move. Cassandra had paralyzed her.
“All witches must die,” Deborah and Cassandra began
to sing in the high treble tones of nasty schoolchildren. “Hung at dawn until dead,” they taunted. The singsongy dirge grew louder and louder until it swirled around Lauren and she thought she would smother in it. “All witches must die, hung at dawn until dead.”
Gasping for breath, Lauren opened her eyes. She was relieved to find she was safe and alone in her bedroom, although the tinny strains of the horrid chant still rang in her ears and fear gripped her like a vise. Half asleep, she rummaged in her night table drawer for her dream journal and the little flashlight. Shining the light on the page, Lauren scribbled down her dream, hoping she’d be able to sort it out in the morning. Then she dropped her head to the pillow and, surprisingly, fell quickly back to sleep.
It seemed only a moment before it was morning. As Lauren pulled herself into the day, she caught a fleeting wisp of her dream and was once again filled with fear. Anxious to read what she had written, she pushed herself up in the bed and reached for her journal. But when she flipped to the last page, she froze. The handwriting wasn’t hers: The letters were narrow and stylized with flourishes and swooping Ss and Fs. And the words were even stranger than the penmanship.
Last night, Rebeka Hibbens and Millicent Glover visited me as I slept. Rebeka was weak and low and her cloak was covered with mud. She spoke of betrayal and punishment. Of how my girl Dorcas might die if I do not heed the warnings. Millicent said it was not only what befell Dorcas for which she holds me responsible, but also for all else that has transpired. I cannot fathom the meaning of their words in the world of the waking; Dorcas lies safely sleeping on her pallet and I know of no warnings.
Although others may laugh at my folly, I hold there be truth in dreams. And I cannot hold back from wondering what to make of this one. I fear it means Dorcas’s life is in grave danger, and that Rebeka Hibbens and Millicent Glover wish me dead.
Twenty-Two
CASSANDRA PUSHED A FEW LOOSE HAIRS INTO HER braid and said to Bram, “I think kidnapping her is a bit extreme.” She turned to Deborah. “Couldn’t we put a watch on her instead, Mahala? Follow her everywhere she goes for the next two weeks? If she hasn’t remembered in thirty-odd years, a couple of dreams don’t necessarily mean she’s going to remember now.”
Deborah picked up the lancet from where it lay on the altar behind her. She opened the wooden case and spread the blades into a fan. The members of the coven watched her every move. “Although Lauren only told me two dreams, I feel there have been more,” she said. “These dreams are a warning from the sages. We must listen closely and heed their words.”
It was the night between waxing crescents, the waning gibbous, two weeks before the Immortalis. An icy rain had forced the coven inside for their ritual, and the six were assembled in the back room of RavenWing.
“I fear it’s more than just the dreams.” Deborah closed the lancet and laid it reverently on the altar. “Someone is trying to scare Lauren away from us.” She told them about the Bellarmine urn and the poppets with their accompanying warning notes.
There was a collective gasp followed by a stunned silence as the full meaning of Deborah’s words registered.
Bram’s face went white and his eye ring fluttered. “But, but why?” he stuttered.
Deborah shook her head. “The sages do not allow us to know all.”
Alva played a few plaintive notes on her flute and then rested it in her lap, but instead of her usual glazed stare, her eyes were riveted on Deborah. Robin moved her chair closer to Alva’s and placed her arm around the smaller woman’s shoulders, then she turned quickly back to Deborah.
“What should we do?” Tamar asked.
Deborah looked at the small flock huddled before her. They were so frightened, so unnerved. She was their “wise one,” their Mahala. They looked to her to reassure them, to teach them, to show them a new way of seeing, of believing, of living.
She smiled benevolently upon her worried brood. “Fear not. There is far too much at stake for a single human to be allowed to stand in our way. We shall reach the sages. And we shall live amongst them forever. I will let nothing stop us,” she added, her voice rising.
Deborah stood and walked to the altar. “I will keep Lauren Freeman safe. I will keep Lauren Freeman near. And I will keep Lauren Freeman from remembering.” She placed the lancet on the altar behind her. “I’ll bind a spell.” She turned the altar slightly, facing it north, then realigned the tools that lay on top: obsidian to the east, blood to the west, hangman’s noose to the south, the lancet to the north.
Cassandra handed Deborah a cracked mirror. “Do you think it’s wise to risk the energy drain so close to the Immortalis?”
Furious at Cassandra’s impertinence, Deborah turned her back on the older woman. She placed the mirror in the center of the altar and arranged a black candle on either side. Reaching beneath the velvet cloth, she pulled out the turquoise stone that had belonged to Lauren.
Deborah turned her eyes to Cassandra, who blanched. “If we lose Lauren, there will be no Immortalis,” she said, her voice outlining each word in cold steel.
Cassandra bowed and, with trembling hands, placed two small caldrons, one filled with seeds and the other with saltwater, above the mirror. “Of course, Mahala,” she whispered. “Forgive me for questioning you.”
Deborah nodded curtly. “Let us begin.” Everyone stood and she cast the circle. After lighting the candles, she sprinkled saltwater on Lauren’s turquoise. She raised the stone. “This turquoise is not a piece of inert rock,” she said. “This turquoise beats with life and is covered by flesh. This turquoise is Lauren Freeman.”
Deborah wrapped her fingers tightly around the stone and closed her eyes, focusing her inner mind on Lauren sitting in the beanbag chair, her knees sticking up in awkward discomfort. When Deborah felt the heat of the stone rising beneath her hands, she visualized a fisherman’s net falling over Lauren, enclosing her. “From this waning gibbous until the next waxing crescent, you will stay close and you will stay safe, and then you will willingly and joyously join us for the great Immortalis.” She passed the stone to Cassandra, who nodded her appreciation for the simplicity and efficiency of the spell.
“From this waning gibbous to the next waxing crescent, you will stay close and you will stay safe, and then you will willingly and joyously join us for the great Immortalis,” Cassandra said. The stone was passed from one to another, and the words were repeated by all except Alva until it returned to Deborah.
Deborah squeezed the stone between her palms and closed her eyes, concentrating on visualizing the event she wanted to take place. She felt Lauren’s taut skin give way under the lancet as she, the great Mahala, pressed the blade home. Then she watched Lauren Freeman’s lifeless body float out to sea.
Deborah smiled and opened her eyes. She placed the turquoise between the two candles. “I’ll bury it later,” she said. “Some place close. And some place safe.”
Deborah stood silently at the altar as a potent excitement began to fill the room. She allowed it to build for a few minutes, noting the high color on Robin’s cheeks, Bram’s eyes darting around the table, the sweat gathering above Tamar’s lip. “Tonight is a special night,” she finally said. “The final waning gibbous of 1995. In only one half of a single lunar month, our great Immortalis will be upon us. And then summerland.”
“Summerland,” the coven chanted.
Alva raised her flute from her lap and played a long string of notes that echoed the coven’s anticipation.
“Tradition decrees that it is time now for our own Summerland to make his great ascent. For him to pave the way, to fly to the sages and announce our imminent arrival.” Deborah turned and walked into the store. When she returned she was carrying the bird cage in her left hand.
Summerland sang out his lyrical, gurgling song, his yellow body adding a splash of brightness to the shadowy room. Alva’s flute sang along with him. As Deborah opened the door and the canary jumped onto her finger, she returned the bird’s smile for t
he last time. She lifted Summerland above her head. He warbled cheerfully.
Deborah placed the bird on the altar and encircled the back of his head with her left hand. With the sure motion of a trained surgeon, she raised Rebeka’s lancet and sliced a tiny crescent into the base of the canary’s neck. Summerland’s song ended abruptly with a surprised chirp.
“Go to new life, Summerland,” Deborah said, thrusting the knife into his heart. The little bird staggered for a moment, then dropped with a tiny thud onto the cracked mirror.
It was mid-afternoon. Instead of working on her book, Lauren was staring at the entry she had made in her dream journal Sunday night. “Did you ever wake to find a dream recorded in an unfamiliar hand?” Deborah had once asked. Lauren reread the entry and the book trembled in her hands. Had she had some kind of bizarre dream within a dream? Or could this incident be related to her forgetfulness and fugue states?
She was interrupted by a phone call from Todd. He wanted to know if she could keep Drew for the night. “I know Tuesdays are mine,” he said, “and that this is late notice, but how about I swap you for another day next week? You can have two nights off in a row if you want.”
“I’ve no reason to want two nights off,” Lauren said coolly. “I’m home working on the book almost every evening. It’s nice you’ve got time for last minute fun.”
Todd paused and Lauren knew with the certainty of those long married that he was going to lie. “Ah, yeah. It is a-a last minute thing,” Todd stuttered. “A thing I just couldn’t get out of.…”
Todd had another date, Lauren thought. Her stomach twisted with a pain so potent she had to keep herself from wincing out loud. She grabbed the side of the desk and noticed her knuckles were white. “Well …” She was well aware she could stop Todd’s date just by saying she had plans for the evening, for despite his faults, Todd was eminently fair in his dealings with her. But the truth was, she would just as soon have Drew for company. “I suppose it’s okay.”
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