Serpent's Kiss: A Witches of East End Novel (11 page)

They moved quickly and Joanna soon grew winded, but the brisk walk in the cool breeze felt hardy and good. The air smelled of earth and wild thyme. Having nearly reached the forest, her familiar alighted in the weeds. The raven waddled along, bringing Joanna’s attention to ground level. Gilly stopped, pointing her beak, and Joanna saw the path of wilted, shriveled weeds and wildflowers, violet asters and goldenrod, surrounded by other flowers that were still thriving. It was as if someone trampled on the overgrowth, leaving death in his or her wake.

Joanna kneeled and touched the desiccated flowers and weeds. They crumbled at the slightest contact. She rose to her feet and followed the dried path that led into the forest. Gilly flew up onto her shoulder as Joanna ambled along, and they arrived in a clearing, where the grass was still green. Here the path wove desultorily through the grass, as if searching where to go next, then further veered uphill through more weeds and wildflowers.

Gilly began to caw as if she were eager for Joanna to keep moving, let her know she was getting closer, but then Joanna heard her name being called. The voice was immediately familiar and welcome that she turned around, abandoning the path.

“Joanna, what a pleasant surprise,” Harold Atkins said. “I was over at the barn back there”—he motioned with his head—“and saw you two passing, but I was in the midst of administering a shot to a mare.” He smiled as he took wide strides through the open field toward her.

“Nice to see you so soon, Harold,” she returned. Even on one of his veterinarian calls, Harold wore a suit and polished tan leather shoes. It made her feel underdressed—her country clothes, red foulard around her unwashed hair, jeans, wool coat, big rubber boots.

“I couldn’t just let you wander by and not say hello.” His smile was contagious. “I see Gilly is doing well.”

“Oh, yes, she’s suddenly very spirited. I’m so relieved. We were taking a walk.”

They kissed on either cheek, European style, and Joanna noticed that she liked the way Harold smelled—like soap and the woods, but also the ocean mist. Perhaps it was just the fresh scent of the North Hampton outdoors.

“Well, I’d love to walk you home if you don’t mind. It’s such a glorious day,” said Harold.

She accepted his offer, and the two chatted all the way back to her house, making plans for dinner again sometime soon, and she forgot all about the strange trail of dead flowers.

The
Dragon
, a sixty-foot-long sleek white sport-fishing yacht with a seventeen-foot-high beam, could cruise at up to 44 knots at 2,330 rpm, but for now ropes held it tautly moored to the dock of Gardiners Island. The boat comprised three levels. At the top was the exterior gallery with a mezzanine-style cockpit replete with a freezer, two tackle drawers, a drink box, coolers, various storage bins, a transom fish box, and a live well—in other words, plenty of places to hide something. Below that was the second tier, the flybridge with a peninsula-style console, a teak deck containing a trapdoor leading to more storage, and starboard and forward bench seating, beneath which were yet more compartments for ropes and rigs.

Moving farther down from the deck through the solid teak door to the companionway, the steps led to the interior gallery: teak flooring and cherrywood walls, cabinetry and bulkheads with bas-relief carvings, and fawn leather seating. Aft was the master stateroom with a biometric safe, which could only be opened with the fingerprint of Killian’s index (but it was too small for what Freya had been searching for), and multitudinous cabinets and closets; starboard, the crew cabin with three berths that lifted to reveal more storage units; then forward, the salon attached to the galley with black granite counters and cabinets everywhere. There were also the three heads and the engine and pump room, which Freya had already inspected several times.

Every inch of the
Dragon
contained some kind of stowaway space. Freya had searched the boat from stem to stern, but one compartment could possibly be concealing another, like a series of Chinese boxes, so she started all over again.

Now she was downstairs in the crew cabin that doubled as a guest room. She had lifted the top of a berth and, from the container inside it, removed all the bedding, which was piled high on the third larger berth. Just as she thought, she discovered a hidden door in the bottom planks. She tried to lift it, but there was no handle, and her nails wouldn’t do. She needed something to slip into the groove to jimmy it.

She turned around to retrieve a knife from one of the galley drawers and found herself standing face-to-face with Killian, who had apparently snuck up on her and been observing her—for how long, she didn’t know. She hadn’t heard him board or come down the companionway; it was as if he had floated down here.

He looked bewildered, but there was also something else in his piercing eyes, and she couldn’t tell whether it was anger or disappointment. “What’s up? What are you looking for?”

Freya tried to look sheepish. “An extra pillow. I think I pulled my back at the bar carrying those stupid ice buckets. I don’t know why I didn’t use magic to get them upstairs. Now I’m going to need something to prop myself up just right when I sleep, so it doesn’t hurt so much.” She squeezed her right arm. God, that was lame. Plus, why did she have to always talk so fast when she lied? Joanna always could tell when she did that, and probably everyone else.

Killian stared at her for a long moment, behind his thick dark bangs, and then his face broke into a slow smile. “Cut the crap. You and I both know that is bullshit.” He laughed.

She laughed, too, but she couldn’t come up with any other excuse. She could act jealous, say she suspected him of having an affair. But why would she be searching under the floorboards? Accusing him of hiding a woman inside the berth would seem a bit psycho.

Killian leaned inside the door. He was so unflappable, his voice and movements always so relaxed, reminding Freya of their nights of languorous sex. Not that they’d been having any lately, but she couldn’t help but feel the pull.

“You’ve been avoiding me lately,” he said. “You haven’t been sleeping here.
At all
. Every time I call you to ask if you need help at the bar, you say it’s too slow, whereas that never, ever mattered before, and what’s going on with you and the boat? How many times do you have to turn it upside down? What’s going on? Why won’t you tell me?”

So much for thinking she had left the boat intact. “I lost something,” she said. There. That wasn’t that much of a lie. Freddie
had
lost something.

“Are you going to tell me what it is?”

She stared at him, pinching her lips, then adamantly nodded a no.

“Maybe I could …
help
?” Killian said. “Ever think of that?”

She was quiet for a moment and took a breath. “You can’t. I’m sorry. And I can’t tell you. Not yet. I hate it, keeping anything from you, but I just can’t.”

“Okay if that’s how it’s going to be …” He let his head fall and his shoulders went up and down. When he looked back up at her, she saw the sadness in his eyes. It was very genuine and clear, and she felt terrible for it.

She loved him so much, but she loved Freddie, too. There was no way her twin could be right, but she needed to find this proof, or at least be sure there wasn’t any truth in his accusations. She was in an awful position caught between two people who were very dear to her.

The Valkyries did not let go of their prisoners, and somebody had to pay for the collapse of the Bofrir. Somebody had to go to Limbo—there was no way around it—and if it wasn’t Freddie, then who? After all, Loki had served his time. Freddie was so sure it was Killian, and Freddie had never lied to her.

Killian suddenly punched the wall and Freya jumped back. She knew he was frustrated with what was going on, that he thought he was losing her. “Killian, don’t, please,” she said, feeling a wave of love and pity for him. But pity was death to a relationship, that much she knew, and she didn’t want to feel pity for Killian.

He didn’t say anything. Instead he abruptly turned around and left her alone, making her feel horrible, abandoned, and suddenly the one who needed to be pitied. She ran up the deck, calling his name, and even climbed up to the cockpit, but he had vanished. She came back down and stood at the gunwale, calling his name in the darkness. “Killian! Come on! Come back!” But there was no answer. No Killian.

She knew what he was trying to say.
Go ahead, Freya. Go ahead and search my boat all you want. I won’t stop you. If you think you can’t trust me, if you think I’m hiding something from you, then go ahead and look. I dare you to find something
.

She felt like a fool.

It was a little after two, and Ingrid had already returned the
COUNSELING SERVICES
placard to her drawer and begun typing a report on the new blueprint. The recent funding to the library had allowed them to replace all the PC dinosaurs with iMacs as well as acquire archiving software to keep track of the many blueprints the library owned. There was much to do: she had to go through every print and its accompanying materials to enter the data, but since this Edwardian one was still fresh in her mind, she started there.

She looked up from the computer screen, hearing Hudson rapping at her office door.

“
Entrez
,” she called.

He swung the door open just wide enough to slip through, then quietly closed it behind him. “
Bonjour, Mademoiselle Ingrid
,” Hudson said with a huge grin. “A very handsome officer of the law is here to see you.” He raised his eyebrows at her.

“You can’t mean …” she huffed, then panicked, glancing at Hudson for a second. “Is it really him?” she asked as she began nervously squaring things away on her desk, arranging pens, pencils, erasers, stapler, and Scotch Tape dispenser just so.

“Uh-huh, well, should I bring him back here?”

“Well, yes, I suppose. Go ahead.” Her voice got a little high-pitched, and she didn’t want to make eye contact, lest he see her absolute terror.

While Hudson went to get Matthew Noble, Ingrid worried her hair and bun with a hand, corrected her posture, then tried to decide which hand should rest on the desk. She tried one, then the other, but decided on fake typing instead, which would make her appear just the right amount of insouciant.

Matt strode in. He was wearing his NHP uniform for a change—detectives wore plainclothes, and Ingrid thought he looked rather dashing in it—the fitted navy shirt, snug pants, gleaming heavy black holster at his hips, and shiny black shoes. He wore no hat, which Ingrid found to be an intelligent style choice.

She rose, coming out from behind her desk, extending a hand in a formal manner. “Hello, Detective!” she said with a little nod.

He smiled at her crookedly. “Always so formal, Ingrid,” he said.

“Have a seat,” she said, swinging an arm in the general direction of the chair and small couch along the wall as she returned behind her desk.

Matt chose the chair facing Ingrid’s desk and sat with his elbows on his knees, a hand on his forehead, staring down at the floor, shaking his head with what seemed like disapproval. He righted himself and looked Ingrid in the eye. He actually seemed downtrodden.

“I thought I’d come by and talk to you directly, since you won’t answer any of my calls,” he said. “I’d rather just know in person if you have chosen to end … um … our … this …
thing
we’ve got going …”

“Your calls?” she asked.

“Yes, my calls,” Matt said sharply. “I’ve left you several messages with my sincerest apologies for the other night. I’m sorry about what happened. The cop in me kicked in. I was worried about you. I was out of line. I’m
so, so
sorry, Ingrid.”

She was staring at him, eyes wide. This was the last thing she had expected to hear, and she’d been bracing herself to be the one to make an apology. She was confused, but another part of her just wanted to smile. She made an effort to keep her face neutral. “Well,” she attempted, “there must be something terribly wrong with my phone, because I never got your messages.”

“Really?”

She shook her head.

Matt laughed. “Wow, we really suck at this, don’t we?” He stood, kicked at the floor, putting his hands in his pockets. He looked timidly up at her.

“Indeed,” said Ingrid.

They stared at each other shyly again, a hint of a smile on both of their faces.