Sorcery and the Single Girl (6 page)

“You see? Hardly the act of a barrister.”

“That’s right. But your card said ‘Acquisitions.’ What, exactly, do you acquire?”

“Whatever people need.” He smiled easily. “It’s like this. Say you read a magazine article, and it mentions a davenport owned by the Countess of Wessex. You decide that you can’t live without that very furniture in your own parlor. I’m the man to find the piece for you. And I won’t even tell the members of your bridge club where I found it. None of them will ever get the same piece.”

I laughed, trying to picture myself bidding trump or half-trump or no-trump or whatever it is that bridge mavens bid. “I’m not exactly the bridge sort.” I wasn’t about to say that I had two
sofas,
instead of davenports, and I had a
living room
instead of a parlor.

“What, then? Your book club? Is that what all the librarians go in for these days?”

“I don’t know about
all
the librarians, but I’ve been in a book club or two.”

“So you could hire me to find a lamp, say, so that you could read great world literature in style. Or a tall-case clock, or whatnot.”

“Acquisitions,” I said, as if it made all the sense in the world.

“At your service.” Graeme’s smile blinded me.

The waiter chose that moment to return with our buffet of desserts. He put a large coffee press on the table and shook his head sadly before finding the energy to tamp down our decaffeinated grounds. He poured two cups and set our alcoholic chasers to one side. “Will there be anything else?” he said, and he sighed so deeply that I worried our profiteroles might blow onto the floor.

“Not at present,” Graeme said, and then we were alone again. “Cheers!” my acquirer said, raising up his Grand Marnier. I scrambled for my cordial, touched glasses, and then watched him pour his into his coffee. I didn’t know if the custom was British or Graeme’s own, but my Baileys quickly met the same fate.

“So,” Graeme said, when I had tasted the extremely satisfactory result. “You’re a librarian who knows the Bard, and you help out friends in a bakery. What else should I know about you?”

What else? Well, I could tell him that I’d been raised by my grandmother because my own mother didn’t want anything to do with me after my fourth birthday. Hmm…not exactly an upbeat introduction. I could tell him about the last person I’d spoken to in London, my ex-fiancé who had broken my heart after twelve years of dating and the longest engagement known to man. Yeah, not a great conversation starter, either. I could fill him in on the I.B., and we could spend the rest of the evening coming up with more and more horrible meanings for the initials. Yeah. Right.

I needed something charming, something witty, something unique that would keep him here, chatting with me into the wee hours of the morning. I sipped my coffee, transferred a raspberry tart to my plate and said, “I’m a witch.”

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I couldn’t believe I’d said them. I mean, it wasn’t precisely a secret. David had never told me not to mention my powers. Nothing I’d read required me to take an oath of silence. If the Coven had rules, they’d never told me and, besides, I wasn’t a member of the Coven yet.

But I could count on two hands the people who knew that I had magical powers. David. Neko. Melissa. My mother and grandmother. My grandmother’s friend, Uncle George. The I.B.

There were likely others who suspected. My relatives in Connecticut had powers of their own to varying degrees, and they must have noticed the…odd…events surrounding the unmasking of the I.B.

But I had never told anyone before. I had never looked anyone in the eye and said, “I am a witch.”

I waited for Graeme to laugh. I waited for him to look at his watch, to remember that he had somewhere else to be, to recall that he had promised to read the collected works of Dostoevsky to his Great-aunt Gertrude that night.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he set his fork down, and he said solemnly, “There are Wyrd Women in my family, going back generations.” Wyrd Women. Witches. “I don’t know many of the details, but my da told me stories when I was a boy. Told me about what his mum could do, when she was angry.”

“You believe me?” I was a little shocked.

He swallowed a bite of almond cake. “Why wouldn’t I? What possible reason would you have to lie?”

To make myself more interesting. Because I’m a delusional madwoman. Because I’m an ax murderer, waiting to bewitch you into my bed and then do away with you under the light of the full moon.

“None, really,” I said. My voice quirked on the second word, twisting into a semblance of a British accent, and I bit back a wince. I wasn’t consciously trying to imitate him, it just happened. I rushed out more words, so that he wouldn’t think I was mocking. “It’s just so strange the way all this has happened. I haven’t told anyone. It’s not that I’m ashamed or anything, it’s just that it’s so bizarre, I’m afraid people will think I’m lying. That I’m making it all up.”

“When you’ve seen as many odd things as I have in this world, you start believing more of what you’re told.”

“Odd things?”

“I’ll tell you,” he assured me. “But there’s plenty of time for that. You go first. I want to hear about how you became a witch.”

And so I told him. Just like that. I told him about how the Peabridge had been on the edge of bankruptcy and my salary had been slashed, but I’d been permitted to move into my cottage on the library grounds as a sort of substitute for a full paycheck. I told him about finding a secret stash of witchcraft books in the basement—volumes that had been hidden away by a Washington witch named Hannah Osgood, decades before. I told him about finding a statue of a cat and reading a spell and awakening my familiar, Neko, entirely by accident. And I told him about how I had used my newfound witchcraft the year before, how I had poured my magical strength into crystals to help my grandmother recover from a nasty case of pneumonia.

I even told him about my crazy mother and her abilities with runes, her New Age insanity that had brought her hurtling from the so-called Vortex in Sedona, back into my life, even though I’d believed for years that she had died in a car crash when I was a child. (There hadn’t been a car crash, I told him. Just a need to escape responsibility. I managed not to sound bitter when I said it. Or maybe that was the Baileys, coating the sounds of my words in my own ears.) I told him everything that I had learned about magic during the past ten months.

He was a wonderful listener. He asked enough questions to keep me going, enough to show that he was truly interested, but he never tried to change the topic of conversation. He never tried to steer me away from the odder bits of my story, the stranger aspects of my powers—crystals and runes and the specific spells that I had worked.

It felt wonderful to tell someone all of this, fantastic to share. I was grateful when Graeme caught the waiter’s attention, when he signaled that we’d both have more coffee. When we’d finished that brew, along with additional supporting liqueurs, I finally looked at my watch.

“One o’clock!” I said. “I had no idea it was so late!”

“The restaurant stays open till four.”

“I have to go, though! I have to work tomorrow. I mean, today!”

He smiled at my confusion, letting his grin grow into a laugh when I barely managed to fight off a yawn. “Yes, well. There is that.” He got the waiter’s attention and asked for the check before pulling out his money clip.

“But wait!” I said, pleasantly surprised again by that clip, by the very Britishness of it. “I never got to hear about the strange things you’ve seen.”

“They’ll keep. That is, if I may see you again?”

“Yes!” I could hardly believe that he thought he had to ask.

“Are you free Friday night?”

“Of course,” I said, scarcely wasting a heartbeat to think that I should not admit to being available on a Friday, to having no pressing social plans.

Then I remembered. I
was
busy on Friday. Teresa Alison Sidney. “Oh. No.” I hadn’t gone so far as to tell him about my meeting with the Coven, and now I was overcome with self-consciousness. “I’m sorry. I do have other plans. Plans that I can’t break.”

He shrugged easily. “I’m afraid I have one of those business trips I mentioned coming up. I leave on Saturday for England, and I’ll be gone for the entire week.” I must have looked as crestfallen as I felt, because he grinned and said, “But perhaps the Saturday following?”

“Won’t you have jet lag?”

“We seasoned travelers learn to cope.”

“I’d love to see you, then.”

“I’ll ring you up that morning, and we can make plans.”

And then he was helping me out of the booth. He was holding the door to the restaurant. He was stepping to the curb and raising a hand, summoning one of D.C.’s ubiquitous cabs. He was handing money to the driver, telling him to take me wherever I requested.

And then, just before he handed me into the car, he pulled me close. He tangled his fingers in my hair and set his lips on mine. His kiss was soft, gentle, tingling with potential. Before I could say anything, before I could respond, before I could rethink my need to be at work in a few short hours, he pulled away, helped me into the cab, closed the door and let me drive away.

I lay awake until dawn, watching my clock tick away seconds, minutes, hours—time that could have been spent much more pleasurably, if only I had responded faster to the promise of Graeme’s kiss.

D
avid shrugged as he completed his survey from the top of my purposely messy chignon to the soles of my practical sandals. Somehow, it had been much easier to prepare for meeting the Coven than it had been to get ready for dessert with Graeme.

Women. I knew what to wear for
them.

I had pulled on a lightweight knit dress—black of course. Body skimming, but not skintight. Appropriate undergarments to avoid, ahem, the dreaded VPL. I didn’t want to appear too severe, so I had accessorized with a necklace and earrings made out of fused glass. The jewelry reflected hints of lavender and crimson, with delicate sprays of emerald.

“Not too much?” I asked.

“I’m sure it’s fine.”

“You’re sure? What does that mean?”

He shrugged. “It means that I don’t spend a lot of time tracking women’s fashion.”

“Neko?” I wailed.

“Perfect, girlfriend.” My familiar pursed his lips into a saucy kiss. “Trust me.”

Trust him. Well, I did. At least in theory. But I still recognized the sparkling feeling in my fingertips as nervousness, and I reminded myself to take a few deep breaths. I turned back to plead with David. “Promise me that you’ll stay with me, the whole time that we’re there.”

“I promise that you’ll never be in danger.” I was going to point out that there was a real difference between what I’d asked and what he’d offered, but he didn’t give me a chance. “Okay,” David said, brushing his hands together. “Let’s go.”

I realized that I’d overlooked a crucial detail. “The car!” I should have borrowed Gran’s Lincoln Continental after work. I traveled by car so rarely that it had completely slipped my mind.

I glanced at my watch and swore to myself. Eleven o’clock. We’d really be pushing it, catching a cab and getting over to Gran’s apartment building. I had keys to her car, though, and we could get into the garage easily enough. I just wasn’t certain where Teresa Alison Sidney lived, how long it would take to get there. If the car failed to start (not that it ever had in the past), or if the gas tank was empty (even though I’d filled it two weeks before and Gran never drove), or if the garage gates refused to open…

“Relax,” David said, producing a key ring from the interior pocket of his summer-weight suit. The silver fob was etched with an intricate torch.

“What’s that?”

“My key ring.”

“No.” My exasperation was only partially based on my blossoming panic. “That design.”

“Hecate’s Torch? Symbol of witches everywhere?”

I
thought
I’d seen it before. It must be printed in some of the books downstairs. I let myself focus on the single silver key that dangled from the device, heavy and reassuring with its black plastic head.

“My car is out front,” David said.

“
Your
car?” I was shocked. “How come I’ve never seen you drive a car before now?”

“‘There are more things in heaven and earth,”’ David said with a grin.

“If that’s supposed to make me feel calmer, I’m not sure it’s going to work.” After all, what did I need with quotations from
Hamlet?
From a play where the main character sees ghosts, goes mad, and litters the stage with bodies before the end of the last act? “Relax,” David said again. He spared an inquiring glance for Neko. “Ready?”

For answer, my familiar hefted the
Illustrated History of Witches.
I reached for it and said, “I’ll carry it.”

“It’s my job,” he said. “I serve you, remember?”

“That’s the first time I’ve ever heard
you
say it out loud.”

“You might want to mark today on your calendar, then. I’m not likely to repeat it, girlfriend.” He stuck out his tongue and scampered to the door. Neither man spoke further as I secured the cottage, even when I double-and triple-checked the lock. I stopped walking when I got to the end of the garden path, turning around to look back at my home, at the building that had gotten me into the middle of all this witchcraft business in the first place.

Was it worth it? At the moment, I wasn’t sure. I thought that I would choose a dozen first dates before I’d set myself up to meet a coven full of witches. Yeah, right. As if I had the choice to make.

When I got to the street, I was amazed by two facts. First, David had found a parking space directly in front of the Peabridge. In Georgetown, that alone practically required some working of magic.

Second, and even more shocking, was the car that waited for us. A Lexus. Black. With onyx leather that melted under the moonlight, and walnut trim that whispered old money.

David held the passenger door for me as Neko clambered into the backseat, grumbling about the indignity until David shot him a loaded glance. Neko settled the book carefully on the leather beside him, taking the opportunity to plant himself squarely in the center of the wide backseat. He bounced slightly as David pulled away from the curb, and I expected to hear him shout “Are we there yet?” at any moment.

When Neko failed to fill the silence, I asked, “Do you know where we’re going?”

“Of course.”

David handled the car expertly. While the streets of D.C. were never empty, traffic became lighter as we moved out of Georgetown, crossing the Key Bridge into Virginia and the western suburbs. I realized that we were heading into one of the toniest neighborhoods around, an area of estates that were set far apart, with long brick fences lining the roads, and wrought-iron gates that kept the riffraff from invading.

I wanted to ask David a hundred questions. Where exactly were we going? Who was waiting for us? How many women were in the Coven? What would happen once we arrived? How, exactly, was I supposed to prove myself, and what were the penalties if I failed?

I knew, though, that I’d get no further answers. David had already told me precisely what he thought I needed to know.

Just as the dashboard clock flashed eleven forty-five, David took a right turn off the winding road. He punched a secret code into a camouflaged control panel, and a wrought-iron gate the height of the Eiffel Tower swung open on silent hinges. We drove up the longest driveway I’d seen this side of
Gone with the Wind,
passing between sentinel ranks of oak trees. The car’s high beams made eerie shadows on the trunks, and more than once I caught my breath, expecting some supernatural guardian to swoop down upon us.

I realized that my fingers were woven into a nervous clump, that I was rubbing my thumbs against each other like an obsessive maniac. Before David could issue another useless reminder for me to relax, I closed my eyes and took a trio of calming breaths. I leaned back in my seat and tried to imagine Neko standing by my side, tried to remember the feeling of his aura reflecting my own, his ability to mirror magical strength back to me, quietly, calmly.

My trick worked well enough that I was surprised when David braked to a stop. “Ready?” he asked.

My eyes sprang open. I was expecting to see Tara—massive columns, solid red brick, and a curving double staircase with servants at the ready. There might even be a barbecue out back, fragrant smoke rising from the grill as belles and beaux flirted with one another. A horse or two wouldn’t be out of place, whickering friendly greetings and begging for sugar lumps. And come to think of it, a mint julep wouldn’t be half-bad. Or a Baileys Irish Cream. With or without decaf coffee.

But I was completely wrong, so mistaken that all remnant flirty thoughts of Graeme and our mid-week decadent dessert outing fled from my mind.

Toto, we weren’t near Tara anymore.

The house in front of me might have been designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, if he were in a particularly ostentatious mood. The walls were made of stone slivers, set without mortar to form horizontal patterns under the moonlight. I could make out windows high above us, arcane designs cut into their wooden frames. I could see two—no, three—chimneys, rising into the midnight darkness. A walkway led around to our right, hinting at a doorway that remained out of sight.

David led us down that path. I silently congratulated myself for choosing sandals, they were nearly silent on the flagstones, and I didn’t need to worry about turning an ankle in the dark. Neko stuck close behind me; I could hear his breath catch as he shifted the heavy book in his arms.

When we rounded the corner, a low voice called, “Halt! Let all who would approach the Coven identify themselves and give good reason for their presence.”

I blinked, and then I could make out a man in the shadows. A large man. A large man, wearing a dark cloak, despite the oppressive late-summer heat. A large man, wearing a cloak and holding a gleaming, naked sword.

I almost ran back to the car.

What had I been thinking? How had I let David drive me out here, miles from nowhere? Why hadn’t I realized that I might become the victim of a strange, sword-wielding cult?

My story would be all over the newspapers and would fill the airwaves for weeks. Gran would put out a weeping appeal for my safe return. Even Clara would screw out a tear or two for the cameras. The tabloid press would interview my boss, who would say that she hadn’t noticed anything unusual prior to my disappearance. They’d shove microphones in front of Melissa, who would push past the paparazzi to get inside Cake Walk, where she would grimly turn the sign to Walk On By in an attempt to free herself from the media circus.

“I am David Montrose, Warder of Hecate.” David’s voice resonated in the dark nook. He did not seem surprised by the man, did not seem the least bit startled by the sword. He intoned, “I bring with me a Daughter of Hecate, Jane Madison, who travels this path with her familiar.”

“You may pass, Warder of Hecate.” The man stepped aside, lowering his sword a fraction of an inch. “Welcome, Daughter of Hecate, and be honored in our safehold.”

I expected David to step to one side (hopefully, the side between me and the glimmering sword.) I thought that he would be a gentleman and let me walk before him. Instead, he squared his shoulders and raised his chin, striding past the armed guardian with only the faintest of acknowledging nods.

As my warder stepped over the threshold and into the house, a silver tracing flared up on the ground. A five-pointed star spread on either side of the door. It was surrounded by a perfect circle, a circle that shimmered with magical force. I knew immediately that the pentagram was a protective field, a barrier even stronger than the man with the sword.

David stepped through the glowing light, shuddering slightly until he reached the far side. He extended his hand, and I knew that I had no choice. He had brought me here because I had been summoned. He had told me that I would be safe.

I stepped over the threshold.

I felt the force field like an electric charge. It jolted up my neck, made me catch my breath, forced me to blink my eyes against a sudden light and then a crashing, terrifying darkness. Neko pressed close behind me, and I knew that he had passed through the pentagram as well.

He wasn’t afraid, though. He was excited—alert and ready, attentive as he always was when we worked our magic. He was a cat, toying with a new mouse. He was
charged,
in his element.

I shook my head and followed David through the foyer and into the house.

The hallway opened onto the largest room I’d ever seen in a residence. The space was divided into a half-dozen conversation areas, elegant groupings of chairs and love seats (alas, no davenports belonging to the Countess of Wessex, as near as I could tell) that encouraged quiet, earnest discussion. A variety of tables was scattered about, sporting enough lamps to fill a showroom. All of the lightbulbs were subdued, as if the entire room was on a dimmer switch.

There must have been two dozen women present, all talking in voices low enough to match the lighting. I felt as if I had stumbled into a supersecret midnight meeting of the Junior League. Each woman looked more composed than the one before. There were a few girls, relative youngsters who looked as if they had only recently graduated college, but most had twenty or more years on me. Three women on the far side of the room looked like they’d be more in Gran’s demographic.

No matter their ages, though, the witches looked fit and healthy. There was an air of determination about them, a razor-edged intensity that marked the multigenerational gathering as
special
in some indefinable way.

I’d been so confident in my black dress and my fused glass jewelry, but now I saw that cashmere and pearls would have been more appropriate. As if I owned cashmere. As if I owned pearls. I thought about hissing a rebuke to Neko for approving my outfit, but I knew this was neither the time nor the place.

In one cluster of women, a faint laugh rang out, and I wondered if I would ever get to hear the punch line. I caught a sudden gasp of surprise from another group, the universal sound of shocked gossip that begs for more details even as it warns away the impropriety of telling tales out of school.

A doorway arched to my immediate right, and I could hear a low hum of conversation emanating from behind an oak door. A low hum of
masculine
conversation—I immediately pictured an Edwardian smoking lounge, with welldressed aristocrats cradling snifters of brandy as they pulled on fat cigars.

“David Montrose.”

A woman materialized in front of us. Okay. I shouldn’t say “materialized.” It wasn’t as if a fog swirled into the room and then a woman magically appeared. It wasn’t like there was a flash of light and then she stepped forward. It wasn’t
magical.

Rather, she moved with perfect grace. Perfect grace and balance and…majesty. Instantly, I knew that this must be Teresa Alison Sidney. Her greeting to my warder toppled the entire room into silence.

“Coven Mother,” David said, and he inclined his head in a gesture that would have been a bow in another age, in another land.