Serpent's Kiss: A Witches of East End Novel (7 page)

What is it called again when someone goes to a party they haven’t been invited to?” a brunette asked her equally pretty blond friend as they each took a stool at the bar.

“Uh, going to a party you haven’t been invited to maybe?” said the blond as two cocktails materialized before the two young women.

“Ooh,” they said in unison, staring down at the drinks.

“Pop-up drinks!” a customer yelled from the other end of the bar, and the man next to him reluctantly handed over a dollar.

“This place is cool!” the brunette said, taking a sip.

“
Crashing
,” Freya said, placing coasters beneath their drinks. “These are on the house. We’re doing a promotion on the new cocktails.” Freya handed them the love potions list. “They’re called Smarty-Pants in case you like them and want more.”

“Huh?” they both replied.

“You
crash
a party,” Freya said with a smirk.

“
Oh, right!
” they said.

Friday night at the North Inn, the east end of Long Island was the place to be. It had only been two weeks since Freya had slipped Betty Lazar one of her potions, and now the former wallflower was wilting no more. Betty had sauntered in wearing a red silk sheath, strappy heels, and a killer smile, headed straight to the bar and asked Freya for another one of those “addictive blue drinks.” Soon Betty was standing by the jukebox singing Meat Loaf and Ellen Foley’s duet, “Paradise by the Dashboard Light,” with Seth Holding, a young, handsome junior detective Freya recognized from the precinct, one of the more affable ones who was always more than happy to hear Freya’s take on a case.

A small crowd had already gathered around Betty and Seth. They were great singers, both closet thespians who had forsaken Broadway aspirations for more reliable paychecks.

Seth was singing the refrain, “
Baby, baby, let me sleep on it!
” an elbow lifted, his unbuttoned shirt revealing a wicked set of abs. Freya knew he didn’t need to sleep on it. As she watched them, she saw snippets of their first night together: Seth walking Betty home from work under a light drizzle, Seth breaking out in song with “Singin’ in the Rain” as they ambled down Main Street. She caught a glimpse of him shyly standing by Betty’s door, waiting for her to ask him in. Then came a series of snapshots—singing, kissing, laughing—and she heard Seth’s tender admission in the morning: “I have a thing for older women, you know, but really I think I just have a thing for you, Betty.”

It was all supersweet, as it should be for Betty, who had been waiting for so long for the right guy to arrive. Seth Holding wasn’t just some young buck or blockhead who wanted to get into an experienced woman’s pants or avoid the “drama” women his age had a reputation for. He was a good egg. And, boy, could they both sing! Sometimes magic acted only as a catalyst, and the rest was serendipity. Still, Freya was proud of her handiwork. She looked around and saw her magic everywhere.

That couple with the now-seven-month-old—Becky and Ross Bauman, whose marriage had frighteningly and violently derailed—were in couples counseling. Freya had gleaned this from a vision of them talking in a therapist’s office (the framed print of Monet’s water lilies on the wall a dead giveaway), sharing feelings they hadn’t even known they possessed. They were currently sitting in a booth, making out like teens. Apparently all those Serenities she had served them over the last month had worked: a touch of star-of-Bethlehem, valerian root, and the tiniest bit of the night-blooming belladonna.

Then there was some brand-new witchery at the pinball machine: a girl Freya’s age leaning into the machine, a hunk behind her doing some upright spooning as they both pressed the flipper buttons and he slammed into her jeans. He had ordered the Playful, she the One-Night Stand.

Now two college boys were flanking the blond and brunette at the bar, and the girls had started a contest to show them who could remove her bra the fastest without taking off any clothes.

It dawned on Freya, who was tending bar alone tonight, that nearly everyone around her was either doing it or about to, all of them happy, sated, smug, or excited. She granted love, fertility, sexual desire. She offered Eros on a silver platter, Venus on the half shell. Cupid and his arrows were at her command. Every fiber of her being was made up of sensuality, passion, and raw emotion, yet lately she had been experiencing none of that fervor; lately, it was like she was dead down there. Or was the word
deadened
? That sounded a tad better.

Sex had never been an issue, certainly not for her, not even the times she had lost her virginity (in her many lives), during which she had taken to lovemaking as if she were an old hand at it, the passion and excitement of those first unions erasing any pain with a soft, shivery caress. There
had
been that one weird time with Bran Gardiner, but that was because she had already sensed something was off. Plus, she had been thinking of Killian.

Killian …

He was her love. Or was he? She didn’t know what to believe anymore. Ever since that night when she’d almost fallen off the bridge, things had cooled. When they’d made love that night, she had pretended to feel the same way and had gone through the usual motions and noises but her heart and her head weren’t in it. Freya had experienced enough relationships to know that power shifts were intrinsic—the roles of Lover and Beloved flip-flopping with every little change. But it had never been so with Killian; they had always each played both parts: Lover and Beloved or Beloved-Lover or Lover-Beloved.

Since that night, however, Killian had slowly pulled away as if he sensed Freya’s mistrust and resented her for it, which had thrown everything off. In a sense, Killian was pouting; he was the longing Lover wanting to be the Beloved. She felt the same. Perhaps once you got into the nitty-gritty of a relationship, this was to be expected, but Freya hated it to happen with Killian. It had all been so perfect and idyllic until Freddie came along and sowed doubt in their little garden.

Killian was not just her lover; he was her best friend, and she realized with a start that she was terribly lonely.
God, no
, she said to herself.
Not lonely, never lonely. If ever there were a sin, it is loneliness
. She panicked.

Thankfully, the solution to her funk came traipsing through the door.

Hudson Rafferty, Ingrid’s good friend from the library, walked in with an extremely good-looking man in tow. It was his boyfriend, Scott, Freya thought, suddenly cheering up. Hudson and Scott always had the best gossip.

Hadn’t Joanna always said that Freya should focus on helping others whenever she was feeling down? It wasn’t good to get too self-involved.

Freya set down two coasters and hoped she could be of help to these handsome boys.

The Edwardian blueprint from the old manor was a diazo print, a paper used beginning in the early twentieth century. It was oily to the touch, the edges crumbled and the fine lines of blue ink degraded and blurred in spots. The problem with such old blueprints was that back then they were considered dispensable, with no other use than their practical function as a guide to build a house. No effort had been made to preserve this one other than rolling it up and plopping it into the cedar escritoire, where it had fortuitously been saved from light and dust and other sources of decay. However, the quality of the paper itself was poor. Steaming had made it less brittle, but Ingrid was still careful as she now applied another treatment.

She
felt brittle herself, as if exposure to the light could turn her into dust. A weekend had come and gone, and she hadn’t heard from Matt; their affair appeared to have ended without ever really beginning.

After a few sprightly knocks at her office door, Hudson burst in. “Hey, I just had a second and didn’t get a chance to tell you yet. Guess who I saw this weekend? Ew, it stinks in here. Witchy stuff?”

Ingrid laughed. “No, solvents for the blueprint.”

Hudson studied her, chewing on the nail of his index finger, then placing it along with two others in the upper pocket of his tailored jacket to give a tuck to his turquoise pocket square. “Something’s wrong. You don’t look happy, Ingrid.”

She glanced up from her glasses, pulled at the wrists of her gloves, and continued applying the chemical. She felt like a failure after her date with Matt and was too ashamed to admit to her friend that she had botched the whole thing. She hadn’t told Hudson about the date at all, neither before nor after. She felt like a traitor as a friend but her lack of experience had kept her mum, just in case something like this happened. Well, at least she’d been smart about that. “It’s just the chemicals. They make my eyes water.”

“Yeah, right, it’s just the chemicals. Uh-uh, you are no good at hiding it, my dear. But I’ll leave you in peace for now. Just know my shoulder’s here any time, okay? I’m wearing cotton so there’s no harm in crying on it.”

“Okay,” said Ingrid, smiling. So who’d you see this weekend? Did you and Scott go out on a date?”

“I saw Freya! It is really, truly remarkable, the whole
vibe
—to use that reappropriated hippie word—she is giving to the North Inn. Talk about bacchanalia! You two with your magic!” He gave her a wink as she peered up at him from behind her glasses. “Anyhoo, we got to discussing my little problem.”

“That Scott is angry with you because he can’t meet your parents when you’ve met his?”

“Yeah, that one.”

“
Big
problem!” Ingrid emphasized.
As if she were one to talk
.

“Well, Freya made us some of those … love potions? Phew! Let’s just say Scott and I had the most incredible, romantic, earth-shattering night! I’m still reeling from it.” He spun around.

Ingrid began putting the caps back on the bottles of the solvents. “So does this mean you’re ready to introduce Scott to your mother? Although that would mean you’d first have to come out to her.”

“No, not ready for that yet.”

“Oh, Hudson!” she said.

She left the library earlier than usual; Tabitha and Hudson would do the closing up. Caitlin no longer worked there, because she had started—of all the unexpected twists—law school in New York City. Perhaps heartbreak had changed her, made her want to prove herself in some way. Ingrid only felt empathy for the girl now and, she had to admit, a lot of admiration.

Clipping along in her work heels, Ingrid took the roundabout way, skirting the park, even though she knew it was a ridiculous waste of time. But part of her hoped that somehow, if she followed Matt’s instructions and stopped using the dark-alley shortcut, it would bring him back.
What am I thinking? That’s ridiculous!
Ingrid was annoyed with herself; it was a longer walk and it was so unlike her to let others tell her what to do.

Not even one of her magic knots could fix this problem. She would never use magic on him anyway. She wanted him to be drawn to her on his own volition, without any external aid, like spells or charms or incantations. Besides, true love was the very essence of magic.

Even though she had been appalled by his behavior, she understood him better now that she had probed every detail of that evening with a fine-tooth comb. His anger had come out of feeling protective of her as well as out of a sense of duty. He saw the situation as a police matter, even though she knew it was beyond anything the police would understand. As for the matter of not believing in magic, well, he was a logical, practical guy, but she was certain he wasn’t closed minded. All he needed was a little time to expand his worldview.

But if he felt protective of her, why hadn’t he called her by now? She couldn’t get around that one. Enough thinking about Matt Noble, she told herself, but for the rest of the walk, she couldn’t help herself and her thoughts were consumed by him despite her attempts to chase them away.

When ingrid arrived home, she stopped before climbing the steps to the door and made an effort to wipe the disappointment off her face. She tried a smile, and though it didn’t feel right, she kept it there, placing a foot on the first step.

The door swung open and out came a squealing Gracella, Tyler following on her heels, imitating his mother, arms flailing and little hands flapping in the air. On the pathway, Gracella turned toward Ingrid, a hand on her bosom as if to steady her heart. “Miss Ingrid, this house is haunted. This is a haunted house!” she said, appearing terrified. “I am not coming back until these ghosts go away.”

Ingrid walked over, concern on her face. “What happened?”