Jessica
Plant marigold seeds in a sunny spot in the spring, and by fall thou wilst have golden blooms that will ward off pests and promote riches.
Goody Fletcher, Book of Useful Household Tips
I can’t say exactly what happened when Derrick laid his hands over my knee, but I can describe how it felt: like the sun coming out on a bitterly cold winter’s day, warming my skin and making me feel as if I’d suddenly stepped onto a white sand beach.
And just as if I’d suddenly stepped onto a white sand beach, the pain disappeared, leaving in its place only a sweet, summery sensation.
It was incredible . . . especially since I had no idea how he was doing it. And I’ve been around. I went to college in New York City. I’ve been on buying trips to Los Angeles. I even went back to France a couple of times after my semester abroad. The French might be known for their cooking, but do you know what else they’re really good at? That’s right: sex.
But with all my experience, I’d never met a guy who was as good with his hands as Derrick.
“How are you doing that?” I finally asked as he bent over my knee, one long strand of his sandy blond hair falling over to tickle my skin.
He wasn’t aware of it, however, because his eyes were closed.
“Could you be quiet, please?” he asked. “I’m concentrating.”
“Sorry,” I said. “But I’m really curious. You said it wasn’t a spell. Is it Reiki? Because I understand that the World Council of Witches forbids their members from practicing hands-on alternative medicine, due to the liability issues.”
“Yes, well, I’m not a member of the WCW, remember?” I noticed that he hadn’t shaved recently. He’d already had a few days’ growth of whiskers when I first met him. Now he had what basically amounted to a short beard. Coupled with the long hair, he had a little Robin Hood thing going on. This was a problem for me, since I kind of had a thing for Robin Hood, especially the fox in the Disney version. “That’s a ridiculous rule.”
“I agree,” I said, averting my gaze from his foxiness. “But why do you think so?”
“Because all witches are healers.”
“Uh, all witches are not healers. May I remind you of what Rosalie just tried to do to us back there?”
“All witches have the capacity to be healers,” he said, opening his eyes. This close, I was able to see that they weren’t actually silver, but pale blue with amber flecks in them. Oh, God. “I saw you make the mayor’s wife feel better about herself when you dressed her in the clothes you chose for her. The ability to manipulate the energy around us into a force that heals, spiritually or physically, is one that every witch possesses. You have it. I have it. Probably Rosalie Hopkins has it. But how she chooses to use it, according to you, is to harm instead of heal. Perhaps that’s why that love spell you gave her didn’t work.”
I bit my lower lip—not because I disagreed with anything he was saying, but because he was sitting so close, and he was so . . . well, hot. I mean literally hot. He’d lifted his hands from my knee, but I still felt the heat from his fingers there. The redness from the wound Rosalie’s hailstone had inflicted still lingered, but so did the glorious feeling of his touch. I’d given away my protective amethyst, and not five minutes later, I’d been hurt in a hailstorm caused by my mortal enemy. . . .
But now my wounds were being healed by a gentle-fingered witch with silver eyes and a foxy beard. Maybe my amethyst’s protective properties hadn’t left me entirely yet.
“A love spell draws on positive energy,” Derrick was saying, “because it represents something new and hopeful. But if the witch casting it is more used to drawing from negativity—well, you can see how a spell like that might go astray.”
“Yeah.” I released my lip and then leaned forward to lower my pant leg. I wasn’t exactly naked in front of him, but it was starting to feel that way. Any second now he was going to notice my naked thirst for him. “I get what you’re saying. And I completely agree with you . . . in theory. But like I said, the thing between me and Rosalie is a little more complicated than that.”
I didn’t want to remember the panic I’d seen on Billy’s face in the cafeteria a little while ago as he’d tried to look everywhere but at me. I hadn’t exactly been happy about running into him, either—not to mention Rosalie, or their creepy solicitation for “Harvest Princess” volunteers—but at least I’d summoned up a smile and a bright “Hello” for them both as I’d tried to hurry past.
Unfortunately a waspish “What are you doing here?” from Rosalie stopped me before I got to the door.
“Meeting with my new mentee.” I’d known better than to mention the real reason I was there, especially in front of Billy, who—as far as I could tell—still wasn’t aware of the existence of witches in West Harbor. “You know, the program the school has that matches up kids with local business owners?”
My ruse didn’t work, however. Rosalie’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I didn’t know they were taking mentors for that already.”
“Oh, yes,” I’d said, and reached into the plastic jack-o’-lantern they had sitting on the table, with free fun-sized candy bars for the kids. I wasn’t a kid, but I was a chocoholic, and even after all the brownies I’d consumed, I always had room for more. Plus the sky outside was getting darker. Surely this was simply a fluke, and not any of Rosalie’s doing. But I grabbed nervously for the chocolate anyway. “It’s a great program. Sal recommended it. You remember Sal, don’t you, Dina’s brother?”
“Obviously I remember Sal.” Rosalie stared at me expressionlessly. “We had to go through him to set up this table.”
“Ha, ha, right.” I looked down at the candy bar I’d pulled from the jack-o’-lantern and realized, sadly, that it was a Milky Way. “Okay, well, great seeing you both. I better go before—”
That’s when it happened. Billy’s fingers had closed over my hand—the one holding the Milky Way—preventing me from leaving, and causing Rosalie’s cheeks to flush angrily.
“Here you go,” he’d said.
And, like a magic trick—though there was nothing preternatural about it—Billy slid the miniature Milky Way out of my hand, and dropped a miniature Snickers bar into it. Instead of looking everywhere except at me, his eyes were suddenly gazing hard into mine, seeming to plead Remember?
Though he had to have known perfectly well that, after all these years, he was never going to get what he thought he wanted from me, despite remembering my favorite chocolate bar.
That’s when the first crash of thunder rattled the school. Billy instantly released me . . . and I’d careened for the exit, knowing I was doomed.
And Rosalie had let me have it, all right.
Now, safe in my own living room, I wondered if I should mention any of what had happened back in the cafeteria to Derrick. But he’d only asked whether Rosalie knew about Esther. Surely there was no reason I needed to embarrass myself any further by telling him the mortifying truth about Billy.
Except . . .
Except what if what had happened after—the blizzard, and all those poor people who nearly froze to death on the interstate—was what was causing the rift?
I didn’t want to think about that.
“Anyway,” I said, swinging my foot off the coffee table. I was feeling better—but also like it might be a good idea to put some distance between myself and Derrick Winters. “Can I get you that coffee? Or lunch? I don’t know about you, but ever since I found out about the rift, I’ve been starving all the time. I have some leftovers from Mama Giovanni’s—my friend’s family owns it. His mother makes a great Sunday night gravy.” When he only looked confused, I prodded, “You know, gravy—spaghetti sauce with meatballs and sausage? It’ll just take me a few minutes to warm it up. It’s always better the next day for some reason. I guess the flavors have more of a chance to meld.”
When he continued to hesitate, I said, a little impatiently, “Of course I could just give you my report on the Bringer of Light over coffee and cold cheese Danish from Wake Up West Harbor. Do you have more in your car?”
He shook his head, smiling a bit. “No. Sorry, your offer is very generous. I was just thrown by the gravy reference. Where I come from, gravy only comes on mashed potatoes.”
“Oh.” I eyed him as he reached out to tickle Pye under the chin—and the cat let him. Not only let him, but rolled onto his back and showed him his belly, purring. “Yeah, I could see that.”
This was nuts. As a shop cat, Pye tended to be friendly with strangers, but not that friendly. It had taken months after I’d adopted Pye from the shelter for him to trust me enough to show me his belly. Did Derrick’s fingers have the same magical effect on cats that they did on women?
But Derrick didn’t even seem to notice my cat’s reaction to his touch. Instead, he climbed to his feet, pulled off his leather jacket, and walked across the room to hang it on the fish-tail coat hooks by my front door, straightening the sleeves so it hung evenly with the umbrellas and rain jackets also hanging there.
So he liked cats, and was a little perfectionistic.
This was bad. I liked men who were kind to cats and also kept things tidy.
It didn’t hurt that his butt looked so nice in his black jeans, too.
“. . . but you really don’t have to cook for me,” I realized he was saying when I was able to drag my attention away from his jeans.
“I’ve never been to Montana,” I said, walking briskly into my kitchen. Eyes forward. “But around here, gravy is considered spaghetti sauce, and heating up leftovers isn’t considered cooking.”
I pulled open the door to the refrigerator as both man and cat sat and watched me, the man on a stool at the pass-through between my dining room and kitchen, and the cat on the floor beside him, since Pye was apparently now Derrick’s friend for life. “Do you really want coffee, or have you had enough?”
“Is there such a thing as enough?”
“Point taken.” I switched on the machine and slipped a pale blue mug beneath the spigot. It was amazing how easy it was for me to move now that he’d done that thing, whatever it was, to my knee. Was he single? And interested in female business witches? Because if we survived the coming apocalypse, he was definitely someone who’d be useful to have around, considering how often I wore out my joints on tailoring projects (and found myself the target of supernatural attacks by my former high school nemesis). “So, my verdict as the Chosen One is, Esther is the Bringer of Light.”
He raised his eyebrows. “What makes you think that?”
“Hmmm, let me see.” I began spooning food I’d pulled from the fridge into microwaveable bowls. “She moved an entire cafeteria table in front of me using only her mind.”
He looked startled. “She’s telekinetic?”
“That’s what I’m assuming. Or she knows a spell that allows her to move objects with her mind whenever she needs to. But I’ve never seen a spell like that.”
“It’s high magic,” he murmured. “Such spells exist in scrolls and manuscripts from ancient times, but I’m not sure how she’d have been able to get her hands on one.”
“Right. But she’s definitely interested in the Craft. She was reading a book on the history of the persecution of witches.” I slid his cup of coffee in front of him. “Let me guess. You take it black.”
“I do.” He sipped, and looked moderately impressed. “This is good, thanks. Did she say why she was reading that?”
“Because Rosalie got her interested in the subject. One of Rosalie’s ancestors was accused of being a witch. She’s using that fact in some of her Tricentennial publicity—enough so that she’s got Esther outraged that so little of what happened here back then is taught in school today, especially when it was caused by so many issues that still exist: ignorance, greed, poverty, misogyny—”
“‘The imbalance between rich and poor is the oldest and most fatal ailment of all republics.’”
When I only looked at him blankly, he said, “Plutarch.”
“Oh, right. Your book from the car.”
Derrick nodded. “And don’t forget that the Puritans also loved a good conspiracy theory. Any chance they got to blame a bad harvest or a baby dying on their neighbor having made a pact with the devil, they went for it.”
“Oh, yes, of course. That’s probably why Esther can’t understand Salem getting all the attention for their witches when we had our own witch hysteria here forty years earlier.”
“More people were executed for witchcraft there than in Connecticut, though,” he said.
“Well, Massachusetts is the Puritan state.” The microwave pinged. I transferred the contents of the bowls onto two white plates, grabbed some silverware from a drawer and a container of freshly grated Parmesan from the fridge, then brought it all over to the counter at the pass-through, pulling up a stool so I could sit across from him. “And on that happy note—buon appetito.”
He looked down at the mess of spaghetti and garlic bread on his plate a little apprehensively, as if he wasn’t sure what to do with it. But when he saw me jab a fork into my long pasta noodles, twirl them into a bite-sized portion, then pop them into my mouth, he did the same—then got a pleased look on his face.
“Hey,” he said. “This is really good.”
“Um, yeah.” I took a swig from the ice water I’d poured myself. “What did you think I was going to do, poison you?”
He frowned as he bit into his garlic bread. If there was such a thing as a self-defensive bite, that’s what he took. “No. Well, maybe. It’s just that I’ve been here in West Harbor a few days now, and the food I’ve had so far has been . . . disappointing.”
I laid down my fork and stared at him. “Derrick, I could have told you good places to eat around here if you’d stuck around and asked, instead of peacing out with that ‘blessed be’ crap. There are dozens of good places. Mama Giovanni’s is only one of them. There’s also the Country Gourmet—”
“I’m not in West Harbor to eat,” he interrupted, although the rapidness with which the food on his plate was disappearing disproved his claim. “I’m here to save it. And you. Tell me more about Esther.”
“Okay, fine. She’s smart. She wants to be a psychologist.”
“Good.” He nodded as he sopped up what was left of his sauce with his remaining garlic bread. It was hard for me not to stare at his forearms now that he’d taken his jacket off. They were impressively shapely. “That’s a positive sign. It shows she has empathy.”
“That’s what I thought. She was sitting alone, but only so she could read. She has friends, as well as what I’d call a lot of Big Sister Energy. She was able to get a classmate who was climbing on a table to do exactly as she said and get down—though partly only because she shook him down.”
Derrick stared at me. “That’s why she shook the cafeteria table? To get the boy down from it?”
“Yes. Why?”
“The Bringer of Light shouldn’t be using her powers for violence—unless of course she’s battling the forces of evil.”
“Trust me,” I said. “This kid might not have been evil, but he was super annoying.”
He grinned a little. “Anything else?”
“Well, there was one other thing. . . .”
He glanced up from the meatball he was about to bite into, suddenly apprehensive. “What?”
“She read—with complete accuracy—my astrological chart, without my having told her my birthday.”
Slowly, Derrick laid down his fork.
“I know,” I said quickly. “The WCW doesn’t hold astrology in the highest regard.” The Council didn’t just disregard it. I knew from online posts by disgruntled former members that they called it—along with tarot card reading, numerology, and palm reading—“the least disciplined of the divinations.” But this was mainly because of social media influencers using it online for clout. That wasn’t nearly as offensive—to me, anyway—as politicians misappropriating the term witch hunt. “But you said yourself that each witch channels the energy of the universe around her differently—or something like that. Just because Esther does it through astrology doesn’t mean she isn’t the one we’re looking for. She even knew I was a witch. Of course, that was because you’re making me wear this dumb Gaia amulet—”
His gaze on me sharpened. “That ‘dumb Gaia amulet’ is for your protection.”
“Yeah, well, fat lot of good it’s done for me so far.”
He folded his arms across his chest, causing his biceps to swell. “You’re not dead, are you?”
“Wow. Impressed with yourself much?” I pushed away from the counter and busied myself with clearing our lunch plates, mainly so I’d be distracted from his arms. “For your information, I could have handled that thing with Rosalie back there without your help. I’ve been handling her for years without you and your magic fingers.”
“Have you, though?” He was unimpressed. “A witch with powers like that could be using them to do so much good in the world—making it rain in drought-stricken areas, or the sun come out in areas afflicted by storms. But instead she chooses to use them for petty grievances.”
“How is that my problem?” I demanded. “I thought that’s what ‘entities’ like yours—whatever it is—and the Council are for: keeping witches like Rosalie, who abuse their magic, in line.”
He frowned. “Have you reported her?”
“No. Why should I bother? If the Council doesn’t want me or witches like me, why should I help them?”
“You’d be helping the world, actually, not the Council,” he said. “But I understand.”
“Do you?” I glared at him. “For someone who isn’t a Council member, you certainly seem to be on their side.”
His frown turned into a shadow of a smile, and for once, that silver-eyed gaze seemed to soften. “I’m only on one person’s side, Jessica—yours.”
This reply—and the smile—was so disarming that for a second, I could only blink at him in surprise . . . until he broke the unexpectedly intimate moment by adding, quickly, “And West Harbor’s. And Esther’s. I’m on her side, as well. So when are you meeting her again?”
“I don’t know.” I had to turn away from him because I’d found the sudden softness of his gaze unsettling. I made a big deal out of putting the dishes in the dishwasher. Pye, who’d apparently been waiting for Derrick to pet him again, finally realized that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon, and took the opportunity to exit through the cat flap in the back door. “It was awkward. The bell was ringing. We exchanged numbers, though.”
He shoved himself away from the counter, the feet of his stool squeaking noisily against my wood floor. “If Esther is the One, we need to get started on her training right away in order for her to be ready by the Hunter’s Moon.”
“The what?” I turned from the sink to face him as he came into the kitchen. His gaze remained unnervingly bright.
“The Hunter’s Moon. It’s the full moon that appears after the harvest, when the fields have been reaped and hunters can see their prey at night. This year’s Hunter’s Moon happens to fall on the same night as the Tricentennial Ball, which happens to be the night before Halloween, which is when the veil—”
“Between this world and the spirit world is at its thinnest, I know, I remember.” God, this guy and his prophecies. “But if the Hunter’s Moon is when there’s going to be some apocalyptic battle with the forces of evil in West Harbor, I don’t see how Esther’s telekinesis and ability to read their exact astrological chart is going to help.”
“That . . . is . . . why . . . we . . . have . . . to . . . train . . . her.” A muscle was leaping around in Derrick’s jaw, like he was trying hard not to say something he’d regret. “Do you have any more coffee?”
“Uh, I think you’ve had more than enough coffee.” The muscle in his jaw wasn’t the only thing jumping. Some veins in his neck were also throbbing. “In fact, if you ask me, what you need instead of more caffeine is a nap. Why don’t you go back to your hotel and take a little siesta? Then I can go to my shop and check on how Becca is doing. We can meet up again later and see if there’s anything left of my car to salvage, and decide what to do next about Esther’s training.”
But instead of agreeing with my very sensible plan, he looked even more stressed, his brows lowering as he looked away. “I don’t nap.”
“What do you mean, you don’t nap? Everybody naps. Napping is so good for you. It increases alertness and improves memory—”
“I can’t go back to my hotel room, all right?” He finally raised his gaze, and when he did, I saw that his eyes looked blue and amber again. “I couldn’t get a hotel room. Everything is booked solid because of all the leaf peepers and this stupid Tricentennial.”
“Wait, so I was right?” I wasn’t sure I believed what I was hearing. “You really have been living in your car?”
“No, not living in it.” He was defensive, but adorably so, like Pye when he tried to leap onto the kitchen counter, but missed. “I found a twenty-four-hour fitness center. I’ve been showering and keeping some of my things in a locker there.”
“Oh my God, Derrick, why didn’t you say anything? I have a spare bedroom. You can stay here.”
Now, instead of defensive, he looked uncomfortable. “That wouldn’t be right.”
“Why? Does it violate some HR code at the WCW? Who cares? You said you didn’t even work there.”
“I don’t,” he said. His hands had strayed toward the pockets on his jeans. He’d shoved his fingers into them like some schoolboy who’d been caught doing something naughty, when literally all we were doing was discussing what I assumed were going to be some completely platonic sleeping arrangements—much as I might wish the situation to be otherwise. Seeing his discomfort over this was truly the highlight of my day so far. “I’m supposed to be protecting you. And Esther, if she’s the Bringer of Light,” he added hastily.
“Well, won’t it be more convenient for you to protect me from inside my house than outside it?” I brightened, a thought occurring to me. “You could even come to Trivia with me tomorrow night!”
His brows lowered in confusion. “To what?”
“Tuesday Night Trivia, over at West Harbor Brewport. Esther’s parents own it. I’m on a team with my friends, and we meet there every Tuesday night—”
A loud knock sounded on the door. Derrick froze, his expression wary, as if the forces of evil might actually have already arrived on my porch. “Relax,” I said. “It’s probably UPS. They always come this time of—”
“Jess?” called the unmistakable voice of my ex-boyfriend Billy. “Jessica, are you there?”