Books by Maggie Shayne (64 page)

"Carl...how did you find me here?"

He smiled. "I've been having you followed ever since you left Chicago, honey. I knew that cop of yours would come to you sooner or later. He was nuts about you. Anyone could see it."

She sniffed, lifted her head. "So you used me to get to him?"

"More or less. We were having trouble keeping track of him. He's a slippery one. Watching you was much easier."

A painful contraction gripped her, and she clenched her teeth, doubling over, and holding her belly. "Oh, God..."

"It's all right, hon. It won't hurt much longer," Carl said.

Panting, sobbing, she lifted her head when the pain eased. "I thought you loved me, Uncle Carl."

"I am a businessman," he said, as if it were a full blown explanation.

"Can I at least sit down? By the fire? I'm chilled to the bone."

He grunted, but stepped out of the doorway, keeping his gun on her as she passed. He followed her into the living room. Charlotte sat on the sofa, pulling the blanket from the back of it over her shoulders, leaning back, putting her legs up. She dug beneath the cushion with one hand, her motions covered by the blanket, searching for the gun she'd tucked there earlier.

"That's right, get comfy. It'll make this easier."

"You're really going to shoot me?" she asked, her voice trembling.

The door opened, and Michael stepped in with an armload of firewood, which he dropped to the floor as soon as he saw what was happening. His eyes met Charlotte's, then shot to Carl.

"Listen, I know what you think, but she doesn't know anything. Nothing, Carl. It's all me, okay?"

"Of course it is."

"So let's you and I go somewhere and work this out between us, hmm?" He was coming closer, his hands raised. "You do what you have to do, but leave her out of it."

"I'm sorry, Michael, but I have no choice."

"For the love of God, Carl, she's pregnant."

"I really don't care. I never liked kids anyway."

He lifted his gun toward Michael. Charlotte aimed hers through the blanket and squeezed the trigger. But it wouldn't move. Nothing happened.

"Hey, Carl, uh, you don't have the safety on, do you? I mean, I'd just as soon not have to go through this more than once."

Carl glanced at the gun, his finger sliding over the small catch above the trigger. Charlotte mimicked the move, finding the same catch on her own gun, and pushing it forward.

"I've been doing this awhile, Michael," Carl said. "No, the safety wasn't on."

"That's funny," Charlotte said. "Mine was." She squeezed the trigger just as Carl turned to gape at her. The shot exploded, and he flew backward as if he'd been hit in the chest with a sledge hammer. He landed on the floor, and he didn't move again.

Michael rushed to kick the gun away from him, then bent over him for a moment. Charlotte didn't watch. She couldn't — the pain was back and it was intense this time.

"He's dead," Michael said. He moved to the sofa, sat on its edge, and pulled her into his arms. "It's over. My God, it's finally over."

She hugged him back. "Is it?"

Sitting back he looked at her. "Only the bad parts, Charlotte. I promise you that. There won't be any more pain, no more hurting for you."

"Actually, I think you're mistaken there."

He searched her face. "Honey...?"

"It's labor. I'm sure now. We should probably head to the nearest hospital, okay?"

He nodded, getting to his feet, scooping her up and carrying her out of the cabin, and down to the car.

* * *

He was with her throughout the labor, the delivery, and finally, that moment of moments, when her tiny, perfect baby daughter was placed in her arms.

Charlotte couldn't take her eyes off her child — at least not until she saw the look of utter rapture in Michael's wet eyes. And then she couldn't decide which was more beautiful.

He looked at her, then kissed her tenderly. "I don't know how, Charlotte, but I swear, I'm going to find a way to convince you how much I love you. If it takes me the rest of my life, I will."

She smiled, tears brimming in her eyes. "You already have," she told him.

His brows went up, eyes widening a little. "I have? But...when, how?"

"I found your journal. I read what you wrote there after you left me."

He seemed blank for a moment, then realization dawned. "I hadn't been back to the cabin since then. I didn't even remember..."

She slid the baby into his arms. He stared adoringly at the child, then at her. "I guess our daughter gets to come to the wedding this time, hmm?"

"Just as long as the father shows up," Charlotte whispered.

"I'll love you till I die, Charlotte. And as you pointed out, I'm still alive."

He kissed her again, and she knew that this time, there was nothing that could keep them apart.

The End

"Are you sure this is the right place to be doing this?"
Rory
asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

"What better place,"
Celeste
said softly, "than
Solange
's grave?" She shivered a little, though it was far from cold tonight. It was the atmosphere. The tall ornate crypts, a city of the dead, rising all around them. The swirling mists writhing on the ground. The thick black clouds blotting out even the moon and stars.

"I don't like it here,"
Eve
put in, looking around the cemetery with fear in her brown eyes. "It feels…dark. Evil."

"Don't be ridiculous. The ancestral home is a stone's throw from here. Solange is here," Celeste began, but she let her voice trail off. It felt ridiculous to lecture her cousins when she was every bit as uncomfortable herself.

"You could at least do something about the atmosphere, couldn't you, Rory?"
Skye
asked.

Rory closed her eyes and the others went silent, watching her. In a moment, the ghostly wind that had been moaning and whispering around the crypts and statues faded and died. The dark clouds blotting out the face of the moon broke apart, sailed away like black ghost-ships on a midnight sea. And the full moon gleamed bright and silvery, bathing the crypts in light and shadow.

No doubts for Rory. She cast, and she conjured, and the results were visible, palpable. Rain fell or snow or hail. No questioning her perceptions. No wondering if the voices were only in her head. And no question in her beloved
Luke
's eyes either. No room for doubt. Eve's power was like that, too. When she moved something with her mind, there was no questioning whether it had really happened. It simply did.

"Hell, I'm not sure that's any better," Skye said. She was looking now at the
statue
near the Deveaux family crypt. Life-size, lifelike in every way, it was made to look only more real by the moonlight. "God, who put that awful thing here?"

"I'm more concerned as to why," Celeste whispered, eyeing the chiseled, harsh and somehow handsome face, the flowing robes, the hands forever gripping something that had long since crumbled away.

"It's almost as if it's real," Skye said softly. "I keep thinking I can hear its thoughts."

Eve shivered and rubbed her arms. "Yeah? What's it thinking?"

"I don't know. I can only make out whispers."

"Might not be the statue at all," Celeste said. "Might be the whispers of the dead. This place is humming with them. Maybe you're starting to channel them, like I do."

"That's not what it feels like," Skye said. "But then again, how the hell would I be sure?" She met Celeste's eyes.

Celeste understood. Her power and Skye's were the most alike. Skye heard the thoughts of the living. Celeste heard the voices of the dead. Tough to prove either of them. Though she'd never heard Skye speak of her lover doubting her abilities. As far as Celeste knew,
Nic
was a true believer.

"Can we just get this over with?" Rory asked. Clouds came creeping back over the face of the moon, and she waved an impatient hand and sent them skittering away. "I can't hold the weather off all night." She looked as if she could, with the moonlight setting her burnished red curls alight like a nimbus of power.

"So what do we do?" Eve asked.

"Hold on, I'll ask." Celeste closed her eyes. "Solange? Great-Grandmother, are you there?"

I'm here, child. But you already know what to do. Trust your instincts. They're the instincts of a witch, and will never steer you wrong. It's important you do this.

Nodding, Celeste looked at the others. "Form a circle," she told them. It was the first thing a witch did in most situations. So it ought to work now.

The four cousins formed a loose circle, right in front of the Deveaux family crypt.

"Solange can see us, she says," Celeste said, passing along the impressions she

was receiving from her great-grandmother. "But she can't come to us. She isn't

free yet. She's trapped…in the house."

As she said it, all four of them turned to look in the direction of the house. It was beyond Lafayette Cemetery's stone wall, a few blocks away.

"She says it does her heart good to see the wonder of her family, of her bloodline. It made it worthwhile, the sacrifice she made for us."

Beautiful, all of you, and strong. And you have each found love,
Solange went on.
But it is with you, Celeste, that I feel the strongest bond. I can speak to you, Celeste. It means so much that you can hear me. And beyond that, of all of you, you are the one who looks so like I did in life. It warms me to see you strong and proud in your caramel skin and raven hair.

"You've been so lonely, Grandmother. For so long. I know how you must ache for your
Jonathon
, but it will be over soon," Celeste promised.

I would make the same choices again, Celeste. I did the right thing.

"Now what?" Eve whispered. She pushed a hand through her short, dark brown hair, a nervous gesture.

Take out the stones.

"Take out your pieces of the stone," Celeste said. She lifted her head, looked around the circle at each of her cousins in turn. Rory reached into a backpack, took out a hunk of stone, dropped the pack onto the ground. Skye had an expensive-looking handbag, large and brown with a gold clasp. She took her piece from that, then set the bag aside, her eyes only on the stone. Sable-haired Eve carried her stone in a leather satchel with a drawstring top. She took it out and tossed the satchel amid the crypts and pottery. Celeste took her own stone from the silk bag she'd taken to carrying belted around her waist. She held it in a two-handed grip, out in front of her, and the others copied her stance.

Put them on the ground,
Solange whispered.

Celeste nodded. "Put them on the ground."

As she said it, she knelt down and, reverently, she laid her piece upon the well worn, oft-tread ground. The others did likewise, kneeling, lowering the pieces of stone to the ground, reluctantly letting go of them, and finally straightening again.

And Celeste spoke the words her grandmother gave to her.

"The stone was split, the curse was spoken. The stone is healed, the curse is broken. So mote it be."

"So mote it be," the other three repeated in one voice.

On the ground, the stones began to vibrate, to tremble. As the four women watched in wonder and awe, they moved. Slowly, tentatively at first, then with more vigor. Some of the pieces turned, rotating themselves into the correct position. Then, in one sudden burst of frantic motion, the four pieces slammed together in the very center of the circle the women had formed. Light burst from them, a blinding orange-yellow glow that brightened to pure white at the seams — sparks flew as the pieces melded.

And then the light died and the Stone of Power lay there in the very center of the circle, whole, not even a crack to show where it had once been broken.

Celeste felt something, a rush that made her jerk her gaze in the direction of the house. "Solange is free!" she shouted. She felt the woman waft into the cemetery to join her descendants with a warm, rose-scented breeze.

And then she appeared there. Translucent, wispy, like a veiled, smoky reflection of Celeste's own face, above an old-fashioned dress with a high lace collar.

"Solange," the others whispered.

They could see her, too!

But Celeste's joy was short-lived, for she saw the look on her great-grandmother's ghostly face, saw the fear in her eyes and felt the bolt of panic that shot through the other woman's heart as she looked beyond her descendants.

Celeste followed her gaze and she saw it, too. The statue, looming behind her cousins seemed to be…coming to life.

Something spattered on the ground, like stones being dropped by handfuls, and the three cousins turned, all of them, only to freeze in horror when they saw what Celeste and Solange had already seen.

The statue, the frightening, horrible statue, was…moving. The arms, hands, seemed to flex slightly, and stone crumbled and fell away.

"My God, look at the eyes!" Skye said.

They all did, seeing that those eyes were no longer the eyes of a stone statue, but the eyes of a man. A living, angry man.

"Girls! You must flee!" Solange shouted.

But even then, the statue was shaking off more of the stone, protesting in a deep growl as he struggled to get free. "I don't understand, Solange. We broke the curse. We set you free. What's happening now?"

"Yes, Celeste. You broke the curse. You've freed me. But in so doing, you've also freed him."

"Who is he?" Rory asked, staring from the ghostly apparition of her great-grandmother to the crumbling statue.

"Darien," Skye replied. "I can read his thoughts loud and clear now. He's the wizard from the legend. And he intends to kill every one of us and take the stone."

"Over my dead body," Eve whispered. She waved a hand at the statue, and it went flying off its pedestal, smashing onto the ground in a cloud of dust.

Seconds later, though, the man himself, Darien, rose from that pile of broken rock, an evil smile on his face as he brushed plaster and dust from his robes. "Thank you, Eve. It would have taken me another twenty minutes on my own." He looked at the Stone of Power, lying there on the ground among them. "I'll just take my stone and be on my way."

"The hell you will!" Eve crooked a finger, and the Stone hurled itself toward her. She caught it, staggering backward and grunting at the impact, the weight of it. Her knees buckled, but her cousins surrounded her, helping her support its weight.

"The house," Skye shouted. "Get it into the house!"

They moved as one, Eve hurling tree limbs and rocks at the wizard every time he started to pursue them. Darien's limbs were stiff — probably from years of disuse. Celeste hoped his powers were as weakened.

"He's gaining on us," Skye said without looking back.

"Let's see him get through this," Rory shouted with a look at the skies.

Black clouds blotted out the moon, and a bolt of lightning shot down, blasting the earth in front of the wizard's feet.

"Righteous dead, arise and come to our aid!" Celeste shouted.

And immediately mists rose, swirling and writhing from the ground, from the crypts. They twisted and swirled, and the wizard stopped, stunned by what he saw. His gaze turned first one way and then another as the shapes surrounded him, moaning and shrieking, blocking his escape.

The women ran the rest of the way and managed to get the Stone into the house. They set it on the first table they came to, a coffee table, where Solange's tools were laid out as if awaiting her return. Eve turned and flung a hand toward the door, closing it behind them, turning the locks without touching them. Then she turned to face the others.

"So now what?" she asked.

"I don't know," Skye said. "I only know he was thinking he couldn't let us get the Stone into the house. So I figured it was our best bet."

Solange stood near the table, her hands hovering over her tools, the look on her face full of longing. Celeste felt her thoughts. She was itching to pick them up, to hold them again, to wield their power, but she was afraid to try. Afraid of the disappointment she would feel when her hands moved right through them. She turned, to face the women, her progeny, choosing instead to answer their questions.

"You were right, Skye," Solange said. "I've been imprisoned within this house for many years. And I may be noncorporeal, but I'm not without power. I've cast a circle around this place every night since I left the world of the living. A circle of protection, reinforced, its power magnified, night after endless night. Nothing evil can enter this place. He can't touch the Stone here."

"Then that's it? We've done it? Mission accomplished?" Rory asked. "It can't be. It's too easy."

"I'm afraid you're right, Aurora. Oh, we're safe enough, so long as we stay here."

Celeste nodded her understanding. "Don't you see, Rory? We meant to free Solange from her prison. Instead, we've just joined her here."

Rory blinked, looking outside. "We can't leave?"

"Not without the risk he'll attack us," Eve said.

Skye shook her head slowly. "I don't think he'll wait around or leave it up to us to decide when or whether to leave the protection of this place. He'll try to find a way to force us out. So we'd better figure out how to face him and win, when he does."

Celeste looked at Solange, as she eyed her tools again. "I hope you don't mind us using them. Eve brought them — they'd been in storage at her place in California for a long time."

"Of course I don't mind. I just wish…" She let her voice trail off and, tentatively, reached a hand down to close it around her beloved athame. But her hand passed right through the double-edged dagger.

Celeste bit her lip, feeling the acute sadness that passed through Solange's heart. She moved around the coffee table to sit upon the sofa in front of it. "Use me, Solange."

Solange looked at her. So did the others.

"Are you sure?" Solange asked.

"I am. Come, use your tools. You have the power, more than any of us. Maybe you can tell us what to do next, how to fight him. How to win."

Nodding slowly, Solange moved to where Celeste sat, and turning, she sat as well, as if she were going to sit upon Celeste's lap, only she didn't. She took up residence in the seat of her great-granddaughter's soul — in the core of her body.

She opened Celeste's eyes. Celeste could feel everything, was aware of everything, but not in control. She felt like a puppet, with someone else at the strings. Her hands closed around the athame and caressed it. Then they moved to light the fresh incense in the censer and the candles as well.

Her lips moved, but it wasn't her voice that spoke, and bade the others bring fresh water for the chalice. She mingled water and salt in the cauldron, and lowered the blade of her dagger inside, and a burst of pure energy blasted from the union of force and form, dagger and bowl, male and female. A sphere of electric blue light expanded to encompass the entire house. Never had Celeste felt such power from any magic she had created. And yet she did, now, with Solange at the helm.

Finally, she lowered the blade to the table and bent her head over the scrying mirror.

"Mothers of my mothers," Solange's voice said. "Grandmothers of my grandmothers, tell me what I must know."

The mirror seemed to cloud over, and all the women leaned closer to see what it was their great-grandmother was seeing through Celeste's eyes.