The Lost Enchantress (7 page)

Fortunately, years of arriving at a news scene and being told she was going live in sixty seconds had prepared her to think fast and run without facts. She told him a group of teens had hit her up for spare change and taken off when they saw his lights. Strange loud noises? No, she hadn’t heard any noises. Nor had she seen anyone leap over the wall behind her.

“Wouldn’t that be dangerous at this level?” she asked him.

“Dead dangerous,” he declared. “And dead is what you’d be if you tried it. I guess my eyes were playing tricks on me, because I could have sworn I saw a fellow . . .” He shook his head.

Then he told Eve that he and his wife watched her all the time and asked her to sign his cap.

After making sure she was safely inside her car, the guard drove off, probably to see to it the phantom gang of kids weren’t hassling anyone else within his domain. Eve wasted no time doing the same. She was anxious to get home, to whatever safety there was within those walls. And to Grand, the only one who could answer the questions rioting inside her head.

But first she made one small detour. She pulled out of the garage and turned right, circling around to check out the spot where Hazard had pulled his disappearing act. She carefully counted to the level where she’d been parked.

Dead dangerous was right. It was a fifty-foot drop from where he’d taken off, straight down, ending in blacktop. Even if a man was lucky enough to survive a jump from that height, he’d be left broken and bleeding. But there wasn’t a body or a drop of blood in sight.

Just a collector my ass
, she thought.

“D
est—” “No! Please don’t say it. Not the D word.”

Ignoring Eve’s exasperated plea, Grand continued to regard her with regal serenity, something she did exceptionally well. “If you want a different answer, my darling Eve, ask a different question.”

Eve settled for making a small, disgruntled sound and staring at the teacup in front of her. It was fine bone china, its color the soft white of heirloom pearls. The gently curved handle fit her hand perfectly, and there was a sprinkling of hand-painted red roses just below the rim. It was simple and elegant, like everything in Grand’s home, like Grand herself. She was eighty but looked and acted younger, something Eve attributed to her fiery spirit and magical T’airna genes. Her white hair was cut in an asymmetrical bob that played to her great bone structure and beautiful eyes, and she’d always had a strong, intrepid sense of style. All the color and adventure lacking in Eve’s closet could be found in Grand’s.

They were sitting at the old, polished oak kitchen table in Grand’s kitchen. She lived in a cozy three-room addition to the brick Tudor Eve shared with her sister and niece. It was a perfect arrangement. Grand had a place where she could retreat for a bit of peace and quiet, and there was a solid door equipped with dual dead bolts to keep whatever magic she chose to conjure on her own turf, out of sight and out of mind for the rest of them. Eve would have preferred to keep magic out of the house entirely, but a deal was a deal.

The door connecting their kitchens was usually left open, and that’s how Eve found it when she returned home after the auction. It was late, and as she pulled into the garage, she was afraid her grandmother might already be sleeping. She wasn’t sure she could stand to wait until morning to talk to her. But she found Grand still up and waiting with a pot of tea steeped to perfection; two teacups and a plate of lemon shortbread sat on the table. It was as if she’d known not only that Eve would come rushing in, shaken and bewildered, and in need of her special calming brew, but also the precise moment.
How
she always seemed to know such things was something Eve didn’t want to think about just then. She had enough magical mystery to deal with for one night.

Words usually came easily to her. She made her living stringing them together in logical order. But when she opened her mouth to tell her grandmother what had happened, out poured a jumbled tirade about magic and strange men and wild, irresistible impulses. While Eve rambled, Grand calmly nudged her to sit and tucked her favorite shawl around her shoulders. Faded blue and soft as feathers, the shawl smelled of sweet rosewater and a thousand happy memories. And all the time Grand was soothing her and pouring tea, she listened.

That was one of the wonderful things about Grand; she always listened and understood and told you exactly what she thought, even if it wasn’t exactly what you wanted to hear. Or even close to what you wanted to hear.

Like tonight.

Eve sipped her tea, letting the sweet warmth and spicy fragrance relax her until she was able to consider Grand’s explanation with a reasonably open mind.

“Fine,” she said, “let’s assume you’re right and destiny is responsible for everything that happened. Why now? Why tonight? And why, for pity’s sake, in front of hundreds of people?” Her voice took on a disgruntled edge. “Hasn’t destiny ever heard of discretion . . . you know, the ‘better part of valor’ and all that?”

Grand’s smile was gentle. “Ours is not to reason why . . .”

“Of course ours is to reason why,” Eve argued. “If we don’t, we’re like . . . like balls in a pinball machine, getting randomly slapped around for no good reason. And for the record, “do or die” was nowhere on my To Do list for today.”

“So it is with destiny.”

“My point exactly,” Eve said. “I need answers, and as answers go, ‘destiny’ falls in the cosmic, big-picture class of explanations. I was hoping you could give me something a little more specific and small picture. Like a snapshot. More focus, less hocus-pocus. I want to know why, after years of détente, destiny suddenly decided to rear its ugly head and steamroll my life tonight.”

“Oh dear, I suspect the only thing sudden about it was your own sense of awareness . . . or perhaps I should say lack thereof.”

“Lack thereof? Me?” Eve shook her head emphatically. “I’m all about awareness. It’s what I do . . . it’s who I am.”

Grand looked bemused. “Now don’t be getting all miffed. I wasn’t talking about your job. Of course, you’re very good at what you do, but your work calls for awareness of a different sort . . . one might even say more focus, less hocus-pocus.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“Not a bit. To be sure; it’s a fine quality to have. It just won’t help you to understand what happened tonight.” She paused and it seemed to Eve that she was choosing her words very carefully. “Tell me, Eve, do you remember anything of what I taught you about magic?”

The question took Eve by surprise.

“Of course I do. I remember everything, Grand. How could I not?”

Grand looked so pleased that Eve didn’t even consider spoiling the moment by mentioning how often she wished it weren’t the case. Or how many nights she’d lain awake fantasizing about how different her life would be if she’d never opened the Book of Enchantment and found the Winter Rose Spell.

“Then you remember that magic is all around us, always. It’s the energy of life itself, and it’s present in the wind and the tides and—”

“And in the tallest tree in the forest and the smallest wildflower growing in the shade below.”

Grand smiled approvingly. “Then you must remember that all that magical energy trapped in nature can be called forth; why even a drab with enough knowledge and persistence might learn to coax out a wee bit of it.”

Even a drab.
Eve had to smile. It had been a very long time since she’d heard the word “drab” used that way. It was the name the magical world gave to mortals who possess no magic. Drab, as in colorless and boring. There was a time when a drab was the very last thing she wanted to be. That was before she understood that in the great cosmic carnival that is the universe, drabs are really the lucky ones. They get to sleepwalk through life blissfully unaware of the mystical danger lurking just out of sight. They can tuck their kids in at night and tell them that of course there are no such things as monsters or ghosts or goblins with a clear conscience, never knowing how wrong they are. And if they’re really lucky, they never find out.

“But the greatest magic,” Grand continued, “is the magic inside you, the magic you were born with. That’s what sets us apart as enchantresses. It’s always with you, Eve, and it always will be, as long as there is blood running through your veins.”

“But I haven’t used magic in years. I don’t even think about it.”

“It’s still there,” Grand countered. “The magic within us is different from the magic around us, and far greater, but it’s also one with it. And like calls to like. You were born with a connection to the magic of the universe, and I suspect it’s draining you more than you know to try to suppress what is meant to be.”

She took a sip of tea while Eve considered that. Could Grand be right? She’d always assumed that when she made the decision to reject magic, that was that. End of story. Could it be that instead she’d been unconsciously suppressing it all this time? And if so, what had changed tonight?

“You’ve been working much too hard,” Grand continued. “Such dreadful long hours and deadline on top of deadline, there seems no end to it. And with Chloe away, you take it on yourself to see to Rory even more than usual.”

There was no denying that. After years of flitting like the free spirit she was from one job to another, her sister seemed to have found her bliss as a wedding planner. Not ordinary weddings naturally, but one-of-a-kind weddings in exotic, far-off locales. It was the perfect career for a diehard romantic with boundless creativity and a wanderer’s soul. The downside was that Chloe was away from home for weeks at a stretch. At the moment she was on a private island somewhere off the coast of Greece. And when she was away, Eve picked up the slack at home. She didn’t mind; she shared a special bond with her only niece, and it had been that way since the day Rory was born. Actually, since before she was born.

Chloe was only seventeen when she announced she was pregnant, father unknown, and that she intended to keep her baby. A senior in high school, she was still living with their paternal grandparents, who had taken them in after the fire that killed their parents and destroyed their home. The Lockharts were horrified by Chloe’s pregnancy. Wealthy and prominent in the community, they were as concerned with appearances as Grand was totally unconcerned with what anyone else thought or said about her. Their response to the situation involved equal parts shame and secrecy. They wanted to pack Chloe off to give birth somewhere far, far away, arrange for a private, sealed adoption and never speak of the matter again. Ever.

Eve’s father had been their youngest and most troublesome son. They’d strongly disapproved of his marriage and had little to do with his family when he was alive. That changed upon his death. They had more money, more influence and more friends in high places than Grand did, and they’d used all of them to elbow her aside and claim full custody of Eve and her sister. In true Solomon fashion, Grand had elected not to fight them, legally or otherwise, though she surely could have prevailed had she chosen to do battle on her own unorthodox terms. She’d stepped aside because she believed the girls had been through enough.

The Lockhart name made the fire front-page news locally, and Grand’s long-standing reputation as the neighborhood’s resident witch provided the media and the public with plenty of scandalous details. Rumors and half-truths attributed to anonymous sources were twisted and exaggerated, with vague insinuations of animal sacrifices and black masses. When the state fire marshall’s final report said that the fire was caused by candles left burning unattended in the turret room, it was taken for granted that Grand was to blame. Whispers about a charred crystal ball and silver pentagram found among the ruins fanned speculation about what she had been doing that night.

Grand rose above it all, neither denying nor explaining the rumors, and not allowing a custody battle to incite more hurtful publicity and prolong the public ordeal for Eve and Chloe. Instead, she made do with only occasional visits with the granddaughters she loved, and it was years before Eve learned about the sacrifices she’d made.

Eve was out of college and living in New York when Chloe called to tell her she was pregnant. She had just been awarded a prestigious fellowship to study international journalism; it was the next step on her carefully planned path to becoming a foreign correspondent. Those were heady days when it seemed that every piece of her life was falling into place.

Her immediate response to Chloe’s announcement was to return home and try to negotiate a compromise. She reasoned and pleaded and cajoled, but her grandparents stood their ground and her sister stood hers. More than once Eve wanted to throw up her hands and walk out. She wanted to go back to New York where she had a real life tied to a real future, a future she’d dreamed of and worked to make happen. The reason she didn’t was because when she tuned out the arguments and threats and accusations being hurled all around her, and listened instead to her heart, one truth stood out above all else: Chloe needed her. That came before everything else.

The night after their parents died, she and Chloe slept in the same bed. Huddled beneath the covers, they had linked pinkie fingers and sworn they would always be there for each other, no matter what. It was a childish gesture made by children desperate for comfort and reassurance wherever they could get it. But Eve had meant every word. It wasn’t simply a sense of obligation that brought her home to stand by Chloe. She
wanted
to be there for her sister. No matter what the price.

There had been a quick trip to New York to settle matters there. Eve salvaged what she could and said good-bye to what she couldn’t, and she moved on. When she got back to Providence, she called Grand to broach an idea she had, and the three of them—Grand and Chloe and she—banded together and forged the arrangement that had worked pretty well ever since.