Books by Maggie Shayne (62 page)

"But what about Alex?" Melissa asked. "He needs a hospital."

"No." Alex touched her face with his palm. "Look at the pail. I can't be more than a couple of pints low. The cuts on my chest are shallow. I'll be fine."

She stared at him and she imagined her heart was in her eyes, but she didn't care. "Are you really all right?"

He leaned closer, kissed her mouth, and probably tasted the salt of her tears, she thought, as she clung to him. When he lifted his head, he said, "I'm all right. From now on, everything is going to be all right."

*
 
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*

Alex let Melissa pull his arm around her shoulders, but he refused to lean on her as she led him through the darkness of the great below, up the stairs, and into the great above. The sun was streaming through the windows now, and the house seemed almost... cheerful.

He sat in a chair and allowed Melissa to wash the blood from his chest and his sides, while his grandmother was in the kitchen, brewing what she called a healing tea.

"What did that insane woman cut into my chest?" he asked Melissa as she ran the cloth over the shallow wounds. It stung, but he didn't care.

"Victor's name, in Theban script." She applied salve she'd found in the medicine cabinet, then wrapped his chest in soft gauze and taped it in place. "He thought he could steal your body, basically make himself live again."

"I know. Elizabeth said as much while she was carving me up." Melissa had a clean shirt in her hands, taken from Alex's room upstairs, but she paused now, staring at him with her huge, beautiful eyes. "Do you think that it's possible

this thing could have worked?" she asked.

"I don't know. I just... I don't know. I think he's been--haunting me sort of. Maybe preparing for this. I've felt him in my head more than once--but not anymore." He shook his head.

"I suppose just about anything is possible," she said.

He reached out, took the shirt from her, and set it aside. Then he took her hands in his. "What about forgiving me, for being such a stubborn idiot about all of this and nearly getting you killed? Do you think
that's
possible?"

Her eyes seemed to search his--and he felt to his core they were doing exactly that. Searching for some reassurance that he hadn't absorbed his father's twisted values and negativity.

Licking his lips, knowing what he had to do, he got to his feet. "You sit. I want to tell you some things I figured out while I was lying down there being drained into a mop bucket."

She did as he said, but she never took those potent, all-seeing eyes from his. God, he loved her. He'd loved her from the second he'd set eyes on her, he thought. She sat in the overstuffed chair, but only after pulling another one closer, so he could sit facing her.

She knew he was still weak and dizzy. She seemed to know more about him than he did, most of the time. She had from the start.

He sat in the chair facing hers and took her hands in his. "I realized down there, when I was pretty sure I was going to die, that you were right. He's built up a lot of negativity, or bad karma, or whatever you want to call it. I figure, since I lived through all of this, I have the opportunity to make things right. Take that negative energy and redirect it into something positive."

"Really? How are you going to do that, Alex?"

"For starters, I'm going to sell this house and everything in it and give the money to St. Luke's School for Boys."

She smiled a little. He liked that, knew he was on the right track.

"Do you think you have to do that for me, Alex? Because you don't, you know. I've been falling in love with you since the first time you said my name. That's not going to change."

He smiled fully. "You think I haven't figured that out already? Hell, woman, you came charging in here unarmed and laid your life on the line for me. I kind of guessed that might mean you cared."

"Not overconfident or anything, are you?" she asked, her tone teasing.

"Not even close." He got to his feet, tugged her to hers. "Melissa, you are--you're
good
. You're so good that I feel like I want to be better. I want to be the kind of man who's worthy of loving a woman like you." He slid his arms around her waist, pulled her close to him.

"You already are, Alex," she whispered, resting her head on his shoulder. "I promise, you already are."

"Shhhh!" Melissa hissed. "It's starting!"

She sat in the arms of her husband, in front of the television in the living room of their beach house. There were people all around them. Bowls of popcorn, open pizza boxes, and lots of icy soft drinks covered every surface. The director was there, along with the two beautiful starlets and the new head writer, a woman who was a practicing Witch herself. Marinda was there as well, beaming with approval at her grandson and his wife and hinting about the greatgrandchildren she hoped wouldn't be too far away.

The season finale of
The Enchantress
began with the Witch as a guest at an authentic Wiccan wedding, with the bride and groom being played by none other than the creative consultant and the show's producer/creator.

The ceremony was built around Melissa and Alex's actual wedding, held in a grove of oaks, the guests forming a circle around them. Every flower and color and gift had a special spiritual significance, and the officiating minister was a Wiccan High Priestess by the name of Marinda Simone.

Of course, in the script the ceremony was interrupted by some ill-intentioned demon and the Enchantress was forced to vanquish him, but at least she didn't accomplish that by a deadpan recitation of a rhyming couplet from a book. Thanks to the new writing team, the poor, overworked Witch was forced to do research, determine the best astrological timing, find and gather appropriate herbs, stones, and candles, call on the Divine, and channel her power from the elements of Earth, Air, Fire, Water, and Spirit. Also thanks to the new writing team, the show's ratings had climbed through the roof. Every episode dropped a tiny bit of Witchlore or ancient wisdom, all wrapped up in a damn good story, and the viewers couldn't get enough.

When the credits rolled and everyone inside was celebrating, high-fiving each other, cracking a few beers, Alex took Melissa's hand and tugged her with him, through the sliding doors, and down onto their special place on the beach.

"I need you with me for this," he told her. Then he pulled something from his pocket: the gold pentacle that had belonged to his father.

"Alex?" She searched his eyes. "Honey, I thought we were going to keep that put away?"

He nodded. "We were. But I don't think keeping it in a locked box in the back of the closet is really good enough. Not even after all the cleansing you've done on it. I think... I think it's time to let it go."

"But it's the only thing you have left of your father."

He shook his head. "No. I've only just begun to realize all the other things he left me. Because of him, I found you. And Grams. And my mother. My family. I have all of that. I don't need a hunk of metal. Besides, I think it makes a great offering of thanks."

She smiled. "And just what are you giving thanks for?"

"Everything I just mentioned. Plus the success the show is enjoying. And most of all, for the little one that's going to be coming into our lives pretty soon."

She frowned. "Honey, I'm not--"

"Yes, you are. Have been, since that first night on the beach."

"How do you know?"

He smiled down at her. "My mother told me, in a dream last night. It will be a little girl, and we'll name her Jennifer." He pulled her close and kissed her. Then he turned to face the sea and hurled the pendant as hard as he could.

It splashed into the water, just as the sun went down. Melissa closed her eyes and whispered, "So mote it be."

(This is the opening paragraph the editors gave to all five authors:)

Charlotte winced as an inebriated party-goer stepped on her foot, but she kept moving determinedly toward the doors that led to the balcony. The Duncans would be delighted with their party; it was clearly
the
event of the season, and their daughter had been successfully launched into society.

Unfortunately, the noise, the heat, and the crowd combined with Charlotte's pounding headache to make her want to escape for a breath of fresh air. Reaching the balcony doors, she opened them to find two people engaged in a passionate kiss.

"I'm sorry." The words escaped her mouth before she realized it would have been better to make an exit without being noticed. The couple jumped apart.

Charlotte felt the blood drain from her face as she stared at her fiancé. "John! I thought you were dead!"

* * *

The lead crystal glass of non-alcoholic champagne, with which she'd been about to toast the New Year, fell from her numb fingers when she saw him. It dropped right over the balcony railing without a sound. "I thought you were dead," Charlotte whispered again.

He turned slightly, dragging his hungry gaze from the woman in his arms, the woman he'd been kissing, to stare at Charlotte. She heard the glass shatter on the sidewalk far below. His eyes were so familiar — the parenthetic frown lines right between the brows — that it caused her to ache down deep in her belly.

"Pardon me?" he said. "Do I know you?"

Blinking, she realized what that frown was trying to tell her. "Johnny, it's me. It's Charlotte."

"I thought you told me your name was Michael," the blonde in his arms snapped.

"It is." His arms fell away from the far more attractive woman, and he stepped closer to Charlotte, narrowing his eyes on her. "I'm sorry," he told her. "You must have me mixed up with someone else. My name is Michael Drummond."

Why was he doing this? Pretending not to know her, calling himself by some other name.

She took a step backward as he moved closer, shaking her head in disbelief as she stepped from the shadows of the balcony into the pool of light that spilled from the party going on inside.

When she did, he froze, his gaze skimming down her body. She saw him flinch, saw the way his eyes widened only slightly, before he painted his face again with that blank disinterested stare.

"Oh, this is just great!" the blonde said, because she could see her clearly for the first time now as well. She downed her champagne in one gulp and stomped between them and through the French doors back inside to the party.

Johnny stood there staring, facing her.

"I haven't seen you since May first. The day we were supposed to get married," Charlotte said. She hated her voice for shaking the way it was. "I suppose that's long enough that you might forget a woman who obviously meant so little to you. But how did you manage to forget your own name?"

He stared at her, and she could see the battle going on inside him. He parted his lips as if to say something, but then closed them again, his sharp eyes looking past her as another couple stepped out onto the balcony. "I'm sorry," he said, speaking very softly now, clearly not wanting the conversation to be overheard. "You're mistaken. I don't know you. I've never met you before in my life."

She had to close her eyes to keep the tears from spilling over. But she managed to nod her head. "Fine. If that's the way you want to do this."

She started to turn away, but his hand closed on her shoulder. "Charlotte..."

She went still at his touch. God when he touched her it all came back, the passion, the love. She'd loved him with everything in her. "I thought I would die when you did," she said, and though the words emerged as if wrenched from the very depths of her, she managed to keep her voice low. "I lay on your grave and cried until someone came and carried me away. I don't even remember who... But what do you care? You don't know me."

"I'm sorry," he told her. "I'm not who you think I am." He took his hand away.

"No. You're not even close to the man I thought you were, are you?" Stiffening her spine, lifting her chin, she walked to the French doors.

"Are you going to be all right?"

She paused with her hand on the door. "That's really not your concern anymore, is it?"

Then she stepped back into the party. Someone started the countdown to the New Year. By they time they got to seven, she had her coat in her hand and was heading out the door, into the hallway, and poking the elevator button. The doors opened instantly. No lines, no waiting. But why would there be? No one else would be coming or going at midnight on New Year's Eve. Everyone was with the person they loved, sharing that special moment, that special kiss, beginning the New Year wrapped up in each other's arms.

Just the way she had thought she would be starting this New Year. With her husband in her arms, kissing as they welcomed the future together.

She couldn't hold the emotions in check any longer. As she ran through the lobby and into the street outside, the dam burst. Tears flooded so thickly she couldn't see where she was going as she stumbled along the sidewalk. Her body shook with the force of the storm going on inside her, and her mind raced with questions. Who had really been in Johnny's car when it went off the road and burst into flames that beautiful spring day? And what the hell was this all about, anyway? Some kind of insurance scam? Was he a con artist, a criminal?

Had he realized that she'd been at the church, wearing her wedding gown when the police had come to tell her that he'd been killed on the way to the wedding? Had
that
been a part of his plan?

She sobbed so hard she hurt. The pain wrenched through her, from down low in her back, around to her middle, tightening like a steel band. She stopped her flight, grasping her belly with both hands, sucking in a harsh breath.

Oh, God. It wasn't...it couldn't be...not now....

"Excuse me, Ma'am?"

Charlotte jerked her head up at the sound of male voice and found herself staring into the eyes of a stranger, and into the barrel of a gun.

"You need to come with me," he said. He nodded toward a car that had pulled up to the curb beside her. It was long, sleek, and black, running almost soundlessly, and its rear door was standing open. "Get into the car, Ma'am."

"Look, take my wallet," she said, fumbling in her coat pocket for the billfold she'd brought with her. "There's cash, some credit cards. And here, my watch."

"Just get into the car."

Looking up at him again, she dropped the wallet back into her pocket and tried to weigh her options. She could get into the car and hope for a better chance, or she could make a run for it now and hope he was a lousy shot.

The question was, just how fast could a nine-month-pregnant woman, who might have just felt her first contraction, run?