Darkmoon (The Witches of Cleopatra Hill Book 3) (3 page)

See?
I told myself.
You can do this.

What Sydney thought of my latest distraction, I didn’t know for sure. That is, I could tell she guessed I was over-compensating, making massive plans because that way I wouldn’t have to think about Connor. Fine. I didn’t have a problem with distracting myself by whatever means necessary. It wasn’t as if he’d been calling or sending me pleading texts or anything like that. Not one word since that horrible night when I walked out of his apartment. Not a single word.

In fact, I’d let everything pass by in such a blur that it wasn’t until I was looking at the calendar I had hanging in the library and putting a big star on May 27
^th
— the day the contractors were going to start work — that I realized it had been more than six weeks since I’d come back to Jerome. Good, that had to mean I was healing, right? That so much time had gone by without my hardly noticing?

So much time….

And then a stray thought passed through my mind, followed by,
Oh, shit. Oh,
shit.

Six weeks, and no period. I should’ve gotten one at the beginning of April, and then again a week ago. I wasn’t like Sydney, who was so regular you could practically set a clock by her. Sometimes I was late by a week or two, or even three, and then things would reset. But not like this. Not two months in a row, and nothing.

My hands started to shake so badly that I dropped the pen I was holding.

Get it together,
I told myself.
It could just be stress. You were almost three weeks late when you were studying for your AP exams. And you’ve been under way worse stress than that.

That sounded sensible enough. I didn’t really believe it, though.

Only one way to find out. Drive down to Cottonwood, go to the closest drugstore — Walgreens — and get a pregnancy test. I could do that. In fact, it would be easier than ever, since a few weeks earlier I’d decided I needed to have my own transportation, and went with Syd to the local Jeep dealership, where I made the salesman go bug-eyed when I calmly wrote a check for the entire cost of a brand-new Cherokee. Actually, Syd went kind of bug-eyed, too. Yes, I’d told her that I’d come into a good sum of money when Aunt Ruby passed away, but I don’t think she really got it until I paid cash for a thirty-thousand-dollar SUV.

Anyway, I’d been coming and going on my own for several weeks now, so no one would think anything of me going down the mountain for a shopping trip. And I knew I had to do it now, before I lost my nerve.

After gathering up my keys, I went out to the garage and opened the door, then got in the Cherokee and pulled out. I didn’t bother to close the garage door, as I was going straight to the drugstore and then back home.

I’d been shopping at that store for years, but luck was with me, and the woman working the checkout counter was new and didn’t recognize me. After I’d thrown the pregnancy test in my basket, I’d contemplated getting a few more odds and ends, just to camouflage that one portentous box, but decided against it. What was the point? Even if I’d shoved it in a plain brown paper bag, the clerk would still have had to pull it out to scan the barcode.

So I put it down on the counter as casually as possible, and she rang me up without blinking. I wondered how many women she saw buying those tests every day. A lot, I hoped. Then she wouldn’t have any reason to remember the girl with the dark hair and the scared green eyes.

Once I was back home, I went upstairs to my bathroom and locked the door. Silly, because of course I was alone in the house. No one would walk in on me. Still, somehow I felt a little better after I’d made sure I wouldn’t be disturbed.

I scanned the directions, but come on — peeing on a stick isn’t rocket science. For the longest moment I hesitated, staring at the piece of white plastic in my hand, my heart pounding away. Then I bit my lip, went over to the toilet, and did what I had to do.

Afterward, the seconds seemed to tick by in slow motion. Was I breathing? I couldn’t even say for sure.

Finally I looked down at the stick where I’d set it down on the sink, on top of a square of toilet paper. Two little pink lines.

Two.

No. Oh, no.

Blessed Brigid’s charm to prevent this from happening had failed me, but in my despair, it was still Her I called on then.

Goddess, what do I do now?

What do I do?

I
don’t know
for sure how long I sat huddled on the bathroom floor, pressed up against the clawfoot tub, shudders raking their way through my body. My heart pounded and pounded, and I kept hearing Margot Emory’s words echoing through my mind.

The wives of Jeremiah’s line would never live to see their children grow up.

No, I wasn’t a wife…I wasn’t anything to Connor, apparently. But it was his child I carried, and that meant I’d meet the same fate as all those other women, no matter what my marital status might be.

At last I pulled myself to my feet, sucked in a shaky breath, then turned the spigot and splashed some water on my face. It was icy cold, but I didn’t care. Actually, it was better that way. I needed the shock of the cold water against my skin to quell the panic within me, to bring me back to earth.

Get a grip,
I told myself.
It’s a baby. It’s not like it’s the monster from
Alien
and is going to burst through your chest at any moment and kill you on the spot.

True. But eventually I’d end up just as dead as any of the parade of actors and extras killed on-screen in those movies, albeit probably in a less gruesome fashion.

The thought tickled at the back of my mind, quiet, insidious.

Get rid of it. Connor threw you out…there’s no reason for you to keep it.

There was a Planned Parenthood in Prescott. I could make an appointment, drive over….

No
. It was the same deep, quiet voice I had heard in my mind before, when I’d wondered if it might have been better for Damon to have bonded with me, just to avoid all the death and destruction he’d left in his wake after it turned out that Connor was my consort instead. And in that moment I knew I could never do such a thing. Not because I believed myself to be on any particular moral high ground — I’d always believed a woman should choose what was best for herself and her future — but because Connor and I had made this baby out of love, even if that love had later withered and died. I didn’t know why the contraceptive spell had failed, or what I should do next, but I couldn’t destroy something that had come from such beauty.

With a sigh, I wrapped the plastic stick with its ominous pink lines in more toilet paper and then dropped it in the trash can. It had told me what I needed to know, and I didn’t want to look at it anymore. I knew I should probably be calling Planned Parenthood to get a real test, for confirmation and to determine just how far along I was, but that could wait a day or two. My aunt and I saw a civilian GP down in Cottonwood when the need for something beyond over-the-counter medicine or folk cures was required, since our clan didn’t currently have a healer. I knew my doctor could probably do the same thing for me as the staff at Planned Parenthood. But she knew me; there would be questions, and I just didn’t know how to answer them.

I could hear my phone ringing from where I’d left it on the dresser in my bedroom. I almost let it roll over to voicemail, but then I realized it was probably Sydney calling, and she’d just keep calling back until I answered her. She’d made me promise to go to the Spirit Room with her, since Black Forest Society was playing, and although I’d tried to protest, had said I didn’t want to see a band Connor liked so much, she said it was important that I go.

“Kind of like shock therapy,” she told me. “You can’t hide from things forever. We saw them last summer and had a good time.”

All of that was true, I supposed. I couldn’t block out everything that might raise the specter of a memory I’d shared with Connor. Especially now, when I had something I really couldn’t hide from. Not for long, anyway.

As I went into the bedroom, I placed one hand on my stomach, which of course still felt completely flat. At least I hadn’t been throwing up or anything. From time to time I had felt a little tired, but I’d just figured that was because of everything that was going on and the general ennui that had surrounded me ever since I came back to Jerome after Connor threw me out. I’d had no reason to believe I might be pregnant. Or actually, I’d had several reasons, but my grief-fogged brain had skipped right over them.

I picked up the phone. “Hi, Sydney.”

She launched into a reply without even the semblance of a preamble. “So, Anthony got called in to work, which means I don’t think we’ll be able to make dinner, since he’s not off until seven-thirty. Can we just meet you at the Spirit Room at eight?”

In a way, that was a relief. That meant less time where I’d have to pretend to act normal around them. “Sure. I’ll get us some good seats.”

“Great.” A pause, and then she asked, “Are you okay? You sound funny.”

“I’m fine,” I replied, the automatic response, whether it was true or not. “Allergies, maybe. I just had a sneezing fit after doing some dusting.”

“Okay,” she said, but I could tell from her tone that she didn’t quite believe me. Then again, she knew I’d been skirting the edges of depression for a while. It had been getting better, but that didn’t mean I didn’t stop suddenly from time to time and let the tears flow over me whenever I let my guard down. “Well, then, we’ll see you around eight. It might be a little later, depending on how long it takes Anthony to close up.”

“No worries,” I told her, since I knew that was what she wanted to hear. “See ya.”

“’Bye!” she chirped, falsely cheery, and I hit the “end” button and tossed my phone on the bed.

Then I looked up at the clock. A quarter after three, which meant I had about five hours to compose myself and get myself in a mental state where Sydney wouldn’t notice anything was wrong.

Right.

S
ince it was a Tuesday night
, the Spirit Room wasn’t all that crowded when I got there a little before eight. I knew a lot of the crowd would start trickling in later, and in fact the band was still setting up, so I could tell they weren’t going to start at eight on the dot. Moving purely by force of habit, I went to the bar, then realized I couldn’t order my usual glass of wine. A pang of guilt went through me as I thought of all the wine I’d consumed over the past month or so. Not enough to get plowed every night, but still way more than anyone in the early stages of pregnancy should’ve been drinking. Well, I couldn’t do much about that. I’d just have to quit cold turkey now and hope that would be enough.

It also didn’t help that my cousin Marcus was tending bar that night. Sometimes he worked here at the Spirit Room, and sometimes up at the Asylum bar at the Grand Hotel at the top of the thill. Just my luck that he was on duty tonight, instead of one of the other two bartenders, both of whom were civilians.

“Hey, Angela,” he said, and started to reach under the bar. “Glass of wine?”

“Um, no,” I said quickly. “Just some” — I racked my brains; I knew I shouldn’t be drinking caffeine, and I didn’t like ginger ale — “just some mineral water, thanks.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You feeling all right?”

“Very funny.” He was about five years older than I, close enough in age that he wasn’t too over-awed by my status as
prima
, and therefore didn’t see a problem with giving me some shit when the situation warranted. “I just don’t feel like drinking tonight, okay?”

“Hey, no worries,” he replied, giving me a wink, and pulled out a glass and filled it with ice and soda water, then garnished it with a lime. After pushing it across the bar toward me, he added, “This one’s on me.”

“Very generous of you.”

A grin, and then he turned away from me to help a couple in their early thirties who’d just approached the bar. I didn’t recognize them, so I guessed they were tourists. Good; I really didn’t want to deal with someone I knew commenting on my odd choice of beverage.

I took my soda water to one of the high booths at the very back of the room. That seating was more comfortable, and besides, while I wanted to hear the music, I didn’t think I could handle being right up next to the stage, being that close to the band. No, I didn’t know them personally, but it still felt way too intimate to be there almost in their laps, so to speak. Also, I noticed a young man around my age, maybe a little older, setting up an easel next to them, and realized that he was going to paint along with the music. I vaguely recalled Connor mentioning seeing them do something similar at a show he’d gone to before we met, but I hadn’t really put two and two together. It was hard enough to be here at all without having to sit and watch someone paint…and maybe wonder what Connor would be painting if he were here instead.

Scowling, I sipped my soda water and wished I’d told Sydney that I couldn’t come, that I had stomach flu or cramps from hell or something that would’ve gotten me out of having to be here. She always did have a knack for steamrollering over my objections, although I had a feeling that if I’d mentioned projectile vomiting, she probably would have left me alone.

Can’t be helped now,
I thought. At least I didn’t see anyone from the local McAllister contingent in the bar, although that didn’t mean they wouldn’t show up later, after the band got started. Clearly, I’d revealed my inexperience by getting here right on time.

But then Sydney and Anthony came in, spotting me immediately, since I was sitting so close to the front door. “Hey,” I said lamely, and Anthony gave me an equally limp “hey” in reply. I knew he was disappointed about Connor’s and my breakup, since that sort of killed his “in” for possibly getting a vineyard of his own. Life sucks sometimes.

Sydney, however, chirped a cheerful “hi!” before sliding in the booth next to me. She gave my glass of mineral water the side-eye but didn’t say anything except, “Hey, Anthony, can you get me a rum and Diet Coke?”

He didn’t quite shudder, but I could tell what he thought of her drink choice. Not that surprising, considering he was something of a wine connoisseur. Being a wise man, though, he didn’t say anything, just nodded and headed off to the bar.

“What is up with
that
?” Sydney asked as soon as he was gone, pointing a hot-pink fingernail at my glass of mineral water.

“I just didn’t feel like drinking, that’s all,” I replied.

“Seriously? Miss ‘I’m Going to Arm-Wrestle You for the Last Half Glass of Wine in That Bottle’?”

“Very funny.”

“I’m not joking.”

I shrugged and pretended to be absorbed in watching the artist on stage start prepping his canvas, even as the band went through their sound checks. Not that they had all that much to do, as there was only a drummer and the lead singer/guitarist. I knew on their album they had a cellist play on some tracks, but I didn’t see a third person. Maybe she wasn’t available for this particular gig.

“Maybe I thought I should lay off for a while. Drinking really doesn’t solve anything.”

“No, but it at least makes you
feel
as if you’re solving something.” She subsided a bit as Anthony returned, holding her rum and Diet Coke and a glass of red wine for himself. “Thanks, sweetie.”

Did it make me a horrible person to think how hard it was to watch their casual intimacy? They’d definitely toned it down around me, but I could still see how close they’d gotten, how Sydney seemed to have clicked with Anthony in a way she never had with any of her other boyfriends. I was happy for her, truly, and yet it hurt to see her happiness and know that mine had been torn away from me through no fault of my own.

Well, all right, I’d made the decision to stop Damon Wilcox, keep him from hurting anyone else. I supposed I could’ve just walked away. But I had a feeling that would only have made matters worse. How could I have possibly known that doing the right thing would end up destroying my relationship with Connor?

“So, what up?” Sydney asked, and I blinked and glanced over at her.

“Huh?’

“Earth to Angela. What’ve you been up to? I haven’t heard from you in a few days.”

I gave a too-casual shrug. “Oh, nothing. Getting ready for the contractors. They’ll be here next Tuesday, right after Memorial Day.”

Anthony sipped his wine before asking, “So what are you going to do while they’re working on the kitchen?”

“Eat out a lot, I guess,” I said. “Although my aunt has said I can drop by for dinner whenever I want while the remodel’s going on.”

Yes, bless her, Aunt Rachel hadn’t been quite as “I told you so” as I’d feared. Not that she could completely conceal her relief at my being back in Jerome, but I thought she also worried for me, could see that I wasn’t bouncing back from this separation the way I should. How could I, though? This wasn’t just a simple girlfriend/boyfriend breakup — this was a
prima
separating from her consort, something that had never happened before, at least in McAllister history.

“Mmm,” Sydney put in. “Your Aunt Rachel is the
best
cook. I’d stretch out this remodel for as long as possible, if I were you.”

“Considering the way most of these projects tend to go, that’s probably going to happen whether or not I want it to.”

She giggled and sipped at her rum and Diet Coke, then leaned her head against Anthony’s shoulder. I forced in a deep breath and drank some of my mineral water, telling myself I couldn’t forbid the entire world a PDA just because I’d been deprived of it myself. That sounded very sensible, even though I could feel the ache beginning in my chest, the hot sting of tears in my eyes.

This was really getting old.

Luckily, though, the band started up then, playing a song I recognized from Connor’s CD. It sounded a little different now, minus the long, mournful notes of the cello moving behind the quick finger-picking on the steel-string guitar and the driving beat of the drums. Still, it was enough to recall how I had awoken that morning in Connor’s apartment, hearing this music drift up below and wondering how I would be able to free myself from him.

Now I could only think about how much I wanted to be back there, to hear the mellow baritone of his voice and the flash of those green eyes in their frame of thick, sooty lashes. To lie in his arms as the sunlight poked through the blinds and lay in faint glowing lines across the brick-colored comforter that covered us.