Love and Magic Read online

  Concern grew in his face. He lifted a strand of her hair and peered at it. “I don’t know, but I think I know you.”

  “From where?” He really did look familiar, and Diera hated not knowing the answer to a question.

  He reached past her to click on her ceiling light. Then he stroked one of her annoying curls. “It’s red.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “You’re the woman from my dreams, the one who’s going to bury me alive.”

  “What?” She resisted the urge to lean on the electric locks. “I’m not going to bury you alive.” That would require digging, something she’d never done in her life, so she felt quite confident in her response.

  “Or you’re going to save me from being buried alive. The dream isn’t quite clear on that point.”

  “You dreamed about me?” She grabbed the front of his shirt to pull him closer to the light. Carefully, she scanned his eyes. The greenish light made it hard to tell for sure, but she was pretty sure they were brown. And way too familiar for comfort. “You’re dead. Or undead. Are you a vampire?” she asked, half jokingly.

  “I’m a witch.”

  That word—just that word—and she felt like she’d been punched in the stomach. She pushed him away, out of her car. She didn’t have a gun for these clandestine assignments, since she’d never fired one in her life, but her camera packed a mean punch if swung at the proper velocity. She wrapped her fingers tightly around the canvas strap in preparation.

  “What were you doing with my aunt?”

  “Huh?” He smoothed the front of his shirt. “Who’s your aunt?”

  “Maeve Tate. She was holding onto your arm rather tightly. Was she hurt? Are you brainwashing her?”

  “Maeve’s your aunt?” He leaned against the car now, a big grin filling his face. He had broad shoulders, which filled out his T-shirt nicely and the arms he crossed over his chest were lean, tan, and well-defined. “Then you must be … wait, on the tip of my tongue … Dee.”

  “Diera,” she corrected automatically.

  “The shiftless niece who moved to Norfolk. I’m Holt by the way.”

  “What? My aunt did not say that about me!” She unlatched the door and climbed out, still clutching her camera via the strap. She needed to face the man who said these slanderous things about her and who was obviously leading her aunt astray.

  “I hate to tell you this, but your aunt’s a witch, too.”

  She punched him—hard. She usually loathed violence, but he’d gone too far. Her aunt knew what so-called witches or wizards or whatever they’d called themselves had done to Diera, to her parents, to their family. She would never hurt her niece by claiming to be a witch, plus she had too much common sense. But why had she been here in the first place?

  Chapter Two

  Holt couldn’t believe the vision from his dream had gut-punched him, and damn, it hurt. Or maybe that was the door handle stabbing into his butt. Could this red-headed photographer be the malevolent force Rowena had sensed? His intuition said no, which seemed to be confirmed by the information he’d found out about celandine, the scent from his dream. Apparently the herb was used for spells of escape and he needed to escape in his dreams. But Maeve’s niece was anti-witch and prone to violence, so maybe she was the one they needed to watch out for.

  But, wow, she was even more beautiful in real life, because now he could see her hot body. It was encased in tight, but obviously comfortable, blue jeans and a form-fitting tank top. Slim bra straps slid beyond the boundaries of her cotton shirt and helped support breasts ripe and round enough to make a man drool. He imagined resting his cheek against those plump pillows. His grin broadened, because it was such an odd thing to think of. The more typical male response followed, as he imagined lowering those straps to reveal alabaster skin and taut, rosy nipples. What would she do if he took those nipples into his mouth, rolled them over his tongue, enjoying their saltiness? Would she moan? Would she respond by touching his chest or hair? Or would she smack him again?

  When he finally pulled his focus away from her anatomy, he registered her tone of voice. She was extremely displeased about her aunt being a Wiccan. Why hadn’t Maeve told her? He hadn’t known the older lady for too long, but she’d always struck him as very open about her Wiccan beliefs. “I take it you haven’t talked to your aunt in a while?”

  “I just spoke with her yesterday. I said I might be visiting soon.”

  Obviously she’d not said how soon, since Maeve hadn’t mentioned it. He noted the camera Diera clasped. A Nikon with a hefty telephoto lens on it. “So why exactly were you skulking in the dark? Why didn’t you speak to Maeve before she left?”

  Diera scowled. “I’m on assignment and I wasn’t sure it was her. It couldn’t have been her. She wouldn’t do this to me and she’d never be sucked in by this shit.”

  “Do what to you? What does her personal religion have to do with you?” Maybe Maeve’s niece was a fundamentalist or some other form of religious zealot—the worst kind—prejudiced against anyone who didn’t exactly conform to their views. They knew what was right, and everyone else had better damn well fall into place or be damned, literally.

  That threat only worked if a person believed in the Devil and Hell, which he didn’t.

  Diera huffed and glared. “None of your business.”

  “What assignment?”

  “I’m looking for a girl, actually her father is looking for her, and he asked for my help.”

  “This girl is Wiccan?”

  “Her name is Kim Jacobs. Do you know her?”

  He scratched his chin. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Her father said she was joining a coven.”

  “We’re not the only coven in the area. Did he have a name?”

  “Night something.”

  “And we’re Night Mist, but the word Night is not uncommon in coven names. I might be able to get you a list, but why does the father want you to find her?”

  “For one thing, she’s a minor, technically a runaway, but he doesn’t want to widen the rift in their relationship by calling in the police. He wants to talk to her, try to smooth it out so she’ll come home.” She bit her lip and looked past his shoulder into the dark. “He cares about her.”

  “Our coven requires any seekers be eighteen before we’ll consider initiating them.” Holt thought he was being reasonable as he conversed with Maeve’s niece, but there was some inner anger boiling in her. Instead of growing calmer, she gritted her teeth and clenched her hands into fists. He had to ask. “Are you a born-again Christian or something?”

  She focused her laser glare on him. “Why? Are you prejudiced against Christians? It would figure, since I’m sure you demand they not be prejudice against you, right?”

  “I’m just trying to understand your anger.”

  “Don’t try. It’s none of your damn business if I practice a religion, which I don’t, or why I’m angry, which I’m not.” Her practically shouting this last bit made him doubt her veracity.

  He chuckled, trying to diffuse the conversation a bit, for Maeve’s sake. “Since Maeve is your aunt, I’m sure she’ll help you locate other covens in the area that might be more open to young initiates, but I really think you’re jumping to the wrong conclusions about the whole thing.”

  She lifted her fist, looking as if she really wanted to slug him again, so he slid a few inches further along the side of her car. So this was the siren from his dream. Strange. Intriguing. He’d thought for sure the dream woman was a witch, that she’d been chanting a spell to help him. He couldn’t see this lady chanting if her life depended on it. What about if his life depended on it?

  His brain, normally able to make tall leaps in a single bound, was majorly sleep-deprived, so it took him a moment to register something else she’d said: she was planning on visiting Maeve. Hmm. Had Maeve told her about her new renter? Probably not. Another secret she was keeping. Seemed like the best thing would be for Maeve to sit down with
her niece and have a nice long chat about quite a lot of things.

  Holt pushed himself up from the car. “Well, I hate to cut this delightful chat short, but it’s really late and I’ve got to get to work early.”

  “Then maybe you should find a different form of worship.”

  He resisted debating her. He would not counter spite with spite. There was a wound there, a deep one, festering instead of healing. He wished he could help her cleanse it, but not tonight. If she truly was planning on staying at Maeve’s, then a confrontation would be inevitable. He sighed. He’d really like their relationship to revolve around fun stuff, like kissing and stroking and romping in the dark.

  “Good luck with finding the girl. If her father’s open enough to talk to her about her seeking, that’s far better than her traveling the Path alone.”

  * * * *

  Even though it was technically fall, no one had told Mother Nature. Yes, it was slightly cooler and slightly less humid than it had been in August, in the eighties instead of the nineties, but Diera’s electric bill would stretch her budget to the limit since she’d had to run the a/c every night in order to sleep.

  And it ran now in her car, a comforting coolness. Had her Aunt Maeve installed air conditioning finally? With her luck, not, which meant the next few nights would be very sticky unless autumn started acting appropriately. Last night after the disturbing confrontation with the male witch, Diera had gone to a moderately priced hotel in the West End. She’d known she’d be out late, so she hadn’t wanted to put her aunt out on her first night home. Apparently it wouldn’t have put her out at all. Just thinking about her aunt participating in a coven had her grinding her teeth again. Deep breaths, she reminded herself, as she steered her car through Richmond’s Fan District. Remember everything Aunt Maeve did for you. Remember all the good times.

  Her aunt probably had pumpkins on her steps, and maybe she’d baked an apple pie. And soon she’d be going all out to decorate for Halloween. Her duty, she’d said, considering where she lived.

  Aunt Maeve lived practically on top of Hollywood Cemetery. The house, built a few years after the Civil War, perched on a hill that sloped into Cherry Street. The hill continued downward, sloping beyond the chain link fence topped with barbed wire and wisteria, past the stone retaining wall, right into the grass lawn of Hollywood. At first, Diera had protested the Halloween decorations. The memories were too raw, but Maeve had stood firm on that one thing, reminding her niece of the happy times she’d had bobbing for apples on the big front porch and stuffing straw into her grandfather’s old clothes to make a scarecrow to sit on the steps.

  The old house brought back so many memories, mostly pleasant ones, from before she’d moved in with her Aunt Maeve after her parents had gone to jail. More painful and bittersweet memories after, when she’d finally been free to be a normal teenager. Well, sort of normal. She was never really normal again … not after that night.

  Shivers crawled along her spine like an army of spiders and she shook off the memories and focused on the now, as she drove through the VCU campus area, then turned onto Belvidere. Banners on light posts announced the “historic” Oregon Hill neighborhood. Some of the houses were undergoing restoration. Others were run-down and junky. Since it was a Sunday, kids rode bikes on the sidewalks and men washed cars in their driveways. Passing all of this, Diera reached Cherry Street, the end of the line. Her heart wrenched, even though she couldn’t see her parents’ graves from here. Knowing they lay not far beyond that fence was enough.

  Forget it. As if she could.

  She’d lied to Holt last night. She’d never called Maeve—too chicken. She’d kept thinking that maybe she could come to Richmond, find the girl, and leave, without coming near this house. That would make her a real cad, especially since Holt would probably tell her aunt she’d been in the city. So, here she was. Hopefully her aunt would think Diera’s long-overdue visit a pleasant surprise.

  The outside of the house needed a fresh coat of paint on the clapboards and shutters, but the porch was swept free of cobwebs and leaves. The grass was coarsely mowed and the walk consisted of flat stones and creeping thyme. Diera bet the second step leading to the porch still creaked, and it probably would years after she and Aunt Maeve were gone. Some things just didn’t change with the course of time.

  But she’d changed. Gone was the gawky, traumatized girl who’d lived here quietly with her aunt, attending church and diligently confessing to priests that she didn’t believe in—anything to assuage the guilt.

  When had she stopped blaming herself? She couldn’t pinpoint the date, but she knew it hadn’t happened until she’d moved into the dorms at William and Mary. Sometimes she thought she could even forgive her parents—they’d been sucked in, brainwashed—but then she’d remember their faces as they’d watched that man defile their little girl in the name of religion, in the name of magick. When she remembered that, not the least bit softened by time, the bile rose in her throat and she vowed to never forgive her parents or any of the other members of that “coven” who’d watched a fourteen-year-old being raped.

  A lone cloud covered the sun, so Diera slipped off her sunglasses as she looked over the area. A guardrail and brambles blocked off the part of the street that faced the entrance of the cemetery. In the other direction, the street dead-ended at a vacant lot. Diera parked at the curb in front of the house. As she got out of her car, she noticed that she was right about the pumpkins. They were present, as were late-blooming flowers and trimmed azalea bushes. She moved up the uneven walk, up the steps, and across the porch. She lifted her hand to knock on the brightly painted door—the yellow and orange flowers floating on a white background were new—but the door opened before her knuckles hit their mark. And there stood Aunt Maeve, reading her mind as always, anticipating her every move and every need. Aunt Maeve had gone to church with her every Sunday, though her lips never moved along with the readings or hymns, and if she’d been Wiccan all along, that made sense. But that just couldn’t be.

  “Diera, my darling, you’re home!” Her aunt’s generous arms pulled her into a warm embrace. “I wasn’t expecting you!” She wore a brightly colored housedress that made Diera think of Hawaiian sunsets. Her feet were bare and her skin was much darker than her niece remembered it.

  “Been out gardening a lot, Aunt?”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve harvested most of the pumpkins and squash. Soon it will be time to till the stalks back into the earth.”

  Diera smiled and slipped her arm around Maeve’s waist, so she could lead her inside. “I’ve been missing you,” she said, feeling that little girl ache in her heart.

  “I know, sweetie. That’s why you’re here.” They walked through the door, Diera remaining silent. “Or is there more to it than that?”

  “Time enough for a hash-out later. First, I want to soak in the warm vibes.” She looked around the familiar living room and immediately noted the changes. First of all, the wall color was a warm sage. “You’ve painted! Did you do it by yourself?”

  “No, no, some young friends helped me.”

  The other changes were smaller, and Diera hesitated. The two antique crucifixes that used to hang over the fireplace were gone. They’d come over from Europe with one of her great grandfathers. In their place was one large painting, a beautiful, colorful Venus figure. Her arms spread wide, all encompassing, and her belly was large, her feet grounded. The painting gave the impression of her power reaching into the earth without making her look like a rooted tree. There were multi-colored candles throughout the room as well as incense burners. Small pots sat on each of the window sills. The lush, green plants flowing from them appeared to be herbs, though Diera couldn’t identify them since she didn’t garden or cook. Take-out and microwaves were her friends.

  Maeve’s brow wrinkled and she seemed to be watching Diera pensively, so she fought hard not to blurt out what she’d seen last night.

  “You’ve really cheered up the place. It does
n’t seem so Victorian anymore.”

  “You approve?”

  “Well, Auntie, it really doesn’t matter if I approve since it’s your house.” She laughed. “But I do approve. It’s very nice.” She’d focus on homecoming now, and ask Maeve about the rest later.

  The two women chatted about the antics of the Richmond City Council and the changes on the riverfront and at VCU, but at three o’clock Maeve said she had to run out for a bit.

  “I’m on a committee and they’ve called an emergency meeting. I’m sure it’s nothing important. They’ve been having these ‘emergencies’ for the last couple of days and so far nothing has come from them. Still I must go. I shouldn’t be longer than an hour. You’ll still be here, won’t you?”

  “No worries. I can always order pizza if my stomach growls too loud.” Diera hugged her aunt once again, following her outside. Once she’d driven off in her late-model sedan, Diera heaved her suitcase from her trunk. She stood on the street and stared at the luggage as if it could talk to her. Was this the right thing to do? She’d be freer to investigate without someone noting her comings and goings, but it wouldn’t even have been a question if she hadn’t seen the Wiccan circle last night. Finally she shrugged. She’d stay for a night or two at least.

  Though it was a fairly small overnight bag, dragging it up the stairs to the third floor—her old bedroom—wore her out and reminded her that she needed to get back in the gym before flab set in. Still huffing, she leaned against the wide sill at the top of the landing and stared out the wavy glass. Why was old glass wavy? She really hadn’t a clue, but she could tell the replacement windows in this house easily, and this was one of the originals: thick, ripply, with tiny bubbles and a greenish tint. From here she could see glimpses of Hollywood through the tree limbs. In daylight it looked peaceful, sprinkled with tourists or mourners taking grave rubbings or photographs or laying flowers. Diera had not set foot through those gates since her mother’s funeral. She hadn’t wanted to then, but her grandpa had insisted on pain of disinheritance, not that she cared about any non-existent inheritance. She’d only done it to keep peace in the family and to show all the gossiping cousins that she was just fine, not visibly marked by the Devil, no “666” floating above her head.