Teresa Medeiros (41 page)

He had effectively disarmed every legal argument Cop had prepared.

Tugging his ponytail in frustration, Cop paced away from him and back again. “You have an answer for everything, don’t you? Except for the one question that’s been haunting me ever since she disappeared. Why won’t you use Warlock to go after her and bring her back? I know you despise the damn thing and fear its power to corrupt, but isn’t a woman like Arian worth risking your soul for?”

Copperfield had finally succeeded in provoking a reaction, if not precisely the one he had expected. Tristan grabbed him by the lapels of his coat, his eyes burning with passion in his gaunt face. “I’d sell my soul to the devil himself for a chance to hold her in my arms one more time before I die! How dare you imply that I wouldn’t?”

“Then why?” Cop whispered, helpless to understand.

Tristan let go of him to reach into his pocket and pull out a worn sheet of paper. He handed it to Cop. “This
was waiting for me on the day you picked me up at the jail after you finally convinced the judge to set bail. The day they returned Warlock to my possession.”

It was a fax dated 11/26/96—the day after Arian had vanished. The fax had been sent from the city courthouse in Gloucester, Massachusetts, at 0800 hours and looked like a Xeroxed copy of some obscure historical document.

He cast Tristan a bewildered glance. “I thought your research team was turning up nothing but a lot of dead ends.”

“They were,” Tristan said softly. “Until Arian went back.”

Suddenly, Cop didn’t want to read the fax. Didn’t want the stark words to imprint themselves on his brain. But trapped beneath the spotlight of Tristan’s uncompromising gaze, he had no choice.

Swallowing the knot in his throat, he gently read, “ ‘On the thirty-first day of October in the Year of Our Lord sixteen eighty-nine, an accused witch by the name of Arian Whitewood was hanged by the neck”—his voice faltered—“until dead.” Cop crumpled the paper in his fist. Tears seared his eyes.

“They hanged her, Cop. They hanged my beautiful, funny little witch.” Tristan gestured to the empty sky, his voice bleak. “If she was out there somewhere, lost in time, don’t you think I’d know? Don’t you think I’d feel the whisper of her breath? Smell the scent of her hair on the wind? She’s dead,” he bit off savagely. “She’s been rotting in her grave for over three hundred years. All because I was too damn stubborn to trust her. She had to prove herself worthy of my faith by throwing herself in front of a bullet.”

The fax fluttered from Cop’s fingers, but Tristan didn’t try to stop it. They watched it drift over the edge of the rooftop like a wisp of cloud.

Copperfield held his silence for as long as he could
before blurting out, “Oh, why the hell don’t you just jump?”

Tristan recoiled as if he’d been struck. “What?”

Cop swept out his hand toward the edge of the rooftop. “Why don’t you just jump and save the taxpayers the expense of executing you?”

Tristan blinked, looking mildly dazed. “I always knew lawyers were a cynical lot, but doesn’t advising your client to commit suicide cut down on the chances of your collecting your exorbitant fee?”

“I’d rather forgo my fee than watch you mope around the Tower like some brooding Heathcliff from a high school production of
Wuthering Heights
. If you’re too busy feeling sorry for yourself to get off your pathetic ass and go rescue your wife—”

“Didn’t you hear a word I said?” Tristan shouted. “Arian’s dead!”

Cop thrust out his lower lip. “I can’t believe you’d let a little thing like that come between you.”

Tristan was staring at him, visibly torn between anguish and hope. He took one step toward him, then another, backing him toward the edge of the roof. “If you’re cruel enough to offer me hope without foundation,” he said hoarsely, “as God is my witness, I’ll throw
you
off the roof.”

“You won’t have to,” Cop promised his friend, his lips curving in a lazy grin. “If I’m wrong about this one, I’ll jump.”

“Devil’s slut!”

The raucous shout assailed Arian the minute she emerged from the front door of Linnet’s house. She drew the hood of her cloak forward to veil her face.

“Satan’s whore! Going to meet your lover, aren’t you? So he can plant another demon whelp in your belly!”

Clutching the bundle beneath her arm, she ducked her head and started across the dirt road, praying she
could reach the edge of the woods without being accosted. A ball of mud spattered across the back of her cloak.

She whirled around. Two boys crouched at the other side of the road, scooping up handfuls of mud and patting them into missiles. In the past three weeks, she had seen them and many others like them lurking around Linnet’s cottage, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. If the sky hadn’t been threatening rain again, there would have been more.

The tallest boy cocked his head, his broadcloth coat marking him as a rich man’s son. “G’day, witch. My cousin says you should give up your phantom lovers and give a real man a taste. He would be more than happy to meet you in the woods some afternoon and show you—”

He yelped as the fistful of mud Arian hurled hit him squarely in the nose. Both of the boys burst into tears and fled, sobbing that the evil witch had cast a spell upon them.

Arian sighed and shook her head. She could hardly blame children for parroting the malice fostered by their elders.

She slipped into the forest, thankful to escape the oppressive atmosphere of Linnet’s house for a few hours. The underbrush clawed at the hem of her cloak, its fingers stripped to bone by the looming promise of winter.

Arian sank down on a fallen log and laid her supper of a warm beef pie beside her. Linnet had given her free rein to wander, knowing full well that more than three steps in any direction would summon a mob intent on doing her more harm than his mocking smirk could ever do. His confidence that she would not run away galled her. They both knew she had nowhere to run.

Arian reached for her supper. The log was empty. She peered beneath it, but found nothing but beetles burrowing into the black soil. She straightened, frowning.
There were no wood sprites or gremlins in Gloucester that she knew of.

A contented slurp from behind a nearby bush proved her wrong. As Arian crept toward the bush, it quivered with trepidation. But before its occupant could flee, she reached beneath the prickly branches and seized a black-stockinged foot. She dragged out a wrinkled gnome of a woman, recognizing her as the Scotswoman who had saved her life by stealing the amulet from Linnet and dropping it into the pond.

Arian plucked a shriveled leaf from the woman’s hair, relishing the novel sensation of towering over someone. “You’re a dreadful thief, Becca. ’Tis no wonder they were going to hang you.”

The old woman swiped at the beef juice running down her chin. “I’m as bonny a thief as ye are a witch, lass.”

Arian smiled wryly. “ ’Tis God’s truth you speak. I’ll probably be executed long before you will.”

Becca licked her gnarled fingers, her sly gaze snaking downward to Arian’s belly. “Not if there be a devil’s seed within as the village folk are sayin’ ”

“Oh, Becca,” Arian chided. “I expected better of you.”

The woman’s weathered face split in a grin. “The only devils plantin’ them kind o’ seeds are bonny, silver-tongued devils. Who dishonored ye, lass? Was it one o’ them strappin’ Churchill lads? Or that wild Burroughs boy?” Arian’s face clouded and Becca’s tone softened. “Don’t be thinkin’ o’ the fellow too harshly. To tumble a comely young maiden, many a fine man has made promises he couldna keep.”

“My man made no promises,” Arian whispered bitterly.
Unless you count his wedding vows
.

“But he loved ye well, didn’t he? No need to blush, child. His only shame lies in not comin’ forward to claim ye before the mob does.” Becca reached out and patted
Arian’s stomach. “I was a midwife in the Old Country. I’m sorry, lass, but there’s no babe growin’ in yer belly.”

Becca’s words only confirmed what Arian had suspected, but she still felt a sharp stab of loss for that shy, golden-haired child she might never have. She sank down on the log, propping her chin on her palms. “He may not come for me at all, I fear.” Saying the words aloud made her feel worse than she had ever imagined. “We had a misunderstanding. He had reason to doubt my loyalty.”

“He thinks ye let another toss up yer skirts?”

“Oh, no! A different kind of loyalty.”

Becca shook her head. “There’s no other kind o’ loyalty ’tween a woman and a man. At least none worth dyin’ for. And die ye will, if he don’t come.” Her voice deepened to a hoarse croak. “That devil-eyed preacher ain’t plannin’ no trial, lass. Just a lynchin’ on the night o’ no moon when darkness hides even the foulest deeds.”

Arian stared up at the tiny woman as the woods grew darker, as if a shadow had fallen over them. “But the magistrates from Boston … Mr. Corwin … Mr. Hathorne …”

Becca caught Arian’s chin in her bony hand, her grip surprisingly firm. “No fine magistrates from Boston, lass. Just the mob and the rope and ye. Summon this lover, demon or no, before ’tis too late.”

Arian followed the old woman’s gaze skyward. Between the brittle branches, the moon was materializing as little more than a sliver of ivory in the afternoon sky.

The bruised veil of the sky rippled and tossed. A chipmunk prowling the damp leaves stood on his hind legs, his nose quivering with curiosity in the eerie silence. With a rending tear, the fabric of the sky split, sending the tiny creature scurrying for safety.

Wrapped in a gush of winter wind and New York smog, Tristan spilled through the gaping hole, his limbs flailing wildly as he crashed through a latticework of bare branches. He slammed into the ground, cursing the fallen leaves for not being as soft as they looked.

Just when he was about to catch his breath, Copperfield appeared, plunging out of the sky with alarming speed. Tristan flexed his body to roll, but before he could, Cop landed on his chest. When Cop finally recovered enough to roll off him, Tristan grunted out an oath.

“Cheer up,” Cop said. “If I’d have landed a foot lower, you wouldn’t have needed Arian—or any other woman.”

Tristan sat up, tossing a handful of leaves at his friend’s head. A faint wind whispered through the trees.
The hole in the sky had closed, sucking in the last traces of industrial pollutants and exhaust fumes. In its place hung a chill canopy of darkness, devoid of all but a few stubborn specks of light. The moon was nowhere in sight.

Tristan wondered if Arian had felt this bereft when she first arrived in New York City. He wasn’t sure what he missed the most—the noise pollution or the air pollution.

He checked his pocket to make sure Warlock had survived the jolt while Copperfield pawed through the leaves. “Damn. I can’t find my tomahawk.”

Tristan joined the search. “It’s made out of rubber. What good could it possibly do us anyway?”

Cop sniffed. “That’s easy for you to say. You didn’t have to comb through every theatrical store in New York trying to find costumes for a Pilgrim and an Indian. If we don’t have these things back by Monday, the owner’s going to charge us double.” He grunted with satisfaction as he found the missing prop.

Tristan clambered to his feet. “I think you should demand your money back. You look just like Tonto.”

Cop adjusted his leather headband, grinning rakishly. “I am Tonto. And you,
kemosabe
, are Miles Standish.”

Tristan tugged at his starched collar, thinking it was no wonder the Puritans were so repressed if they always had to wear this many layers of clothing. The only possible advantage would be in allowing Arian to gently strip away each layer with her graceful fingers until …

The wistful image provoked a fear so terrible he could only whisper it. “What if it’s November the first, Cop? What if we’re too late?”

Copperfield clapped a bracing hand on his shoulder. “I see a light up ahead. It might be a house. Shall we go take a look?”

Thankful for his friend’s matter-of-fact demeanor, Tristan nodded. He, too, could just make out the faint
glimmer barely visible through the trees. Copperfield ducked beneath the maze of branches and Tristan followed, swiping stray twigs out of his hair. At the edge of the woods, they paused, mesmerized by the sight of a charming little clapboard cottage. A cozy arc of light shone from its front window, holding the dark at bay. Two doll-like figures were framed by the glass expanse.

Exchanging a wary glance, they darted across the damp grass in one accord and sank to a crouch beneath the lumbering branches of an oak.

The scene inside the parlor could have been a primitive painting, so still were its players, so cozy its props. Steam rose in merry puffs from an iron kettle hanging over the hearth. The pewter candlesticks on the mantel gleamed as if they’d just enjoyed a vigorous buffing. A man sitting in a straight-backed cane chair dipped into a wooden bowl and brought a handful of fluffy popcorn to his mouth, his gaze never straying from the black book resting in his lap.

“Such a portrait of domestic bliss,” Tristan murmured, his hand curling into a fist against the oak’s trunk.