In one corner of the Salem Falls High School cafeteria, a makeshift altar had been erected. It overflowed with carnation bouquets and teddy bears and handmade cards that wished Hailey McCourt a speedy recuperation following surgery to remove a brain tumor. "I heard," Whitney said, "that it was the size of a grapefruit."
Gillian took a sip of her iced tea. "That's ridiculous. It would have been pushing out the side of her head."
Meg shuddered. "Hailey was horrible and all, but I don't wish that on anyone."
Amused, Gilly said, "You don't wish that on anyone?"
"Of course not!"
"Meg, you're the very reason it happened! Don't you find it just the slightest bit coincidental that we cast a spell on her, and the next day she started falling down?"
"Jesus, Gill, do you have to tell the whole school?" Meg glanced nervously at the altar, where two students were leaving an oversize spiral lollipop tied with ribbon. "Besides, we didn't do ... that. A person can't grow a tumor overnight."
Gilly leaned forward. "That's because it came from us."
Now, Meg was white as a sheet. "But we're not supposed to do any harm. Gill, if we gave her a brain tumor, what's going to happen to us?"
"Maybe we ought to heal her," Chelsea suggested. "Isn't that what being a witch is all about?"
Gillian dipped her spoon into her yogurt and licked it delicately. "Being a witch," she said, "is whatever we need it to be."
Amos Duncan banged a hammer on the pulpit at the front of the Congregational Church. The buzzing in the filled pews stopped instantly, and attention turned to the silver-haired man. "Ladies and gentlemen, thanks for coming on such short notice."
He surveyed the crowd. Most were people he'd known all his life, people born and raised in Salem Falls like himself. Many worked at his plant. All had been summoned to the town meeting with a hastily photocopied flyer, stuffed into mailboxes by enterprising young boys who had been willing to earn a few dollars.
In the rear, Charlie Saxton leaned against a wall. To keep the peace, he had said.
"It has come to my attention," Amos began, "that there is a stranger among us. A stranger who slipped into our midst under false pretenses and who even now is waiting for the best moment to strike."
"I don't want no rapist living here!" called a voice from the rear of the church, quickly seconded by a buzz of support.
Amos held up his hands for silence. "Friends, I don't want one living here, either. You all know I have a little girl. Hell, half of you do, too. So which of us is going to have to suffer before action is taken to drive this man out?"
Tom O'Neill stood up. "We have to listen to Amos. It's not like we don't have proof ... this is a man who served jail time for the assault of a minor."
Charlie sauntered down the aisle. "So what are you guys gonna do?" he said, all innocence. "Shoot him in front of the O.K. Corral? Challenge him to pistols at dawn? Or maybe you're planning to just burn down his place when he's conveniently in it?" He reached the podium and gave Amos a stern look. "It's my job to remind you that no one's above the law. Not St. Bride, and not any of you."
"We've got righteousness on our side," someone yelled.
"We're talking about innocent children!"
A woman in a business suit popped out of her seat. "My husband and I chose Salem Falls as a place to raise our family. We moved here from Boston precisely because there's no crime. No threats. Because we could leave our door unlocked." She looked around the room. "What kind of message does it send if we're not willing to preserve that ideal?"
"Beg pardon." All eyes swiveled to the left side of the church, where Jordan McAfee lazed in a pew. "I recently moved here, too, to get away from it all. Got a son about the same age as most of those daughters you're worried about." Finally, he got to his feet and walked to the front of the church. "I support Mr. Duncan's initiative. Why, I can't even count the number of crimes that might have been avoided if the trouble had been nipped in the bud before it even got started."
Amos smiled tightly. He didn't know McAfee from Adam. Still, if the fellow wanted to cast his support Amos's way, he wasn't fool enough to turn it down.
Jordan stepped up to the podium, so that he was standing beside Amos. "What do I think we ought to do? Well, lynch him. Metaphorically ... literally ... it doesn't matter which. Do whatever it takes, right?"
There were murmurs of assent, rolling like a wave before him.
"One thing, though. If we're going to be honest, now, and we start taking care of business this way, we'd better get used to a few changes. For example, all you people out there with children, how many is that?" Hands crept up like blades of grass. "Well, I'd recommend you go home and start spanking, or doing a time-out, or whatever it is you do for punishment. Not because those kids have done anything wrong, mind you ... but because they just might in the future." Jordan smiled broadly. "For that matter, Charlie, why don't you come up here and start cuffing, oh, every fifth person. Figure sooner or later they're going to get into trouble. And maybe you could just do a computer check of license plates in the town and issue tickets at random, since someone's going to be speeding eventually."
"Mr. McAfee," Amos said angrily, "I believe you've made your point."
Jordan turned on him so quickly the bigger man fell back a step. "I haven't even begun, buddy," he said softly. "You can't judge a man by actions he hasn't committed. That's the foundation of the legal system in this country. And no pissant New Hampshire village has the right to decide otherwise."
Amos's eyes glittered. "I will not stand by and let my town suffer."
"This isn't your town." Yet he knew, as did everyone else, that that wasn't true. He walked past Duncan and Charlie Saxton and 300-odd angry locals. At the back of the church, he paused. "People change," Jordan said softly. "But only if you give them room to do it."
Gillian sat cross-legged on her bed in her robe, her hair still damp from a shower, as she fixed her makeshift altar and considered what she had learned that day.
By this afternoon, the rumor had spread through the school: The dishwasher at the Do-Or-Diner had raped some girl back where he used to live. It was what her father had been talking about with her friends' dads; it was why she'd been told she couldn't leave the house after sundown. Gilly thought of Jack St. Bride, of his gold hair falling over his eyes, and a shiver shot down her spine. As if she would ever be afraid of him.
It made Gilly laugh to watch the townspeople scurry like field mice before a storm, hoarding bits of safety to last them through this latest crisis. They all thought Jack St. Bride had brought evil, single-handedly, to Salem Falls, but it had been here all along. Maybe Jack was the match, setting fire to the straw, but it was unfair to lay the blame at his feet.
More than ever, he needed a ... friend.
Gillian loosened her robe, and lit the wick of the candle before her. "Craft the spell in my name; weave it of this shining flame. None shall come to hurt or maim; hear these words and do the same."
She was warm now, so warm, and the fire was inside her. Gilly closed her eyes, smoothing her palms up from her own waist, cupping her breasts in her hands and imagining that it was Jack St. Bride touching her, heating her.
"Gilly?" A quick knock, and then the door opened.
As Gillian's father walked into her bedroom, she pulled the edges of her robe together, holding it closed at the throat. He sat on the edge of the bed, inches behind her. Gilly forced herself to remain perfectly still, even as his hand touched the crown of her damp hair, like a benediction. "You and those candles. You're going to burn this place down one day." His hand slipped down to her shoulder. "You've heard by now, haven't you?"
"Yes."
His voice was thick with emotion. "It would kill me if anything happened to you."
"I know, Daddy."
"I'm going to keep you safe."
Gilly reached up, twining her fingers with his. They stayed that way for a moment, both of them mesmerized by the dancing fl
ame of the candle. Then Amos got to his feet. "Good night, then."
Her breath came out in a rush. " 'Night."
The door closed behind him with a soft click. Gilly imagined the fire again, consuming her. Then she lifted one foot, inspecting the sole. The cuts she had made last week were still there, a thin spiral on the arch, like the soundhole on a violin. There was one on her other foot, too. She reached into the pocket of her robe for a penknife, then traced the seam of the skin to reopen the wound. Blood welled up, and Gilly gasped at the pain and the beauty of it.
She was clipping her own wings--making it impossible to walk away from this house, because she'd be suffering with every step. She was marking herself. But as she did, she thought of how normal it would feel to have a scar on the outside that anyone could see just by looking.
An image flashed on the screen of the Salem Falls High School auditorium: a wholesome, all-American teenage girl holding hands with an equally picture-perfect blond boy. APPROPRIATE--the word, in red letters, was stamped over their legs. The slide projector clicked, and there was the same girl. This time, though, a dark and greasy older man had his hand resting on her ass. INAPPROPRIATE.
Thomas looked up from his algebra homework. He hadn't been listening to Mr. Wood, the guidance counselor, and from the looks of the 400 other students, he wasn't the only one. Kids in the front were tossing spitballs, trying to see who could land one on Wood's Stegmann clogs. In front of Thomas, a cheerleader was French-braiding her hair. A corps of Goths with their pale faces and dyed black hair sat making out with their girlfriends in the back of the room, as Mr. Wood held this forum on being touched decently.
He wouldn't have been doing his math homework, either, but fate had landed him in a seat next to Chelsea. Add this to Mr. Wood's lecture ("Breasts? Can we use that word here, please, without the snickering?") and Thomas had a boner the size of Alaska. Every time he imagined Chelsea looking over and seeing the pole growing in his pants, he turned red and got a little harder. So finally, he slapped open a book to hide the evidence--and to distract himself from the fact that if he leaned six inches to the left, he would be able to discover whether she was as soft as she looked.
"I never could do that when I was a freshman," Chelsea said, pointing at the battered text in his lap.
All he could think was: If the book wasn't there, she'd have her hand on me.
"All that x and y stuff," Chelsea whispered. "I used to get them backward."
"It's not that hard. You just do whatever you have to do to get x alone on one side of the equals sign."
"It makes no sense. What's a negative y, anyway?"
Thomas laughed. "A why not."
Chelsea smiled at him. On the screen, the same sleazy guy was slapping a girl across the face. INAPPROPRIATE. "Does he think we're morons?" she whispered.
"Uh ... yes."
"I heard he used to live on a commune in Vermont. And that he screwed sheep."
Thomas glanced at the guidance counselor's Mexican poncho and his straggly gray ponytail. "Well, at least he's qualified to teach us about being assaulted from behind."
Chelsea giggled. The next slide clicked into place: the girl and the blond boy with his arm slung over her shoulder. But to Thomas, it looked like the boy's fingers were getting awfully close to copping a feel. "A trick question," he murmured.
"Look at her face," Chelsea said. "She wants it."
"Appropriate," Mr. Wood announced.
Thomas shook his head. "Bad call."
"Obviously, you need some extra help here. A little tutorial."
"With Wood? Thanks--I don't think so."
"With me," Chelsea said, and just like that, Thomas couldn't breathe. She snaked her arm over the algebra book until her hand was touching his ribs. Was she thinking how skinny he was? How easy it was to string along a loser?
She pinched him, hard. "Ow!"
Several heads turned. But by then, Chelsea's hands were folded in her lap and she was staring demurely at the screen.
"Inappropriate," she mouthed silently.
Thomas rubbed his hand over his side. Shit, she'd probably given him a bruise. Suddenly her fingers slipped over his, weaving, until their two hands were clasped. Thomas stared, speechless at the sight of his own skin flush against an angel's.
Reluctantly, he met her gaze, certain she would be laughing at him. But she was dead serious, her cheeks bright as poppies. "Appropriate."
He swallowed. "Really?"
Chelsea nodded and did not pull away.
Thomas was certain the room was going to come crashing in on him, or that his alarm clock would ring out at any moment. But he could feel the pressure of Chelsea's palm against his own, and it was as real as the blood speeding through his heart. "I think I get it now," he said softly.
Chelsea smiled, a dimple appearing in one cheek, an invitation. "It's about time."
"Do I know astral projection?" Starshine said, the silver bells of her earrings swinging. "Yes. Will I teach you? Not a chance."
"I can do it," Gilly insisted. "I know I can."
"I never said you couldn't." The older woman sat down on one of the rocking chairs in the Wiccan Read, stroking the cat that leaped into her lap. "But if you're looking for a psychic vision, you can get the same effect from trance induction. On the other hand, if you're just looking to get high, try your local dealer."
Gillian couldn't tell Starshine that what she wanted most was to fly--to leave her body behind and to live in her mind. She was destined for more than this insignificant town, she just knew it, and she couldn't even look forward to college providing a portal out, because her father would never let her move that far away. In Gilly's mind, that meant taking matters into her own hands. But none of the books at the Wiccan Read held the old recipe for witches' flying ointment, the herbal oil that had produced such startling psychedelic effects in the Middle Ages that witches who applied it to their foreheads believed they could soar. The newer recipes were safer, more politically correct: a mishmash of chimney soot and mugwort and benzoin. In other words, a poor substitute.
Starshine looked at the girl's stubborn face and sighed. "No one makes astral projection ointment anymore. The recipe called for the fat of an unbaptized infant, for goodness' sake. You can't get that at the super-market deli counter."
Gilly thrust out her chin. "That wasn't the active ingredient."
"Ah, I forget who I'm talking to ... the pharmaceuticals heiress. No, it wasn't. I believe the effect was brought on by tripping on hashish and belladonna--neither of which I sell, because the first will land you in jail and the second can land you in a coma. It just isn't safe, honey."
At the girl's crestfallen expression, Starshine squeezed her hand. "Why not concentrate on Beltane, instead? It's right around the corner, and it's such a wonderful sabbat to celebrate. Sensuality and sex, and the earth coming to life again." She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. "There is nothing like leaping naked over a bonfire."
"I'll bet."
"Well, except maybe for a handfasting ceremony. I did that one Beltane, you know, when I wasn't much older than you."
"Handfasting?"
"A trial marriage. For a year and a day. A test period, if you will, before the final commitment."
"What happened after that?"
"After a year I chose to go my separate way. But that Beltane ... oh, we danced barefoot with my coven and wove the maypole, and then the two of us celebrated the Great Rite like the God and Goddess right there in the meadow."
Gilly's eyes widened. "You had sex right in front of everyone else?"
"Guess so, because I still remember it. On Beltane, the first thing to go are your inhibitions." She began to move around the tiny shop, plucking herbs and dried flowers off the cluttered shelves. "Here. Use primrose and St.-John's-wort, cowslip and rosemary, some bloodstone on your altar. Courage, Gillian. Beltane's all about filling your soul with the courage to do the things you might not otherwise be able to do."
/> Gillian took the collection from Starshine's hands. Courage. If she couldn't fly, maybe this would be the next best thing.
"Figures," Delilah said, shaking her head. "First time I let you behind the stove and you make a mess of it."
Jack grimaced and tried to scrape the worst of the spaghetti sauce off his clothing. Okay, so it hadn't been brilliant to leave the vat sitting on the edge of the cold table while he cleared a spot on the stove for it to heat. Now that it had fallen and splattered everywhere, he was going to have to make another pot from scratch, because Delilah had a thing about using canned sauce for her pasta dishes. "We don't have any more tomatoes," she said, handing Jack another clean dishrag.
"Good thing you've got me to go get some, then," he said without missing a beat.
Addie walked into the kitchen to hand Delilah an order. "What happened to you?" she asked, glancing at Jack.
"He got on the wrong side of a pot of sauce. I'm sending him out for fresh produce," Delilah said.
"Better change first. People are going to think you've been gut-shot."
Jack didn't answer, just huffed his way up the set of stairs that led from the kitchen to Roy's apartment. In his bedroom, he bent down to retrieve a clean shirt from his bottom drawer. Suddenly, above him, the window exploded.
Jack flattened himself on the carpet, aware of all the places his hands were being cut as they pressed against shards of glass. Heart pounding, he cautiously got to his feet and looked out the broken pane.
He smelled the smoke first. The brick had landed on the carpet, and the flaming newspaper it was wrapped in had already started to burn. "Fire," Jack whispered hoarsely. Then he lifted his head, and bellowed. "Fire!"
Addie was the first one into the room, holding the extinguisher they kept next to the stove. She sprayed the foam all over the flames, all over Jack's feet. By the time Jack gathered his wits, Roy and Delilah had crowded into the doorway of the room, too. "What the hell did you do?" Roy demanded.
Addie reached into the foam and pulled out the thick brick, still wrapped with a rope and some residual paper. "Jack didn't do anything. Someone did it to him."
"Better call Charlie Saxton," Delilah said.
"No." This, flat, from Jack. "What if I hadn't been here? What if we were all working downstairs, and this happened, and the whole place burned down?"