“Ann’s paying her to raise money for the Witches Educational Council,” Finn had said.
That was one of the oddest things Rafferty had heard in a long time: Marta raising money for witches. It was no secret that she hated them and resented it when those living in Salem drew a parallel between themselves and the accused of 1692. “A similarity that didn’t exist then and should not exist now,” she’d often been quoted as saying.
Still, since Marta had moved back to the North Shore, she’d become the best fund-raiser around. Beyond that, she had some kind of connection with Ann, one Rafferty couldn’t figure out. Ann had told him once, “I get most of my herbs from her gardens.”
“And what does she get from you in return?”
“I’ll never tell.”
“I’m guessing it’s some kind of love potion,” Rafferty had said to Ann. “And we all know who she’s slipping it to.”
He’d been on his second glass of absinthe before he recognized the falling feeling, the slackening of muscles that had always been so welcome. It was like an old friend, the kind you knew wasn’t good for you. There was something comforting about the familiarity, yet something unfamiliar, too, like a stranger hiding in the shadows, someone you didn’t want to look at directly for fear of what you might see.
“My family made a fortune from this stuff,” he’d heard Finn explaining to another guest. “This is the real thing. Wormwood and all. Thujone intact. Bootlegged from Spain when it was outlawed in France.”
Rafferty could have stopped then, but he hadn’t wanted to. The blessed blankness had descended, creating the emotional void he’d been craving. More than anything, he’d wanted to be erased. Finn had poured him another glass.
But this glass had brought the opposite effect. With each sip, his senses had heightened. The first was taste. Not only could he taste the blending of herbs but he was able to separate those tastes into component parts: the slight bitterness that faded quickly to reveal the anise and fennel that lay beneath.
Next, his vision had improved, and everything seemed sharper. The colors on Ann’s velvet robe had begun to strobe. Finn’s face had sparkled in the beam from the light above him.
When Ann touched his arm, the sensation had vibrated his body as if it were a stringed instrument. He’d stepped backward, knocking into a waiter with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she’d asked.
He’d seen Marta and her group of friends approaching, and had taken another step backward, almost tripping over another guest standing behind him.
“Let’s get you some air,” Ann had said. She’d taken his glass and handed it to a waiter, then taken his arm and led him toward the door.
The summer air had only made things worse. As they stepped out of the restaurant, Rafferty had caught the rush of salt breeze from the harbor, and the scent of the sea had flooded his nostrils. It smelled of childhood, of old beach houses on Long Island Sound, and of the ships that had once sailed out of these northern waters. And, whether it was association or delusion, Rafferty could have sworn he smelled the pepper that had once come in on the old ships. The sensation was so strong he’d had to work hard to keep from sneezing.
He’d looked toward Yellow Dog Island but seen only darkness. He was filled with dread, remembering what had happened with Towner only hours before, realizing again what it would mean.
Ann had steered him toward her store, taking him in through the back door to her office, making sure the young witches working in the front wouldn’t see him. Behind her office was a room he’d heard about but had never seen, and that’s where she’d taken him that night. It looked like a Wiccan bordello, he thought, with its beaded curtains, brass bed, red velvet pillows on the floor, and nature symbols. In the corner was a table with a crystal ball, and around the perimeter hung the lace that Ann used to tell the future. She called this a meditation room, but the men called it something else. Until tonight, he’d never believed this hidden room was real.
“Drink this,” she’d said, handing him a cup of herbal tea.
He’d sat shakily on the edge of the bed. “What is it?” he’d asked.
“Consider it an antidote.”
He’d thought she meant to the absinthe, and so he’d drunk. For a guy who didn’t believe in magic, it was beginning to seem a possibility. His head had spun. He’d felt far too warm, aware of every sensation. The softness of the bed, the brush of Ann’s velvet robe as she handed him the tea.
She’d taken a seat across from him, looking at him carefully as if trying to figure something out. “What happened today?”
He’d shaken his head, waving her off. He couldn’t talk about it.
She’d watched him for a few minutes longer, and he could tell she was reading him. Seeing what it was he would not say.
“You think your life has ended,” she’d said.
“It has,” he’d said, meaning it. She’d stared through him, seeing all of it, her expression changing as she took it in.
She’d come over then, and sat next to him on the bed, taking his hand. “I see your future. This is not over.”
“The hell it isn’t.”
“You need to believe,” she’d said.
“In what? Magic?”
“If you like.”
The idea had filled him with rage. The same violent frustration that had caused him to punch his fist through a wall in the house he’d recently moved back to, bloodying the knuckles of his right hand, now surfaced again, but, instead of striking out, he’d done something that surprised him even more. He’d reached for Ann, pulling her close, his hand slipping under her robe.
She’d stood quickly. “Keep drinking.”
He’d obeyed, finishing every drop. His thirst had seemed endless. Putting down the cup, he’d reached for her again, his senses heightened. Just the touch of her skin had sent waves of heat to every pore of his. It was the last thing he would have imagined, yet, at that moment, Ann Chase had been the only thing he wanted.
“Yes,” she’d said. “Yes, of course. But you have to wait.”