“Barely. He’s on a respirator. The doctors say he’s brain dead.” Emily began to weep openly.
“I’m so so sorry,” Ingrid said, taking Emily’s hand across the table and squeezing it in sympathy. Lionel was a good friend to their family; he was the one to whom the Beauchamps turned to replace hard-to-reach lightbulbs or perform small carpentry and handyman tasks around the house.
“I just can’t believe it. I mean, he was fine that morning and now . . . he’s brain-dead?” Emily began to cry. “And on top of that, his mother hates me. She’s kicking me out.”
“Pardon?”
“See, technically, it’s Lionel’s house. We never got married,” Emily said. “We didn’t plan on having kids so we didn’t see the point. God, I wish I hadn’t been so stubborn back then! Me and my idealistic bohemian ideals! Now they want the house back. They’re giving me until the end of the month to pack my things. They’re moving in so they can be closer to Lionel, and good riddance to me. They never liked me anyway, thought I was never good enough for their family.
“We’ve lived in that house since we first met. It’s my house. My studio is there. I don’t know where I’ll go. If only he would wake up. The doctors said there’s no hope. That he’s a vegetable.”
“What do you want from me?” Ingrid asked.
Emily looked up from her wet handkerchief and balled up tissues. “I know he’s in there. He can’t leave me. He’s got to wake up. He’s got to. Could you wake him up, Ingrid? Please?”
“I wish I could, I really do,” Ingrid said, shaking her head. “But my magic—I mean, what I can do, it doesn’t work that way.”
The grieving woman nodded. “I understand. I just thought I’d ask.” She began to gather her things, and seeing her friend looking lost and defeated stirred something in Ingrid’s heart. It was the same impulse that led her to help Tabitha get pregnant and throw off the bounds of their restriction.
“Hold on. I can’t help him,” Ingrid said, getting up from her chair. “But I know someone who can.”
chapter seventeen
Midsummer
Night’s Dream
For an agonizing week Freya kept the key to Killian’s boat in her pocket, and on Sunday night found herself standing in the shadows away from the dock. The dreams of Killian were getting more vivid each day; she could not walk a step or breathe a mile without thinking of him. His kisses had branded her, and at night she could feel his desire press upon hers.
The boat was a midsize sport fish, popular in the community for its twenty-foot outriggers. Her father had once owned a boat like it. She knew Killian was inside; she could sense his presence nearby, could feel him waiting in the quiet. If she closed her eyes and concentrated she could even see what he was thinking—the swoon of his body against hers, what they would do once she let herself inside. That was all she had to do. Step off the harbor and climb aboard. Put the key in the lock. Open the door. And fall off a cliff. Freya removed the key from her pocket. It felt as if it were vibrating, but it was only because she was trembling so much.
There was movement on the deck and Killian appeared from the cabin below, gazing out into the dark night. “Freya . . . ?” she heard him whisper. “Are you out there? Come on in.”
That was enough to steel her willpower. With a heroic toss, she threw the rotten key into the ocean and ran back to her car. She could feel it begin to form in her, a darkness, a recklessness that she would not be able to stop, would not be able to contain. She had to get away from him.
Later that same evening, Freya had a dream. It began when she realized she was not alone in bed, and a body lay heavy on hers. It was a familiar weight, and she struggled against it. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t open her eyes, and finally she stopped fighting as a quiet peace washed over her. When she blinked her eyes open she was walking in the woods, holding hands with Killian.
He smiled at her. “Don’t be afraid.”
“I’m not,” she told him. She knew where she was. They were walking to the middle of the forest behind her house, to a secret spring that only she knew, right into the heart of the wilderness, the only virgin maidenswood that remained in their keep, by the banks of a clear blue pond, a natural swimming hole.
“How did you know about this place?” she asked Killian, whose blue-green eyes were alight with mischief.
“You were the one who brought me here,” he said.
Freya wondered about that. She did not know if she was dreaming or if this was real. It certainly felt real, but there was a strange quality to it. How did she get here? She could not remember.
She walked to the banks of the pond and, with one fluid gesture, pulled off her dress to show she was naked underneath. She let him look at her, his eyes grazing over breasts, over the curve of her waist, her taut stomach, and toned legs. It was as deep as a physical caress.
“Follow me!” she yelled, diving into the water.
And soon he was kicking off his shoes, unbuttoning his shirt, and throwing his belt to the ground along with his pants. “Nothing you haven’t seen before,” he said with a wicked grin, following her lead and diving into the lake, his body a straight arrow falling gracefully into the water. He splashed up in a wave of water, sending a huge spray that drenched her to the bone.
The air was warm as a blanket on her skin as she dove back into the water. She swam as deep as she could until she couldn’t hold her breath any longer. She kicked to the surface and Killian splashed her. They swam and played, ducking away from each other, teasing and laughing, taking turns dunking each other underneath the water.
Freya felt the water move with her, her happiness filling the air like the cry of the Valkyries. She remembered their old traditions: dancing naked by the bonfire, covered with tar and paint; the masks, the chanting, the ecstatic communion with nature and everything that had made the earth. Once upon a time humanity had shared in that ecclesiastic connection, but no more. But here, with Killian, she was herself again, dancing and laughing and celebrating the beauty of being young and alive forever.
The water swelled and rose, erupting in a playful fountain that shone with dazzling light, her magic expanding as her joy grew, Killian laughing and smiling in wonderment. The very earth seemed to bless them, the grass wet and dewy, the sound of the wind whistling a complementary melody through the trees. She dove into the water and swam to the deepest part of the pond, and when she came up again Killian put his arms around her waist and pulled her toward him. She kissed him back and felt the deep passion of his kisses. Her heart beat faster and faster, as his hands traced circles around her body, over her breasts, between her legs. He brought her up on the riverbank and lay on top of her.
She closed her eyes and began to consecrate the circle, calling up the earth and water elementals to bear witness to their union. She began to chant and sing under her breath. The woods were alive with magic; every living thing, from the blade of grass to the graceful canopy of oak trees above, thrummed with a celebration of their love.
“I give . . .” I give myself to you, she would have said, except she was not able to finish the sentence, as the skies broke with a crash of thunder and lightning, and Killian was pulled away from her body; the hot electricity between them instantly cooled. The magic ended. The elementals vanished. Killian was gone.
Freya opened her eyes. She was back in her bedroom and her phone was ringing. She picked it up. “Darling?” a concerned voice asked.
“Bran!” Her relief was overwhelming. She fell back against her pillows and heaved a sigh. She was saved—saved from herself again, and from Killian.