“Sure thing.”
“How are things?” she asked. She liked Dan, one of the nice young men in town who was always willing to lend a hand with their storm windows every winter. Dan gripped the steering wheel tightly until his knuckles were almost white. “Not too good at the moment, Miss Joanna. Amanda’s in the hospital,” he said. “Sorry to bend your ear about this. I’m just a little worried about her.”
“Not at all. I’m sorry to hear that—what happened? Is there anything I can do to help?”
“It’s some kind of virus she hasn’t been able to kick,” he said. “The doctors said they’ve seen this sort of thing: it’s been going around and she should get better soon, but she’s on a respirator right now.”
“I’ll look in on her when I get back,” Joanna promised, giving Dan’s arm a sympathetic squeeze. “She’s in good hands, Dan. The doctors won’t fail her.”
North Hampton did not have a stop on the Long Island Rail Road so they drove to the nearest stop in Montauk. The station was deserted since it was close to midnight, and Joanna had to reassure Dan that she would be perfectly fine waiting on the platform alone.
Finally the express from New York arrived. She’d board it on its way back to the city, where she’d switch to Metro-North to get to New Haven. She waited for the crowd to disembark, and noticed a young, good-looking couple among them. They were arguing. The girl was annoyed and the boy was soothing her. No, she was wrong, Joanna realized, from their conversation it was clear they were not a couple, she thought, only friends.
“This is such a waste of time,” the girl said. “We should go back to Cairo instead. I doubt I’ll even find the town—there’s some kind of protection spell around it.”
“You said yourself that they might know something. The old ones, to help you. Besides, we’ve already tried once and failed; there’s nothing to do in Egypt if we don’t get this information. Plus, I have a feeling we’ll get lucky—things are never as hopeless as they seem to be,” the boy said.
“What are you looking at?” the girl said suddenly, addressing Joanna.
Joanna recoiled—until now she had not noticed that there was something different about the girl. She had not been in the presence of the Fallen in a long time.
The girl glared at her contemptuously, as if understanding that the old witch knew what she was, and flashed her fangs at her.
Arrogant little brat. Joanna frowned. Of all the things that were an insult to the restriction she lived under, the fact that the Fallen were allowed to use their supernatural abilities stung the hardest. She wondered idly what had brought the vampire girl and her human companion to North Hampton, because of course that was the town they were looking for. They did not look like they were here to celebrate the holiday weekend. The girl was wrong: it wasn’t a protection spell; those were too easy to undo. Instead, when they had settled North Hampton all those long years ago, they had chosen to build in one of the few disoriented pockets that resulted from the collapse of the bridge. North Hampton was located in a place in the universe that was neither here nor there, exactly, just slightly outside of time, which was why it was located so close to the seam.
The girl continued to glare at Joanna until the boy grabbed her by the arm and steered her to the street. “Mimi! C’mon,” the boy said. “Sorry about my friend, she’s not feeling well,” he apologized, and they walked away.
Joanna sighed and walked up the steps to board the train. She had wanted to fly but she had to be more careful this time. It would not do to have another UFO sighting in the area. She found a seat in the back, and stored her carpetbag in the overheard. There was no one else in the car and she was glad to be able to spread out on several seats to be more comfortable. She prepared herself for a long train ride in the dark.
After centuries of separation, Joanna Beauchamp was off to see her husband.
chapter twenty-three
Missing
Monday after the Fourth of July holiday was like waking up from a three-day hangover. Freya opened the bar that afternoon, a bit apprehensive to see what lay in store, how bad the damage had been. She turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open, inhaling the familiar sweet stench of the bar: sweat and cigarettes and spilled alcohol. Friday night had been one of the wildest nights the North Inn had ever experienced, and for many nights and summers after, those who had been there that evening would talk about what happened that night: how the air had cracked with heat and fire; how the music seeped right into your soul, into your limbs; how the drinks were luscious and addictive; how everyone had seemed just a bit out of control. The party had continued to rage, spilling into Saturday and Sunday, with no rest or respite; she had kept the bar open nonstop the entire weekend, the music growing ever louder, the crowd rowdy to the point of obnoxious. It had been a carnival, a circus, and a festival rolled into one.
She was emotionally and physically exhausted, not just from the carousing and the work but from spending the entire three days in the company of Killian Gardiner, neither of them leaving to eat or sleep, catching catnaps in the back while the other tended to the customers. It did not matter that they were soon to be family, that she was to be his brother’s wife, that there was a wedding on the horizon—none of it mattered, only heat and desire and now. There was no tomorrow. There was only Killian, and Freya was vulnerable to his every wish and command.
He had even offered to help her clean up on Monday morning but she had rebuffed him. She needed a few days to herself. On the way to the North Inn she had called Bran, but his cell did not pick up. She kept dialing it anyway, listening to his message, wanting to hear his voice to bring her back to earth.
She did not know how she felt about anything or anyone. She felt as if she were being pulled in two directions, and if she was so sure once of Bran and their love for each other, she was now equally sure that she could not live without Killian either. What was new? Freya had been the kind of girl who hopped into bed at the slightest invitation; in the past she had many lovers of both sexes, and was constantly in the throes of infatuation. But sex was different, sex was easy—a physical release, a game, a bit of fun—a “shag,” as the Brits liked to say. It didn’t mean anything. Love was something else, and it was difficult. She was not prepared to feel this way for two men and did not want to think about what it meant. She had been so sure about her feelings for Bran, but now there was Killian, who had become very dear to her in a short period of time.
Thankfully, the bar didn’t look too worse for wear. Freya began by picking up all the discarded brassieres from the floor and placing them in the lost and found box. Sal had proposed nailing them all to the wall as trophies, but Freya thought that was just a little tacky and had talked him out of it. The bar backs had swept up most of the grime off the floor and run the dishwasher, taken out the garbage, and swept all the broken glass, so aside from righting a chair here and there, there wasn’t too much for her to do. She was grateful. She began her cocktail prep: chopping up mint, squeezing lemons and limes, preparing the sugar water, replenishing the vodka in the freezer. Even on a Monday night the North Inn was sure to draw a crowd.
Freya was thankful to have something to do with her hands; it kept her busy and her mind off Killian. Already he had called several times on her cell but she had declined to answer. She had left him in his bed that morning, slipping out from under the sheets without even a note of explanation. Such a cliché, the morning-after sneak-out of shame.