Killian stood and began to pace the room, running his hands on his face, looking lost and confused and anxious. “Freya, please” was all he said.
“This is . . . this is just a mistake,” she told him, zipping up her jeans and putting on her shirt. She jammed her feet back into her sneakers. “I’m so sorry, Killian. I really am. But I told you from the beginning that this wasn’t a good idea.”
After leaving the boat, Freya had to walk for a while to clear her head. She didn’t want to keep thinking about Killian and wandered aimlessly for a few hours. With a start she realized she was practically in the middle of town, near the police station, a small building near city hall. Since she was there, she thought she would ask about the progress they had made in their investigation of Molly Lancaster’s disappearance, maybe ask if she could talk to some of those boys, see if she could sense anything from them. While she was still mostly confident that there was no way her potion could have been part of what happened to Molly, she was beginning to entertain the possibility that perhaps something in her magic could have gone awry, and she wanted to see if she could do anything to help. While she still did not believe the boys had anything to do with Molly’s disappearance, she knew she was in the minority. Many people in town were already grumbling that the boys had received preferential treatment from the district attorney.
The police station was its usual shabby chaos. “Hey, Freya.” Jim Lewis, one of the patrolmen, greeted her with a smile. “What’s up?”
“Just thought I’d drop by, see what was going on with the Lancaster case?”
“Yeah, I can’t really talk about that right now,” he said, shaking his head.
“You can’t or you won’t, Jim? Come on, it’s me. Remember how I helped you catch that bicycle thief?” Freya wheedled.
“I know, girl. But this is different.”
“What’s going on?” she asked, as she noticed all the detectives crowded around Matt Noble’s cubicle. “Is that Corky Hutchinson? Did something happen with Todd?”
“Can’t say. Can’t say.” Jim drummed his fingers on the reception desk. “But I will tell you about the Lancaster thing. One of those college boys looks like he’s going to crack. There’ll be an arrest soon, you can count on it.”
When she got back to the house, Gracella practically pounced on her the minute she walked through the door. “So sorry to bother, Miss Freya, but it is Tyler.”
“Of course, not a bother at all. What’s going on?”
The housekeeper twisted the chamois she was holding. “His fever is very high. Since last night. I think maybe I take him to hospital but I am scared. Hector is away and . . .”
Freya followed the anxious mother to the cottage. Tyler’s room was on the second landing, a cheerful place filled with cartoon imagery on the wallpapers and whose bookshelves were stocked with toys of every shape and size. The toy soldiers were heaped in a pile, the puppets lay still on the footlocker. The train set was silent and waiting. In a bed shaped like a racecar, Tyler was wrapped up in a comforter, like a small turtle. She was shocked to find him so changed from just a few days ago. He had lost a lot of weight, and he had no color in his cheeks.
“Hey, kid,” she said gently, putting a hand on his forehead. It was burning. “Yes, let’s take him to the hospital now. There’s no point in waiting,” she said to Gracella. “I can drive.”
They bundled the boy in the backseat. “He’ll be okay; I’ll call Joanna as soon as I drop him off,” Freya said, as she drove mother and son through the empty streets of North Hampton to the small county hospital. “I promise,” she said, even though she knew she had no right to promise anything. Freya knew as well as her sister the limit to their mother’s powers, especially when it came to those she loved.
chapter thirty-two
Thief in the Night
Later that same evening, Ingrid had a dream. It began when she realized she was not alone in bed. There was a heavy weight on her body, and now there was a tug at her pajama bottoms. She stirred and attempted to pull them back up but she found she could not, and now her top was being unbuttoned, the air cold on her skin, and she was not sure what was happening—where was her blanket? Then there was a hand on her mouth and she was jolted awake but she could not scream. She could not even open her eyes.
There was a man on top of her; his hands were warm and soft and his body lay heavy upon hers, his hands on her chest, and she was naked underneath him; she struggled against his weight but there was nothing she could do, she was immobile and helpless and then he began to push himself into her, and now he was inside and moving so slowly and she wanted to scream but she could not, because he was kissing her so sweetly and her body was responding to his touch and she could not stop herself. She was wet and he was hard and it felt good. It felt so good to be underneath a man, to be taken and loved, although this was not love.
Suddenly, her eyes flew open and she could see him.
The beautiful, elfin face, coal-black hair and blue-green eyes. And he was stronger now. . . . His hands were around her throat, and he was choking her, digging deep into her neck, causing her to gasp as he pushed relentlessly to a climax. . . . This was really happening. . . . Killian was trying to kill her. . . . She could feel her spirit begin to waver and flicker in the glom. . . . She would die—no!—she would not . . . she would not let this happen. . . . With all of her strength Ingrid folded her knee and pushed it against his chest; it was enough to unbalance her intruder, and he released his hold on her neck.
Ingrid opened her mouth to scream . . .
And woke up.
This time she was truly awake.
It was just a dream, after all. Ingrid sat up in her bed, gasping and shaking; she was fully clothed and alone, but the back of her shirt was covered in sweat. Still, it was only a dream. A nightmare. She had dreamed that Killian Gardiner had raped her and tried to kill her, and it had felt so real, she felt sick—aroused and confused and violated at the same time. She had thought she was going to die.
What just happened?
A vision? A sending?
Then she understood.
It all made sense now. Freya’s strange, jittery anxiety at her engagement party, the burned flowers, the tousled hair, her long silences and absences with no explanation, her red cheeks and flushed countenance. She thought of the way her sister had acted the entire summer—daydreaming, distracted, confused, and then snappy and curt. That was not like Freya. Something had happened, more specifically someone had happened to her. Just like before. Of course, it all made sense now.
Ingrid got out of bed and put on her robe. She looked at the clock. It was only half past midnight. Freya was still out for the evening, but Ingrid thought she knew just where to find her. The sisters had seen each other briefly when Freya had returned from the hospital. Ingrid was worried about the boy, too, and hoped his flu would not get any worse. She could not imagine otherwise. Even though Freya was not allowed to work at the North Inn anymore, she could not keep away and was now one of their best customers. Ingrid was not a regular patron of the North Inn, but she had nothing against bars and understood the pleasures they provided: convivial company, the comfort of a well-made drink, and the aural excitement of a good jukebox. Once in a while she and the library crew headed there on Friday nights, but since Tabitha had gotten pregnant and Hudson was trying the latest detox diet, they hadn’t visited the watering hole in a while. She walked into the crowded hall and nodded to a few familiar faces.
“Can I get you anything, love?” Kristy asked. The gangly bartender threw a rag over her shoulder and waited for Ingrid to order.