Serpent's Kiss

Book 2: Witches of East End

by Melissa de la Cruz

Genres: Fantasy; Paranormal

Synopsis

Crossover sensation Melissa de la Cruz created an instant New York Times best-seller with the inventive Witches of East End. In this follow-up, everything is going smoothly in North Hampton now that Joanna and her daughters, Ingrid and Freya, are allowed to perform magic again. But chaos erupts with the arrival of Freya's twin brother Freddie, who's finally escaped from Limbo. And Freddie's convinced that Freya's fiance Killian Gardiner is the one who landed him there in the first place.

Release date: June 12, 2012

Publisher: Hachette Books

Print pages: 336

Sample

Three extraordinary women led very ordinary lives. Silver-haired and green-thumbed Joanna Beauchamp lived in a stately colonial on the northern and easternmost tip of Long Island with her two daughters, Ingrid, the local librarian, and Freya, a sexy bartender. For years beyond count, they lived quietly and peacefully among the residents of their small, mist-shrouded town.

Joanna spent her days redecorating her home, gardening, worrying about her girls, and lavishing all the affection she had for her missing son on the housekeeper’s six-year-old boy, Tyler. Brazen redhead Freya won the heart of wealthy philanthropist Bran Gardiner, whose family owned Fair Haven manor on eponymous Gardiners Island. She celebrated her engagement by having a torrid affair with Bran’s younger brother, Killian, he of the dark, smoldering good looks and devil-may-care attitude.

Ingrid, blond, haughty, and painfully shy, was the library’s ranking archivist of historical architectural blueprints. When she wasn’t fighting to save her beloved library from extinction from a smarmy local developer, she was turning down a variety of suitors, including voracious reader Matthew Noble, a handsome detective on the North Hampton police force.

But despite their seemingly normal lives, all three women shared a powerful secret. Goddesses from Asgard, they were witches in our world. The residents of North Hampton never suspected that Joanna, Ingrid, and Freya were just three of the many gods and goddesses stranded in Midgard after the legendary Bofrir bridge that connected the two worlds collapsed under mysterious circumstances.

Trapped in our world and unable to return to theirs, they had been restricted from using their powers ever since the White Council enacted the Restriction of Magical Powers after the Salem witch trials, which effectively ended the practice of magic in mid-world. But the three women became restless after suppressing their true natures for so many years, and slowly began to use their otherworldly abilities. Joanna’s specialty was recovery and renewal; capable of raising the dead, she brought toy soldiers to life. Ingrid, a healer who could tap into people’s lifelines and see the future, began to dole out her spells and charms to any patron with a trying domestic problem. Freya specialized in matters of the heart and served up heady love potions at the North Inn Bar.

With no seeming repercussions to their magical escapades the Beauchamp girls became bolder in their practice: Joanna brought a man back to life, Ingrid gave the mayor’s wife a powerful fidelity knot, and every night at the North Inn became a wild, hedonistic romp because of Freya’s potent cocktails. It was all a bit of harmless, innocent, enchanted fun until a local girl went missing, several locals began to suffer from a rash of inexplicable illnesses, and a dark menace was found growing in the waters off the Atlantic, poisoning the wildlife.

When the mayor turned up dead, the finger-pointing began, and for a moment it felt like the Salem witch trials all over again.

Rushing to untangle the mystery, Ingrid discovered archaic Norse symbols in a blueprint of Fair Haven manor, the Gardiners’ ancestral home. But just as she was close to cracking the code, the document disappeared. Freya discovered she was caught in a centuries-old love triangle with Bran and Killian that harked back to the days of Asgard itself, back when the world was made and she was not yet a witch in Midgard but rather a young goddess pursued by her true love, Balder, the god of joy, and his brother, Loki, the god of mischief. Bran and Killian Gardiner weren’t mortals at all, they were the brothers Balder and Loki—but who was who? And had she chosen correctly? Not to mention, it looked as if there was a zombie on the loose. Joanna’s resurrection had gone awry.

Soon, Norman Beauchamp, Joanna’s long-lost ex-husband, was back in the picture, and everyone was trying to save not just their little town but all the nine known worlds of the universe from Ragnarok, the ancient legend that foretold the end of the gods.

They succeeded, and Loki was banished from mid-world, sent back through the hole he’d made in the Tree of Life in the hopes his return journey would heal it. But the mystery of the collapse of the bridge remained, even as two young gods had been punished for its destruction—malevolent Loki and Freya’s twin brother, Fryr, whose magical trident had been found in its ruins.

The Beauchamps thought Fryr was lost to them forever, but to Freya’s surprise, her twin suddenly reappeared to her in the alley behind the North Inn Bar one evening. He had escaped from Limbo, and revealed that he had been framed for the destruction of the Bofrir, and he knew the identity of the real culprit.

No, it wasn’t Loki, who Freya had known as Bran Gardiner. According to Fryr, or Freddie, as he now wanted to be called, it was Balder who had set him up to take the fall. Balder, or Killian Gardiner, who Freya loved, who was responsible for its destruction.

Now Freddie was out for revenge, and he wanted Freya to help him win it.

Patsy Cline’s mournful contralto warbled a love song on the jukebox at the North Inn. It was a departure from the usual rock ’n’ roll fare that prompted summertime patrons to leap from their seats to raise pointer-and-pinkie devil signs in the air, music befitting the early October mood—intimate, cozy, sweetness with a tinge of nostalgia. Indian summer was over. When the light tinted golden before sunset, a nip crept into the air, laced with an autumn tang. The Atlantic, visible from the windows of the North Inn, was rough now, huge breakers crashing on the shore. There were no more bikini-clad bodies frolicking on the beach or fireworks erupting in the sky. The high-season crowds had dispersed, leaving the secluded seaside town to the locals, the beaches deserted and the popular meeting spot almost empty.

A lone couple slow danced in the middle of the floor, while a few regulars wandered in after a day’s work, scattered in small clusters. The resident bartender, Freya Beauchamp, was taking advantage of the slower pace and had taken a break from slinging drinks for the time being. The pretty redhead was sitting with her elbows on the bar, her face in her palms, eyes aglitter as she watched Killian Gardiner sing along from behind the counter. His low, deep voice, like a caress in the middle of the night, made for a fitting duet. “I’m back where I belong, back in baby’s arms.”

Freya loved this about Killian: he continued to court her unrelentingly. Unapologetically. Even if they were engaged and soon to be married, the game of seduction never ended with him. There was never any fear that they would turn into two bored people flicking through television channels, desperate for entertainment, frustrated with a life spent on a couch, their red-hot romance just a faded memory. It was a good thing, too, because Freya thrived on drama, the perpetual titillation of flirtation, the constant chase, the rush from unexpected tender moments like this sultry serenade.

She swooned, watching Killian’s hair fall over his dark lashes as he grabbed the cocktail shaker to mix the usual for a customer who had straggled in. He poured the vodka with a flourish, added a dash of vermouth over ice in the silver container.

Freddie couldn’t be more wrong about him, she thought. When her twin brother, Freddie, had returned from Limbo a month ago, he was burning with wild accusations, all of them directed at her beloved. Freddie believed Killian had stolen his trident, used it to destroy the bridge, and planted it at the scene so that the gods would blame the golden-haired son of the sea for the bridge’s destruction.

Her twin was hell-bent on revenge, but he reluctantly agreed to give Freya a chance to suss out the situation on her own if she promised to help him find the truth and dig up what she could on her boyfriend. Freya had relented with a heavy heart. She could hardly believe that Killian was capable of such treachery. He knew how close she was to her twin brother, so how could he have done something so grave and cruel and—unforgivable? And if so, how could she not see it? Could her feelings, along with the earth-shattering, mind-boggling sex they had, have marred her judgment? No. Freddie had to be wrong about this. He’d been in Limbo too long; he wasn’t thinking straight. She trusted Killian. They had been separated for so long, but now that they had found each other again, it felt right. Perfect, really. Back in baby’s arms, just like the song.

Killian caught her staring at him and smiled, his blue-green eyes flashing.

Freya smiled back, looking deep into his eyes, but all the while she was searching for a hint that might give him away. What secrets was he keeping? With her witch sight, she looked for something hidden deep within the recesses of Killian’s soul, but all she saw was his simple, pure love reflected straight back at her.

The Patsy Cline song ended. Killian flipped the cocktail shaker up in the air and caught it deftly behind his back, all without breaking eye contact. He slung the shaker onto the counter, winking at Freya, and—just then—for perhaps a fraction of a second, a millisecond maybe, Freya swore she saw something she hadn’t seen before or ever wanted to: the tiniest malevolent flicker. It was already gone before she could pinpoint it, although it was enough to give her a shiver.

“Cold, babe?” Killian asked, reaching over the bar to warm her hands in his.

Freya shrugged. “I’m great.” But she was asking herself how much she actually knew Killian. They had been apart for centuries. Something could have changed him in the interim. Yet the warmth of his hands seemed to assure her that none of it was true. His fingers slipped away from hers, to pour the mix from the shaker into a martini glass for the regular at the end of the bar.

Since the Restriction had been lifted, Freya, along with the rest of the Beauchamp family, was now allowed to use her powers, so these days the bar was truly enchanted. At the North Inn, prep work consisted of dozens of knives hanging in the air, chopping mint, slicing lemons, limes, and oranges, peeling twirls of rind. The love potions were back, and drinks sometimes mixed themselves, but her magic also extended into other areas, like fixing a bad haircut or giving a dowdy customer a glamorous makeover on the spot. The patrons told themselves it was sleight of hand or smoke and mirrors, or that maybe they’d just had one too many.

Killian went downstairs to fill the ice buckets and while he was gone Freya convinced herself she was becoming paranoid—that she hadn’t seen a thing. His eyes had merely caught the light from the setting sun. That was all it was.

Someone put a quarter in the jukebox and the atmosphere shifted as the room filled with the sound of Kings of Leon’s jangly guitars. It had been like that all evening ever since Sal had added oldies to the queue—a Roy Orbison ballad followed by Feist, Aretha Franklin before Metallica, the Sex Pistols segueing into the Jackson 5. The music moved back and forth through the history of the charts, much like this odd little pocket of Long Island that existed outside of time itself. As the couple on the dance floor began to shimmy, Freya spied fortysomething Betty Lazar enter the bar.

She looked downright haggard, the poor thing. Freya hadn’t seen Betty around town in a while. As the paralegal trundled over, a series of images flashed in Freya’s mind: the grueling day, the pesky attorneys, the microwavable dinner, the three cats. No sooner had Betty taken a seat than an oversize martini glass, filled with a pool of electric blue topped with the tiniest bit of ocean froth, appeared before her in a swirl of mist.

Someone yelled, “A pop-up drink, a pop-up drink!” and the dozen or so customers clapped and cheered.

Dazzled, Betty took a sip and let out a sigh. “Wow, Freya, how did you know that was exactly what I wanted? I haven’t been here in eons. Talk about service! What’s happened to this place?”

“Just a few improvements,” Freya smiled, thinking a nice lady like Betty shouldn’t waste her nights alone with television procedurals.

They closed up shop early. It was a Tuesday night and the last customer rolled out at ten. The temperature had plummeted by the evening, and the footbridge to Gardiners Island rattled, swaying precariously as the waves broke against it. Freya held Killian’s hand as they wended their way across in the dark, with only the faint glow of Fair Haven and the lighthouse in the distance.

“Nice night,” she said, squeezing his fingers. She loved fall. It was her favorite season: the golden leaves, the crisp air, the smell of pumpkins—earthy and full, signifying a good harvest.

“Mmm,” Killian agreed, leaning down to give her a kiss.

She kissed him back, pulling him closer so that they were soon locked in a tight embrace. His kisses were strong and forceful, the way she liked it, and they pressed against each other, the heat rising between them. They could never wait to get their hands on each other, and Killian lifted her from the narrow walkway so she could wrap her legs around his hips. He pressed forward and Freya felt herself pushed a little too far against the parapet and she lost her balance, slipping out of his grasp. She fell backward over the railing, strawberry-blond curls and scarf whipping out on the wind. For a few terrifying seconds, she believed she would plummet into the inky waters until Killian managed to grab hold of her knees. But instead of pulling her back up, she heard him laugh.

“Killian! Stop it!” she cried. But he made no move to help as she continued to dangle over the edge.

“I’m serious! Pull me up!” she said. “It’s not funny!” She felt as if she couldn’t breathe and her heart thudded wildly in her chest.

It was over in a flash as Killian pulled her up and righted her, letting her body slide down the length of his until she was back on solid footing.

She stared at him, frightened to find his face a mask, his eyes muted and dull. What the hell just happened? What was that all about?

“Hey, c’mon. I was just teasing,” Killian said, looking concerned as Freya moved away and huddled by herself, hiding her face behind her hair.

“I’m sorry,” he said, coming over to lean over her shoulder so that he buried his head in the crook of her neck, and she could feel his warm breath on her skin again, making it tingle. “It was a bad joke. I didn’t realize you were really scared. Usually you like that sort of stuff.”

His voice was so gentle, and she knew he was still Killian, her sweet, her beloved. He would never hurt her, never. She knew the truth of that deep in her bones. And he was right: she was an adrenaline junkie; she liked dangerous games. “I’m sorry, too,” she said as she turned to face him, running a hand over his stubble, his soft lips. “I don’t know why I freaked out.”

Back aboard the Dragon, they tumbled into bed and Freya looked down at him through half-lidded eyes. Killian was gritting his teeth, eyes drowsy and glazed by the pleasurable sensation of their lovemaking. His strong hands guided her by the waist, his thumbs pushed on her hips as she rocked on top of him and the cabin heaved in a rhythm.

Afterward, Killian gave her a sleepy kiss, but Freya lay awake for a long time, as the strange, uncomfortable feeling began to grow. She couldn’t lie to herself. She had seen what she had seen, at the bar and on the bridge.

She had looked into Killian’s blank eyes and she had seen her own death in them.

Ingrid Beauchamp walked down an aisle of the North Hampton Public Library, humming as she shelved a handful of books on the way to the children’s reading area. Her blond bun was neatly brushed back from her face, and she was wearing a smart tailored blue suit and pretty new spectator pumps. She was taking a break from restoring an Edwardian blueprint that had been found inside an old roll-top secretary desk in a ramshackle manor on the edge of town that was going up for auction.

School had let out about an hour ago, and kids had begun to file in, the teens to check out the latest “trauma porn” (as Hudson called the newest crop of “dark” books for the age group), or study in the carrels, the younger ones huddling up for Tabitha’s reading hour. Tabitha had a mellifluous voice, and perhaps she had missed her calling as an actress, Ingrid mused. She kept those kids on tenterhooks. Ingrid wanted to make sure it was comfy in there for Tab. Not quite five months into her pregnancy, the girl already looked as if she were about to pop.

Ingrid let out a happy sigh as she surveyed the busy area with bay windows facing the library’s garden, out to the shore and the splashing gray-green waves. A teen lay sprawled on two oversize orange pillows, and Ingrid would need to find a small one for Tabitha’s back, so she set herself to the task. The boy had a jet-black faux hawk and was hunkered down over one of the new e-readers she’d bought at Hudson’s urging. “We can’t get left behind! The future is here, and you should know that more than anyone,” he’d said, alluding to her other talents.

The summer’s end fund-raiser meant the library was no longer on the verge of extinction and the money had even allowed her to get a half dozen of those devices. She couldn’t imagine how anyone would want to forego the intimate experience of a book—pages whispering between the fingers, hurried glances at the colorful cover before immersing oneself again. She didn’t understand the allure of reading a flat screen, but if it kept the library alive and well, so be it.

That the previous mayor had died a scandalous death—hanging himself in a roadside fleabag motel after killing an underage girl who had rebuffed him—was indeed a sad and tragic fact. However, it had saved Ingrid’s beloved library, her home away from home, her domain. There was a lot of silver lining there. The tragedy had ushered in a young, intelligent mayor, Justin Frond, who was all about preservation and keeping big businesses and ugly run-of-the-mill chains out of the quaint and sleepy town; he even wanted to turn the white-columned library building into a historical landmark.

“Large cargo ahead! Coming through!” boomed Hudson, who was guiding Tabitha into the reading room, one hand on her back, the other at her wrist.

“Hudson!” chastised Ingrid, who was arranging pillows in neat half circles facing Tabitha’s reading chair.

“Well, it’s true,” said Tabitha. “But I still have two legs and can walk, Hudson!” Her face was rounder and her cheeks flushed; pregnancy had made her look younger, vital, full of life, her long blond hair glossier. She couldn’t stop eating, though, and had taken to packing two lunches—just in case. “I know. I’m getting so big.”

Hudson squared the knot of the violet tie beneath his argyle vest while he studied Tabitha. He placed the tip of an index finger between his lips and bit the nail. “Mmm …”

“For god’s sake, she’s pregnant,” Ingrid cut in.

“Library voice, Ingrid,” he reminded. “I was actually going to say ‘gorgeous.’”

The three friends laughed.

“Anyway, Tab, you’ll lose the excess superfast once you start … What is that whatsy thing called again?” He snapped his fingers, searching for the word.

“Nursing …?” asked Ingrid, not quite sure herself.

“Yeah, that!” He lifted his brow. “Burn those calories, baby!” Hudson spun on his heels, leaving them with the rest of setup for reading hour.

Ingrid felt worn out as she punched in the code to the alarm, then locked up the library. After-school hours had gotten especially harried, and she had stayed late, working on her magnificent new blueprint. Plus, she had resumed witching hour, or “counseling services,” weekdays from noon to one. As for payment, there was a list with a full range of suggested donations. SPONSOR YOUR FAVORITE AUTHOR TO COME TO THE NORTH HAMPTON PUBLIC LIBRARY TO DO A READING. SUPPORT LITERATURE, the sign said. THE FRONT COLUMNS AND NINETEENTH-CENTURY GARDEN TRELLISES NEED YOUR HELP! She was back in the magic business and this time she didn’t have to look over her shoulder while she practiced it. She found the work fulfilling. Helping people with her magic made her feel refreshed and invigorated. Ingrid was doing her part. Hadn’t there been a study that showed that even the smallest acts of kindness made people live longer, happier lives? Well, she would live forever anyway, but she did get a thrill out of being of service. But today, it had been bang, bang, bang, one emergency case after the next, and she was ready to go home.

Ingrid crossed the street, making her way toward the adjacent park, tugging the collar of her light wool coat around her neck. There was a chill in the air and the wind had picked up. Autumn had finally kicked in. It was dark, and the park—filled with pines, maples, and evergreen oaks, along with a bench and lamppost here and there along the winding paths—was full of shifting shadows, most likely the tree branches lifting and swelling in the wind.

It was quicker to cut through the park than to circumvent it, walking straight toward the beach and hanging a left on the small sandy alley that led to Joanna’s house. Ingrid always took this route, but for a moment she hesitated.

She reprimanded herself for being such a scaredy-cat just because it was darker than usual, or for even considering summoning her familiar, Oscar, to accompany her home. Most likely the griffin was already curled up in a corner of the house, making those little snoring noises. She had done much scarier things than walk through this safe little town’s park at night before.

Nevertheless, Ingrid braced herself as she entered the park, taking the little cement path. She picked up her speed as the trees whooshed around her. It was all so dimly lit, and the click of her heels echoed too loudly. She heard a moaning, creaking sound that made her start, but she sighed when she realized it was coming from the children’s playground ahead, most likely a swing pushed to and fro by the wind.

As she approached the play area—it was hard to see because of the black rubber mats covering the ground and the sudden glare of a lamppost—Ingrid thought she spied something. It looked like several child-size forms on the monkey bars and the swings. Now that was weird—children playing at this hour. The few parents she knew in North Hampton advocated very strict and early bedtimes. A gust pushed through the trees, and Ingrid heard whispers, a patter of feet, or maybe she was just hearing things, mistaking the sound of rustling pine needles and leaves for something more. Maybe she was seeing and hearing things that weren’t there.

Sure enough, as she came around the lamppost, the playground was deserted and the swings were swaying on their own. She heaved a sigh of relief too soon, though. She had been so worried about the creaky noises that she had missed the lumpy, ragged silhouette lumbering toward her on the path about fifteen feet ahead. Her breath caught in her throat, and she immediately recalled a tidbit from the local news warning the residents of North Hampton of a recent rash of burglaries. No wonder she had been tentative about taking this shortcut: the information had slipped her mind, but unconsciously it must have been nagging at her. She could turn around and take off at a clip, but in her pencil skirt and heels, she couldn’t exactly sprint. The f. . .