The Witching Hour (Lives of the Mayfair Witches 1)

"What about the attic, are you game to go up there?" asked Rowan.

"Not now. I had a fall last night."

"What are you talking about?"

"On the staircase at the hotel. I was impatient with the elevator. I fell to the first landing. It might have been worse."

"Aaron, why didn't you tell me?"

"Well, this is soon enough. There's nothing out of the ordinary about it, except that I don't recall losing my footing. But I've a sore ankle, and I'd like to put off going up into the attic."

Rowan was crestfallen, angry. She gazed up at the facade of the house. There were workmen everywhere. On the parapets, on the porches, in the open bedroom windows.

"Don't become unduly alarmed," said Aaron. "I want you to know, but I don't want you to fret."

It was clear to Michael that Rowan was speechless. He could feel her fury. He could see the disfigurement of the anger in her face.

"We've seen nothing here," said Michael to Aaron. "Absolutely nothing. And no one else has seen anything, at least not anything worth mentioning to either of us."

"You were pushed, weren't you?" asked Rowan in a low voice.

"Perhaps," said Aaron.

"He's deviling you."

"I think so," said Aaron with a little nod. "He likes to knock Julien's books about too, when he has the opportunity, which seems to be whenever I leave the room. Again, I thought it important you know about it, but I don't want you to fret."

"Why's he doing it?"

"Maybe he wants your attention," said Aaron. "But I hesitate to say. Whatever the case, trust that I can protect myself. The work here does seem to be coming along splendidly."

"No problems," said Michael, but he was pitched into gloom.

After lunch, he walked Aaron to the gate.

"I'm having too much fun, aren't I?" he asked.

"Of course you aren't," said Aaron. "What a strange thing to say."

"I wish it would come to a boil," said Michael. "I think I'll win when it does. But the waiting is driving me nuts. After all, what is he waiting for?"

"What about your hands? I do wish you'd try to go without the gloves."

"I have. I take off the gloves for a couple of hours each day. I can't get used to the heat, the zinging feeling, even when I can blot everything else out. Look, do you want me to walk with you back to the hotel?"

"Of course not. I'll see you there tonight if you have time for a drink."

"Yeah, it's like a dream coming true, isn't it?" he asked wistfully. "I mean for me."

"No, for both of us," said Aaron.

"You trust me?"

"Why on earth would you ask?"

"Do you think I'm going to win? Do you think I'm going to do what they want of me?"

"What do you think?"

"I think she loves me and that it's going to be wonderful what happens."

"So do I."

He felt good, and each successive hour brought some new realization of it; and in his time at the house, there had been no other fragmentary memories of the visions. No sense of the ghosts.

It was comfortable each night being with Rowan, comfortable being in the spacious old suite, and making love, and then getting up again, to go back to work on the books and on the notes. It was comfortable being tired from a day of physical exertion, and feeling his body springing back from those two months of torpor and too much beer.

He was drinking little or no beer now; and in the absence of the dulling alcohol, his senses were exquisitely sharpened; he could not get enough of Rowan's sleek, girlish body and her inexhaustible energy. Her total lack of narcissism or self-consciousness awakened in him a roughness that she seemed to love. There were times when their lovemaking was like horseplay, and even more violent than that. But it always ended in tenderness and a feverish embrace, so that he wondered how he had ever slept all these years, without her arms around him.

Thirty-four

HER PRIVATE TIME was still the early morning. No matter how late she read, she opened her eyes at four o'clock. And no matter how early he went to bed, Michael slept like the dead till nine unless someone shook him or screamed at him.

It was all right. It gave her the margin of quiet that her soul demanded. Never had she known a man who accepted her so completely as she was; nevertheless there were moments when she had to get away from everyone.

Loving him these last few days, she had understood for the first time why she had always taken her men in small doses. This was slavery, this persistent passion--the inability to even look at his smooth naked back or the little gold chain around his powerful neck without wanting him, without gritting her teeth silently at the thought of reaching under the covers and stroking the dark hair around his balls and making his cock grow hard in her hand.

That his age gave him some leverage against her--the ability to say after the second time, tenderly but firmly, No, I can't do it again--made him all the more tantalizing, worse perhaps than a teasing young boy, though she didn't really know, because she'd never been teased by a young boy. But when she considered the kindness, the mellowness, the total lack of young-man self-centeredness and hatefulness in him, the trade-off of age against boundless energy was a perfect bargain indeed.

"I want to spend the rest of my life with you," she had whispered this morning, running her finger down the coarsened black stubble which covered not only his chin but his throat, knowing that he wouldn't stir. "Yes, my conscience and my body need you. Everything I'll ever be needs you."

She had even kissed him without a chance of waking him.

But now was her time alone, with him safely out of sight and out of mind.

And it was such an extraordinary time to walk through the deserted streets just as the sun was rising, to see the squirrels racing through the oaks, and to hear the violent birds crying mournfully and even desperately.

A mist sometimes crawled along the brick pavements. And the iron fences shimmered with the dew. The sky was shot through and through with red, bloody as a sunset, fading slowly into blue daylight.

The house was cool at this hour.

And this morning, she was glad of it because the heat in general had begun to wear on her. And she had an errand to perform which gave her no pleasure.

She should have attended to it before now, but it was one of those little things she wanted to ignore, to weed out from all the rest that was being offered her.

But as she went up the stairs now, she found herself almost eager. A little twinge of excitement caught her by surprise. She went into the old master bedroom, which had belonged to her mother, and moved to the far side of the bed, where the velvet purse of gold coins still lay, ignored, on the marble top bedside table. The jewel box was there, too. In all the hubbub no one had dared touch them.

On the contrary, at least six different workmen had come to report that these items were there, and somebody ought to do something about them.

Yes, something about them.

She stared down at the gold coins, which spilled out of the old velvet bag in a grimy heap. God only knew where they had actually come from.

Then she gathered up the sack, put the loose coins inside, picked up the jewel box, and took them down to her favorite room, which was the dining room.

The soft morning light was just breaking through the soiled windows. A plasterer's drop cloth covered half the floor, and a tall spidery ladder reached to the unfinished patchwork on the ceiling.