Elaine Feller glanced at the moonlit sky and cursed the falling snow. Snow on Halloween? It seemed blasphemous. Snow was for St. Nickâs and Christmas. Just because the stores couldnât keep the holidays separate didnât mean Mother Nature needed to jump on the bandwagon, as well.
There was a blessing to the wintry weather, though. It kept all but the most determined off the streets. In St. Beatriceâs Cemetery, even the dead lay quiet beneath the blanket of snow.
If she had her way, sheâd be disturbing one dead manâs rest.
Itâd been two years since her Tom had died and of all the inconsiderate things to do, left her behind. Sheâd gone through the normal stages of grief. To everyone around her, sheâd moved on. If she didnât have a boyfriend, well, it was because she was so immersed in life there was no time for another man.
What sheâd failed to tell them was if it was up to herâand she didnât see why it wasnâtâthere wouldnât be another man. Tom Vaughn had been the love of her life, her childhood sweetheart, her best friend, the man who made her laugh at herself but adored her peculiarities. Her soul.
God, she sounded like she should be a heroine in some over-the-top Shakespearean drama. Too bad she got stage fright.
Fear wouldnât stop her tonight.
Hefting her shoulder bag, she walked down the cemetery path. She didnât need a flashlight. She could find his grave blindfolded. Shadows writhed across the sheet of snow, a twisted bit of branch here, a stone cherubâs distorted outline there. Beneath her winter coat, her skin was cold. Sheâd spent two years as a solitary studying the occult, haunting The Covenâs aisles. Victoria Ramlin, the shop owner, high priestess and queen many times over, had taken her under her wing when sheâd needed guidance. The woman had never once refused to answer to Elaineâs questions, nor had she asked any of her own.
Elaine almost wished she had.
Tomâs grave was nestled in a newer portion of the cemetery, beneath the branches of a weeping willow tree. The tree wasnât actually owned by the cemetery, but bordered the back lot. Much to the caretakerâs dismay, the messy willow was allowed to live. Repeated discipline by the pruner kept it in check on his side of the fence. On nights like tonight, though, the wind whipped its spidery arms over the lot line, taunting.
She set her bag down behind Tomâs stone. Out came a runner of black fabric, cut from the dress sheâd been wearing the night he died. The dry cleaner never could get all the blood out. Might as well put the dress to good use. She draped the runner over his stone, anchoring each side with a fat pillar candle, one black and one white. Next came a fir branch. The wind played with it, scraping its needled fingers across the smooth granite. Nestling a small vase between the branches, she filled it with a white iris, a red rose and a chunk of clematis vine.
Swallowing hard, she stepped away and walked a small circle around the grave. It was more oblong than completely spherical. She hoped it didnât matter. When she reached the front of the site, she paused, fingers itching to trace the name carved there. She bit back a small sob, tears stinging her eyes. Sheâd shed too many tears already. Now was the time for action, not misery. Finishing the circle, she returned to the altar.
Shrouded in leather, her fingers were still cold. Pulling off her gloves, she tucked them in her coat and retrieved Tomâs cigarette lighter. It was a simple silver rectangle, worn smooth by his touch. She used it to light the candles. They flickered and guttered, nearly going out when a gust of wind swept through. Sheâd anticipated the wind, though, and carved a depression around each wick, providing a shelter of wax for the flame.
It was now or never. She shucked her coat and mules, standing nude and barefoot in the snow.
She faced the north. âI invoke Earth, Mother of mystery and growth. Guard me tonight.â With a trembling finger, she sketched a pentagram in the air. She turned. âI invoke Air. Give breath to that which I seek to create.â Another pentagram drawn, another turn.
God, it was frigginâ cold. Her breath came out in a puff of white air. She fought the urge to shiver. âI invoke Fire. May I have success in my endeavor tonight.â Her hand again trembled as she drew her pentagram.
Last turn. Last pentagram. âI invoke Water. Bring him back on a tide of love.â
She was facing the back of the gravestone again. Maybe she should have stood in the front. Maybe she should have stayed the fuck home and not tried to tackle what no one else had ever successfully done. Who did she think she was? A voodoo priestess? A witch queen?
Taking a deep breath, she tried to block out all the distracting thoughts. In theory, it sounded simple. But in reality, her brain was accustomed to the constant stream-of-consciousness bombardment of life. Keeping still was like trying to pry the needle out of an addictâs hand. Again, in theory, possible, but more likely than not someone was going to get stabbed.