Four Witches and a Funeral (Wicked Society Book 3) Read online

  Running my hand over the soft fabric of his lapel, I arch closer to whisper in his ear, “Lead the way before I make the scandal from my debutante ball pale in comparison.”

  His eyes dart over my head, scanning the room for a beat, and then he closes the distance to place a soft kiss on my mouth. “Let’s go.”

  With his hand on my lower back, he guides me off of the dance floor and through the crowd of New England’s wasp-iest WASPs. Women in respectable, but boring dresses flank the stuffed tuxedos representing their husbands. I never, ever want to become one of them. Ever. Both nature and nurture be damned.

  We make it out of the ballroom without notice.

  Real candles and sparkling mercury glass ornaments brighten an enormous tree in the center of the grand foyer. Evergreen and boxwood boughs drape over the banisters and doorways. Slim, white taper candles dance in their wall sconces. Off of the foyer, a fire glows in the library’s fireplace; its mantle heavy with greenery.

  “Quick, before we’re spotted,” Geoffrey whispers, squeezing my hand as he pulls me through the foyer.

  I laugh at his antics; the urgency and secrecy are ridiculously sexy. “Are you afraid I’ll turn into the kitchen maid at the stroke of midnight?”

  He spins me into his arms and kisses me on the mouth, not caring that I’m laughing at him. “All evening you’ve tortured me with this dress. I’ve never loved a strapless gown as much as I love this one.”

  We’ve been dating for two years and the chemistry between us only seems to increase. We met at the annual summer party held at my parents’ club in Boston. Geoffrey was there with one of my cousins. Our eyes met across the room and the rest of the world disappeared. We’ve been inseparable ever since.

  “I like you hot and bothered,” I tease him.

  “Careful what you wish for, Miss Winthrop. A man can only take so much before he breaks.”

  I grin up at him. “Oh, really?”

  He kisses me again before releasing all but my hand and continuing our quick pace down the hall.

  “Come on, I’ll show you if you don’t believe me.” He opens a random door and pulls me inside. No holiday cheer extends to this room. Only the soft light filters through the windows from outside. Dark wood paneling and built-in shelves stand guard in the shadowy darkness.

  There are no decorations or lit candles in the darkened room.

  Geoffrey pulls a lighter from his jacket pocket, flicking it on to provide enough illumination to see each other’s faces more clearly.

  “A darkened office?” I spin in a slow circle. Stopping, I point at the super creepy painting of a man dressed in all black. “Is that Jonathan Winthrop’s portrait? I’m not sure I find him handsome. The fluffy, white wig does nothing for me.”

  “Good to know you don’t find your great, great, great grandfather attractive.” He strolls toward the painting.

  “I think you forgot a great. Or added one. I can never keep the number straight.” I follow him and his small circle of light from the flame in his hand. “What are you looking for? Shouldn’t we lock the door if we’re going to do improper things to each other in front of dear old Gramps?”

  He chuckles as he runs his finger along the bottom edge of a thick chair rail. “Aha!”

  A soft click is followed by a creaking sound when a secret door hidden behind the portrait swings open.

  “After you.” He sweeps his arm forward into the even darker area of the windowless room lined with more shelves.

  “And mysteriously, young Alice was never seen after the Christmas Ball.” I peek into the tiny space.

  “I’ll keep you safe.” He pulls a candle from his pocket and lights the wick.

  “Your tuxedo is like Mary Poppins magic carpet bag. What else do you have in there?” I open the flaps of his jacket and pat him down, lingering over the ripples of muscle along his stomach.

  “You’re incorrigible.” After a quick kiss, he sets the candle on a shelf and closes the door behind me.

  “What is this room? The house is too old for a bomb shelter.” I peer at the rows of books, neatly ordered except for a few older looking journals haphazardly stacked on the top shelf.

  “Every mansion needs a secret room.” His arms wrap around my middle while he dips his head to run his nose along my jaw.

  “Every family needs a villain,” I whisper.

  He pulls back and stares into my eyes, serious. “You can be the hero of your own story. Don’t let their expectations and disappointments dim your light.”

  When his fingers skim the top of my dress, dipping beneath the thick satin, I forget to ask how he knows about this room.

  Three

  The Past

  I touch the spot on my neck where he placed a kiss after closing the clasp on the long, gold chain.

  “It’s beautiful.” Lifting the locket, I notice the delicate engraving on the front.

  “A for Alice. Always,” he whispers.

  On the reverse, ASW-N is engraved.

  “What does it mean?” I rub the pad of my finger over my initials. “What’s the N for?”

  “Open it.”

  I use my nail to release the slim lock on the side.

  “It’s a compass. In case you ever get lost, you’ll be able to find your way back to me.” His breath is warm on my skin where he’s peppering my shoulder with kisses with his arms wrapped around my waist.

  “And I’m north?” I twist so I’m facing him inside of the cage of his arms. “

  “For me, yes. You are my constant, my north star and a reminder of love in the world.”

  “This sounds like a proposal.” I trace his jaw with my index fingers.

  Inhaling sharply, he blinks. “It isn’t.”

  Unwelcome disappointment flashes through me like lightning.

  “Do you want it to be?” His voice is nothing more than a whisper now.

  “We barely know each other. It’s too soon. That would be crazy.” None of these excuses equal a denial.

  “I didn’t ask you to list reasons. I asked what you want.” The love in his eyes gives me the confidence to say what I really feel.

  “You. I want you.”

  “You have me.” He presses his mouth to mine. “Happy one year anniversary. Someday we’ll make it forever. Officially.”

  ★★★

  The Present

  Wandering around the Winthrop summer house, I’m bored but feeling mischievous. The holidays are coming and it’s my favorite time of year. Between Halloween and New Year’s Eve, nostalgia fills the air. The solstice in two days brings with it a certain happy buzz of energy. The light will return, and with it, the promise of summer.

  Today is different.

  Hidden under the wintry scent of snow is something else.

  Magic.

  Inhaling deeply, I fill my nose with its familiar mix of amber, sparklers, and fresh rain.

  Someone or something powerful is coming.

  Good. It’s been forever since I’ve had some fun.

  Most of the time I avoid people, choosing to hang out in this house when it’s empty. Other than Tate’s annual Halloween party, the house remains shuttered after Labor Day until Memorial Day.

  Here, I can wander amongst my memories and not be bothered by the living and breathing.

  Plenty of time to remember and the quiet to think.

  One of the strangest parts about being a ghost is not remembering how I died.

  Not a clue.

  Woke up like this. Thank you very much.

  Weirdly, I have a vague memory of my last day, but no idea of the details of my untimely demise.

  Not to be melodramatic, but the day I died didn’t feel special. Not once did I think to myself how perfect my life was, or happy I felt, or any other sappy, sentimental nonsense. It was just a day, like so many others that had passed before it.

  Geoffrey and I waking up in our bed in our little apartment not far from the Society headquarters. A third floor walk u
p in a narrow brownstone with a crooked staircase that squeaked in humid weather. The tiny pedestal sink in the bathroom we shared while both trying to get ready in the morning. Him standing behind me shaving while I washed my face. The kitchen table that was barely big enough for two where we’d eat breakfast and talk about our days, our hopes, and our future. A lumpy couch where we cuddled at the end of the day and watch TV.

  Those were happy times. I’m not sure we even appreciated the simplicity of happiness.

  One day I was alive. And then I wasn’t.

  I suppose I could find a copy of my obituary, but I’m a teensy bit lazy. I’m also worried that whatever version of my life my family presented to the world will only piss me off, even twenty-five years later.

  Beloved daughter, sister, friend …

  For sure they wouldn’t have been as trite as to say only the good die young. That would contradict their belief of me as the wicked one.

  I wonder who spoke at my funeral. Would my love have spoken my eulogy? Would my parents have let him?

  Knowing them, they probably didn’t even invite him. Out of spite. Or grief. Or both.

  My lovely family. With the exception of a few cousins, I avoid all of them unless I absolutely have nothing else to do but stick my nose into the family gossip.

  Tate is my second cousin. Or is it first cousin once removed, I can never remember. In any case, he was only six when I died and doesn’t remember the handful of times we met at various Winthrop events. He’s the only family who hangs out at the summer house anymore, often showing up with a group of his friends. I like it when someone other than the housekeeper or groundkeepers are here. Makes it feel less of a mausoleum and more of a house. I won’t go as far to call it a home. Baby steps.

  Tonight, Tate lit a roaring fire in the library to chase away the perpetual chill in this house. Designed to escape the heat of Boston, it’s perfectly suited for summer, but less than ideal in winter.

  Someone’s knocking at the front door and Tate excuses himself to answer it. I follow along out of curiosity. He greets the new arrivals and invites them inside. A tall, blond woman is accompanied by a couple. I recognize Andrew Wildes immediately. His dark hair and nearly colorless blue eyes are identical to his mother’s coloring, both unforgettable. The petite woman next to him also seems familiar, but I can’t place her.

  “Some say the old manse is full of drafts, but I prefer to call them ghosts. How boring to have a house over two hundred years old that isn’t haunted. Complete disappointment if you ask me.” Tate’s walking and talking over his shoulder, leading his guests across the grand foyer and into the library.

  I pause near the front door. Does he know?

  For the past fifteen years, I’ve assumed none of my family can see or hear me. They barely acknowledge the living, let alone the dead other than to name drop our ancestors and how important we are. The Winthrops are the foundation on which this commonwealth was built. Hell, might as well say the country. I know my ancestors would want to take credit.

  “Everyone, this is the rest of everyone.” Tate makes a general sweeping movement around the room to introduce the two groups. “You should all know each other.”

  Andrew smiles and introduces his girlfriend as Madison.

  The loud buzzing in my head blocks out the rest of the conversation.

  Madison. Could she be the same little girl from the park all those years ago? I do the math in my head and it works.

  Madison is here. The girl who could see me, who played hide and seek with me fifteen years ago. I always wondered what happened to her. Our paths never crossed again. Until now.

  I slip into the room and stand in the corner, waiting for her to spot me.

  Staring right at me, she blinks and then shifts her gaze to Andrew.

  “Is the house really haunted?” she asks him.

  This gives me hope she can at least sense me here. I’d always hoped to encounter her again and prayed she’d hold onto her special gift for seeing what others couldn’t.

  Resting on the arm of the closest sofa, he stretches his long, black jean covered legs out and crosses his ankles. “Depends on how you define haunted. Is a possessed doll going to come to life and kill you to avenge the unfortunate and gruesome death of a child? Probably not.”

  I agree. Dolls are scary and creepy. Now about the unfortunate death of a child. I was twenty-one when I died. Does that still count?

  Her eyes grow huge. “Probably?”

  “Almost certainly not. Never wise to completely rule out any possibility.” He arches one of his dark eyebrows. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Has anyone died here?” She nervously studies the shelf-lined walls and rich wood paneling.

  “In the library with a candlestick. Or was it a fire poker?” He grins. “This isn’t a game of Clue.”

  “Does anyone still play that game?” Everett asks from the couch.

  Andrew glances over his shoulder with a smile. “Who can say. I’m sure there’s a copy around here somewhere if you’re interested in murder.”

  His effortless charm reminds me of a younger Geoffrey.

  Madison steps closer to Andrew. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  He takes both of her hands in his. “Of course people have died here. Loads of them. Well documented natural deaths. For the most part. A few questionable accounts of poisonings and an unfortunate fall out of a second story window.”

  I remember the poisoning story. An unhappy second wife and the right amount of arsenic in the nineteenth century. The unfortunate fall doesn’t ring a bell.

  Did I fall out of a window? Could I have been pushed? My favorite bedroom in the summer is upstairs on the second floor. Tucked into a corner near the back stairs, it has a beautiful view of the beach and Atlantic.

  I tuck this tidbit of information into a pocket of my memory for later.

  Tate and Sam return with beers and cups of drinks.

  Madison studies the contents. “What is it?”

  “Never you mind. Drink and be merry.” Sam taps her red cup against Madison’s.

  “Mmm, delicious.” Madison licks her lips.

  Never taking his eyes off of her, Andrew watches Madison like she’s a rare bird who randomly showed up one day and might fly away at any second. “Want a tour of the house?”

  Tate speaks up from across the room, “The couple who leaves the group is always the first to die. Classic horror movie trope.”

  “I think we’re safe.” Andrew stands and leads her out of the room.

  Certain I’m safe from being spotted, I follow behind them across the foyer.

  “Do you believe in ghosts?” she asks him.

  “I believe anything is possible.” He leads her closer to the grand staircase. “Like hidden rooms and secret passages.”

  “Really?” Excitement brightens her voice. “I’ve always wanted to remove a book and have a wall open to reveal another room.”

  “Tonight, your wish is going to come true.”

  They’ve almost reached the second floor when obnoxiously loud chimes boom from below.

  “Is that the doorbell?” she asks.

  He turns to answer her, his brow furrowed. “Strange. We all knock or just come in.”

  “Did you invite more people?” Tate appears at the base of the stairs. “Print up flyers? Send out engraved invitations?”

  “Not me.” Andrew holds us his hands in innocence. “You know I don’t really like people.”

  This earns him a chuckle from Tate. “Must’ve been me. Eh, the more the merrier.”

  Andrew groans. “Tate can never keep these things small.”

  “We can sneak away before the new arrivals see us.”

  “Is my son here?” a deep voice asks from the threshold. “He’s not returning my calls.”

  Andrew’s hand grips the banister, his knuckles turning white from the pressure.

  “Father.”

  He steps in front of Madison, block
ing her body with his own. She and I both peer around his shoulder at the enormous open door, mostly filled by Tate’s height and broad shoulders.

  The familiar, deep voice keeps speaking. “Ah, he is here. Figured he’d be neglecting finals to party with his buddies and pals.”

  What an asshole.

  “Finals are over.” Andrew defends himself. “Thanks for checking up on me.”

  “We’re about to play a game of Clue, Mr. Bradford. I apologize, but we don’t have enough pieces for late arrivals. Perhaps you can join us another time,” Tate says slowly and condescendingly as he closes the door on Mr. Bradford.

  “Nice try, Winthrop.” A pointy black shoe prevents the door from closing. “I’d like to have a word with my son. Since he refuses the aids of modern technology, I’ve taken the courtesy of driving all the way up here from Boston. He’s not rude enough to turn me away after all my efforts.”

  He couldn’t be more awful. Like the Winthrops, the Bradfords can trace their family’s lineage back to the Mayflower and the earliest days of the colonies. They’re the OG Pilgrims. In other words, they’ve had centuries to perfect their sense of pompous entitlement. He’s everything I hate about my family personified into a dark charcoal suit wearing middle-aged tool.

  Downstairs, Tate finally invites Mr. Bradford into the house, “You may enter.”

  To protect the enchantments surrounding the house, we’ve always been careful who is invited inside. Tate’s words are carefully chosen to communicate to Mr. Bradford he is welcome only by invitation.

  “Thank you.” Stanford nods and steps over the threshold, inhaling deeply as if he were sniffing the air for something specific. I wonder if he can also smell the scent of magic in the air tonight. His eyes flash to Madison, who is sitting on the step. His lips curl into a sneer. “You must be the Bradbury girl who has my son so enchanted.”

  Interesting choice of words. Enchanted? The Bradbury girl. It’s not a common last name in our circle. What does he know?

  “Andrew has clearly forgotten his manners tonight in failing to introduce us. I’m Stanford Bradford, Miss Bradbury.”