But a stronger impulse was compelling me to stay. Stay and right the wrong I was pretty sure I was at least partially responsible for committing.
“How exactly am I supposed to protect this girl—sorry, the Bringer of Light—who I don’t even know from the forces of evil?” I asked. “This is West Harbor. People here hardly bother keeping their doors locked at night. I don’t even own pepper spray.”
“Well, I suggest you start keeping your doors locked at night. This village is very quaint, but it’s only forty-five miles from New York City.” One corner of his mouth was turned up, which for him I guess counted as a smile. “And I’m fairly certain the powers of evil are resistant to pepper spray.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better about any of this?” The chocolate wasn’t helping. “What does the Council think it’s doing, anyway, putting all the responsibility of saving the universe on me and a teenaged girl?”
“Not the universe. West Harbor.”
“Right. Sorry.” I stared down at the photo. It wasn’t every day that a hot guy walked into my shop and told me that the fate of the universe—well, okay, my small town—rested on my shoulders. Maybe that’s why it took me so long to realize the girl’s maroon sweater vest and yellow striped tie looked familiar. “Hold on. Does she go to school here—West Harbor High?”
“I’m told that she does.”
“That’s where I went to school. Is that why I’m the Chosen One? Because I’ll have some kind of rapport with her?”
“It’s possible,” he said. Then he added, carefully, “That and the book.”
I raised my gaze to blink at him. “What book?”
“Don’t you have some sort of ancient book of spells . . . ?”
Comprehension dawned. “Goody Fletcher’s book? Oh my God, who told you about that? Was it Rosalie Hopkins?” It had to be. God, I couldn’t believe this. Rosalie had been itching to get her hands on that book since high school.
His gaze, which had always been sharp, became razor-edged. “So you and Rosalie Hopkins are friends?”
I opened my mouth to blurt out the truth—that Rosalie Hopkins and I were mortal enemies, and that if the rift was my fault, she was at least as responsible for it as I was.
But that didn’t seem the wisest thing to say in front of someone who’d been sent to help repair it.
“We went to school together,” I settled for saying instead.
Was it my imagination, or did he seem relieved? Some tension went out from beneath the padded shoulders of that motorcycle jacket, anyway. “That’s probably how the Council found out about the book, then. And also probably why I was asked to give you this.”
And then, to my utter horror, he tossed a silver amulet—an exact replica of the double moons he was wearing—onto the pile of lacy bralettes between us.
“What?” I stared down at the talisman in complete shock. “Are you kidding me? I’m not wearing that.”
He shrugged again. “Suit yourself. It’s for your own protection, but whether or not you wear it makes no difference to me.”
I glanced from the amulet to his face, flabbergasted. “But I thought those were only for people like you.”
“Me?”
“Members of the World Council of Witches.”
Like all members of the WCW, he was a supremely good-looking and confident—one might even say overconfident—person. But suddenly, he seemed uncertain, shaking his head and stammering. “I . . . I . . . I’m not a member of the WCW.”
“You’re not?”
“No. What would make you think that?”
I pointed wordlessly at the amulet around his neck.
He fingered it in surprise, seeming to have forgotten he was wearing it. “Oh, right. You do know that this is the symbol of Gaia?”
“Yes. But it’s also the symbol of the World Council of Witches.”
“But they don’t own the trademark on the symbol for the ancestral Mother Goddess of all life, do they?” The bitter sarcasm in his voice was oddly soothing. “No, they don’t, despite what they might think. So I suggest you put it on. It’s not pepper spray, but it’s better than nothing.”
Reluctantly, I lifted the amulet he’d tossed at me. The metal felt cold and hard against my fingers. Rosalie wore one exactly like it, usually tucked away on a silver chain beneath her inevitable cashmere sweater set, where she thought no one would notice it.
I did, though. I’d noticed it long ago . . . and also noticed that Rosalie’s mother and grandmother wore similar ones.
It took me years to realize exactly what the pendant represented—and that I was never going to get one like it.
Until today, apparently.
Derrick was pointing to the open window above my head. “Aren’t you worried about break-ins?”
“No. It can’t open any farther than that, it’s been stuck that way for years. But it’s fine, my cat uses it to get in and out. If you don’t work for the Council, how did you get all this stuff, like the forensic genealogical report on Esther, and copies of the prophecy about her, and everything?”
“Other entities exist in the world besides the World Council of Witches,” he said. The sarcasm was back. “Entities that care as much as you do about saving this town from evil.”
“Right, right.” That called for another chocolate bar. “And precisely how long do we have before that happens? Did your bosses at this mystery entity give you a deadline?”
“Yes, actually,” he said, with a brisk nod. “Halloween.”
I choked a little on some peanuts and caramel. “I’m sorry—did you just say Halloween?”
“Yes. You know that Halloween is when the veil between this world and the spirit world is at its thinnest. That’s when we’ll have the best chance of defeating this evil.” He must have noticed my expression, since he asked, “Sorry, is that inconvenient for you?”
“Yes, actually. Halloween is next week. How am I supposed to save West Harbor from being rifted, or whatever it is, in a week?”
“I don’t know.” He was edging toward the door. “But I’d think you could start by contacting Esther and—”
“Please don’t say the word implant again.”
That caused both corners of his mouth to turn up—a hard-won victory for me. “I was going to say, see if you think she truly is as gifted with magic as we’ve heard.”
“Right. And how will I let you know if I do?” I’d already scanned the papers he’d left me, and seen that they had no phone numbers or email addresses or anything listed on them that could be considered remotely useful information. This was one thing I’d always hated about the witching world. The magic was wonderful, but witches themselves could be so flaky—except of course for Rosalie Hopkins, who was a stickler for the rules, and loved nothing better than coming after those of us who didn’t follow them to the letter—except herself of course. She defied them flagrantly. “Or are you just going to dump all the responsibility for this girl and the continued existence of West Harbor into my lap and then leave town?”