Arbor’s Descent

Excerpt

Arbor’s Descent
J.L. Brown © 2021
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One

SAMHAIN

Most women would have felt like a queen. All the trappings were there–the castle on a hill, the regal gown, the morbid curiosity of the general populace. Not to mention the dashing gentleman of the castle wrapped around one arm, and my ethereal companion curled around the other. But I wasn’t “most women,” and I was no queen. I was a witch, a witch who had triumphed despite my Arbor neighbors’ best efforts to kill me.

They said we were evil. They tried to burn me. They killed my friends. But I survived. And though I grieved for those who did not, I refused to defile their memories by enacting revenge, however tempting.

Because I’m not evil, despite the prevailing notion in Arbor. A little wicked, possibly. Naughty, most definitely. But not evil.

Instead of seeking vengeance, my coven and I chose a more diplomatic path and invited the residents of Arbor to the Samhain grand opening of the Manor Arts, our new gallery within Morgan Manor. This magnificent walled estate sat high atop Red Hill and overlooked the once bucolic village. I’d taken up residence due to my late nights in the gallery and the manor’s inordinate number of empty bedrooms. And of course, proximity to the master of the house. The estate belonged to Alexander Morgan, the man—the witch—whose fury and anguish had leveled half of downtown. Not that his involvement in the fire was common knowledge. The newspapers attributed the burning of Arbor to a severe summer lightning storm. They weren’t wrong.

Ignorant of Alexander’s guilt, and relentlessly nosy, the people of Arbor accepted our invitation. My small-town neighbors arrived in jewels and formalwear, costumes and masks, on the most magical of nights when the veil between worlds thinned and the spirits of the dead laced the breeze. The very people who tried to stop me from opening a gallery in their town, joined the avant-garde and the elite of the arts community to celebrate the Manor Arts grand opening. They gathered for an event hosted by a witch they’d strapped to an elder tree pyre and set aflame only four months before. The witch who lived through it. The witch who saved them from Alexander’s magical retribution.

Our newly enshrined coven, the Witches of Arbor, orchestrated every nuance of the evening to evoke wonder and trepidation. We had the perfect backdrop. The manor’s rough, gray stone battlements and turrets and bell tower loomed haunted and menacing. Torch-light and jack-o’-lanterns, carved with ancient Samhain symbols, cast the shadows of those assembled across the sprawling lawn.

No matter where the eye landed, it fell upon the frightening, the seductive, the wildly unique. An army of black-clad servers, each with raven hair and candy apple lips, wove through the crowd with hors d’oeuvres and champagne. Jugglers with ghoulishly painted faces launched onyx orbs and flaming swords into the air. A buxom steampunk illusionist levitated six inches from the ground, beckoning the curious and brave to witness her other-worldly feats. Tattooed and pierced contortionists twisted themselves into impossible positions. A lone violinist conjured an eerily enthralling melody; her instrument tuned in nature’s pristine pitch. Like the pied piper, she lured our awed visitors through the manor’s gaping entrance. With nervous steps, they shuffled toward the alabaster hearth blazing beyond the iron doors.

Many of our guests, particularly the artists and their ilk, appreciated our theatrical welcome. It was Halloween, after all. But the Arbor residents were terrified. Their anxious hearts beat against their chests as if they were passing through the gates of hell itself.

Their dread swelled like static on my skin, and despite my repudiations of evil, I reveled in their fear.

The entire town would have burnt if I hadn’t stepped in. Calling down the rain hadn’t been enough to extinguish Alexander’s flames. I drew water from the fucking Ausable River to put out the fire. These lemmings would have been scorched to the earth if I hadn’t summoned the water. I saved them, even after they tried to kill me. Even after they stoned Celeste and burned Adelaide. They should fall to their knees, thank me for sparing them, and beg my forgiveness!

A strong, calming hand settled on my shoulder and halted my mental rant. I gazed up into dark eyes veiled by cascading chestnut waves. Clad in an impeccably cut tuxedo, Alexander towered over my left side, a mischievous twinge of humor playing on his lips.

He leaned down close to my ear. “You’re right, streghetta mia—high priestess. The Arbor mundane should bow before you. You saved them from me, and in the process, you saved me from myself. I, too, bow before you. Evangeline Clarion, you are my queen.” He winked before bending deeply at the waist.

Celeste, my elegant companion entwined around my right arm, snorted, and rolled her eyes.

“Don’t tease me.” I pinched Alexander’s arm. Hard. “And stay out of my head, you ass. If I want you to know something, I’ll tell you myself.” I glared up at him.

“I’ll tell you this,” I continued indignantly. “I wouldn’t want to be a queen. Being a queen isn’t any better than being a witch. We both have power and can influence matters great and small. Sure, queens bask in riches, but witches have ways of obtaining wealth too, and we aren’t bound to conform to society’s stringent rules. We’re free.”

Celeste gave my arm an encouraging squeeze.

“Queens get beheaded, but witches get burned,” Alexander countered, his jaw clenched tight.

“Only the naughty ones.” A memory of the wise and brazen Adelaide Good, my late high priestess and mentor, passed through my mind. “And thanks to the Goddess, I don’t have to worry about their fire. While I may not be evil, I am the wickedest witch in town.”

Celeste clapped her hand over her mouth to check her mirth. “Like you said, Alexander, she is the high priestess.”

Ignoring Celeste, Alexander lifted himself up to his full height, pulled back his shoulders, and glowered down at me. “You’re not getting too big for those tiny britches, are you, Your Highness?” He couldn’t fully hide the smile that threatened his stern face.

“Look who’s talking, Zeus,” I needled. “Or is it Hades?”

“You’re hilarious, Persephone.” He teased me with his words, but there was nothing playful in the look he gave me as he brushed a stray lock of hair away from my cheek. “But are you sure you’re okay? I know crowds make you anxious. It’s understandable, especially after…” He averted his eyes.

“You mean, especially after a mob of my neighbors cheered for my death and set me and Adelaide on fire?” I snorted. “Yeh, I’m ok.”

Alexander growled low in his throat and ran his thumb along my cheek. “I won’t let anything happen to you ever again.”

“Oh, please.” I waved the notion aside. “If you don’t let anything happen, nothing will ever happen. And that is fucking boring.”

“I think I heard that in Finding Dory,” Celeste noted dryly.

“I’m just saying I can cover for you if you want to duck out. Hell, I’ll shut the whole thing down. Say the word.”

I shook my head with an indulgent smile and sighed.

“Alexander, I’m fine. Great, actually.” I raised my hand and ran it along his stubbled jaw. I locked my eyes with his. “This is the biggest night of my life. This is all I’ve ever wanted, and it’s more spectacular than anything I ever imagined. I worked my ass off for this. We all have. And I’m glad Arbor is here to see it. I want them to know they didn’t stop me. I have no intention of hiding.”

“Damn right.” Celeste nodded emphatically.

“Then I’ll be right here to make sure you’re safe.” Alexander dropped a kiss on my head, then turned his attention to the festivities and their looming dangers.

He still hadn’t learned. He didn’t have to be my great protector. I didn’t need that. I didn’t want it.

What do I want? I asked myself the question for the millionth time. I turned instinctively to the other-worldly vision curled at my right side, the evening’s Mistress of Ceremonies, Celeste Galehorn.

Dear Goddess, she is luminous.

Her white-blonde hair cascaded sleek as silk over her delicate, naked shoulders, flushed pink from adrenaline and the crisp autumn air. Her deep-blue dress sparkled as if the night sky draped across her skin. Bright starlight on the outside, Celeste had a darker center. Yet her darkness sprang from loving me.

And how she suffered for it! Oh, what that fanatical hoard did to Celeste, laughing and cheering as they stoned her.

I cringed at the memory of the pitiful, repentant Wiccan upon her knees with her arms spread wide. She’d welcomed the rocky onslaught as penance for her lies and manipulation. She’d thrown herself at Arbor’s mercy for my sake, her sacrifice an act of atonement. And love.

And I loved her too. I couldn’t deny it. She’d hurt me, to be sure. Though that wound no longer festered, it hadn’t fully healed. Her deception, and the spell she never thought would work, had driven a wedge between me and Alexander. I hadn’t completely forgiven her for it. Yet a profound connection existed between me and Celeste, and it went beyond our physical attraction. Since the burning of Arbor, after the loss of my high priestess and one of my familiars, throughout the creation of the Manor Arts and planning the grand opening, Celeste grounded me. She grieved with me. She comforted me. And when it was time to get down to business, Celeste worked beside me, ever encouraging. She kept me focused and organized, but her humor and easy-going banter ensured I never took things—especially myself—too seriously. Every day, she proved herself to be savvy, smart, and ever loyal in business, coven affairs, and the trials of daily life.

I rely on her. Too much.

Celeste had enchanted me with her soul and body. I was captivated by the capable elegance of her hands, her lustrous golden-spun hair, the sultry lines of her clavicle, her long royal neck, the tender, ticklish spot behind her ear, and the way her eyes crinkled when she thought of something mischievous. And her lips. Once upon a time, I tasted those lips. It had been months, yet I could almost feel her eager mouth on mine, and her hands greedily roaming my body.

I ache for her, and still, I keep her at arm’s length. How much longer can I resist?

As if she sensed the pull of my heart, Celeste leveled me with a wicked grin that lit me like a match. Her very presence teased my senses, and the twinkle in her eyes told me she knew it.

Fuck it. I want them both. I don’t want to choose. That was the truth of it. And shielding these thoughts seemed a fruitless endeavor. If Alexander insisted on snooping around in my head, he’d have to deal with hearing things he didn’t like.

A shadow of grief crossed Alexander’s face. He had, indeed, been listening.

“I won’t apologize. I love you both,” I said matter-of-factly.

“Well, we love you too, sweetheart.” Celeste batted coquettish lashes, ignorant of my mental deliberations. “Now, if we’re finished flirting, we need to mingle.”

Alexander, Celeste, and I swept into the manor’s grand foyer to schmooze and socialize with our guests. We took up residence at the landing of the wide sweeping marbled staircase, just below the ruby chandelier that hung from the intersection of vaulted archways above. The staircase had become a centralized location from which the crowd divided, heading either to the dining room, music room, library, or the grand gallery—the location of the Manor Arts. We nodded polite hellos and thank-you-for-comings like bobbleheads at a tennis match. We shook hands with the barista from the café that burned down and the bank lady who declined my business loan, both coincidentally wearing Queen of Hearts costumes. We made small talk with members of the town council and the planning board, all dressed to the nines. And we chatted with a tipsy gaggle of Arbor public school teachers, thrilled to simply be out amongst adults.

As the crowd flowed around us, a name found its way to my ears. Once it did, I heard it everywhere—Harcourt. The name leapt out at me from passing conversations and taunted me with indecipherable context. Who was this Harcourt? I couldn’t catch a snippet of explanation. It was a mystery, and I found myself eager to learn more.

An elderly woman in a fraying black dinner dress approached Alexander. “Mr. Morgan,” she began, taking his hand in her paper-thin, frail one. “I want to thank you for continuing your great-grandfather Cain’s Halloween tradition. I used to help him organize the festivities every year, you know. Cain and I and a few of our other friends would brainstorm new themes and decoration ideas. We had a good time of things. It was a nice way for the townsfolk to satisfy their curiosity about the manor and for Cain to give back to the community he loved.” She broke out of her memories and looked clearly at Alexander. “And your generous donation toward the rebuilding of our precious downtown is commendable. Your great-grandfather would be so proud.” She patted his cheek kindly. “With you and the Harcourts at the helm, we’ll have downtown ship-shape in no time, I’m sure.”

That name!

“The Harcourts, ma’am?” Alexander’s puzzled expression mimicked my own confusion. He hated being out of the loop with downtown issues. This was a defensive posture, given the events of four months prior, but Alexander also worried over the spending of his money.

“Yes, of course.” The old woman squinted up at Alexander. “The architects Mayor Riddle hired to spearhead the rebuild efforts. I’m surprised you haven’t heard. You’ll be working closely with them, I’m sure. But you shouldn’t worry. They are magnificent. Everybody says so.”

Magnificent architects. That’s what all the fuss is about? So much for mystery.

Alexander’s features hardened. Despite the Morgan fortune bankrolling the rebuild, Mayor Riddle had made this decision without his input—a deliberate slight.

He and the mayor need to have a hell of a chat.

After the elderly woman moved along, Alexander grumbled. “I need some food and a goddamned drink.”

Celeste glowed. “Bring it.”

“Yes. Wine. Now. Please,” I agreed.

Because alcohol never screwed anything up. Way to make good choices.

We entered the dining room. Rich, tantalizing aromas drew me to the long buffet tables overflowing with autumn delicacies. I salivated as I gazed enthralled at the decadent spread. From the butternut squash casserole with apples and raisins, and the squid ink striped linguine with kalamata olive pesto, to the baked pumpkin mousse and chocolate crepes with concord grape compote, the master was on his game in the kitchen.

The executive chef of Morgan Manor, Gregory Massey, hailed from an ancient line of Druids, belonged to the Witches of Arbor coven, and had been one of my closest friends since infancy. He also happened to be an absolute culinary master. His Samhain menu was a work of art. Each dish looked and smelled enticing. Based on Alexander’s reactions, they tasted wonderful as well.

I marveled at the way Gregory’s magic worked through him, in the manipulation of the senses. However, hiring Chef Massey to run our kitchen constituted a scandal in and of itself.

As if we don’t revel in such things.

As renowned as Gregory was for his culinary ability, his notoriety laid elsewhere. An impressively built, imposing figure of a man, Gregory’s fondness for sex magic and his reputation as an intensely satiating lover ensured his infamy far and wide. Although he and I had never done the deed, I’d seen Gregory sky-clad on more than one occasion, and his generous endowments led me to believe he’d have no trouble pleasuring the most demanding connoisseur.

“The man’s outdone himself. After this, he’ll be asking for a raise,” Alexander mumbled between bites of food. “And I’m giving him one. The guy’s a fucking pro.” He licked pesto from his fingers.

Celeste shook her head and raised her eyes heavenward as if pleading the Goddess for patience. Then she led me by the hand to a small table near a cluster of jazz musicians taking a break between sets.

“Be a dear, Alexander, and get us drinks,” she called over her shoulder. “Rest up. The night is young, and your heels are high.” She smiled at me brightly and then headed off to mingle.

While Alexander busied himself at the wine table and Celeste made friends with the entertainers, I closed my eyes. A heavy sadness settled over me. The festivities and celebration felt bittersweet without my Goddess-mother Maggie there to share it with me. I missed her terribly. We’d texted earlier that afternoon, and I knew she and her partner Ayo were with me in spirit. As were my mother, my high priestess, and my familiar. At least Maggie and Ayo would be coming home. A cascading parade of images rushed before my mind’s eye of all the Goddess’s blessings, making me feel like a spoiled brat for lingering over so much grief on such a celebratory evening.

Alexander jolted me from my meditations with a lingering kiss perilously close to being inappropriate for polite company. Left tingling and off-kilter, I shot a furtive glance at Celeste to gauge her reaction. She pointedly ignored us. A quiet defiance lifted her chin, and her boldness inflamed me. I imagined taking her in my arms and kissing her until her knees buckled. But Alexander recalled my attention with a devilish smile—the smile he saved just for me.

I think I heard my ovaries orgasm. What the fuck am I supposed to do with the two of them? I groaned. I can think of so many intriguing possibilities, but what am I actually supposed to do?

A twinge of guilt squeezed my heart. I squashed the feeling as soon as it wriggled into my brain. Guilt, in this instance, was a waste of an emotion. We were all adults. I loved them both. Our situation was that simple and that complicated.

Alexander handed me a heavily etched goblet of Barolo. “For the lady.” He offered an exaggerated bow.

“Many thanks, kind sir.” I took a sip, savoring the refined mouthful, and sighed with pleasure.

At the sound of my contentment, Celeste whipped around and leveled me with predatory eyes. She was a cat, and I was the tasty morsel of a mouse.

Unlike the mouse, I wouldn’t mind being devoured by this particular kitty. I could almost hear her purr.

Alexander stepped between us, interrupting Celeste’s silent seduction. “A Pinot Gris for the Wiccan.”

He spat “Wiccan” like a dirty word, as if practicing the craft without the benefit of innate magic was frivolous or ineffective. He, of all people, should have known better. It was an ugly way to behave, considering Alexander had only recently come into his powers. And he hadn’t practiced the craft before that either. His nasty side pissed me off.

But Celeste lifted an artless grin and accepted the wine with grace. She waited until Alexander turned to hiss.

When the musicians ended a song a minute later, Celeste raised her glass high.

“I’d like to propose a toast.” Her voice rung out clear as crystal. “To this evening’s hostess – artist, classical musician, fashion designer, proud director of the Manor Arts, and the Witch of Arbor – Evangeline Clarion! To Eva!”

I could kill her.

“To Evangeline!” Alexander cheered. The crowd around us chimed in, lifting their glasses high.

I could kill them all…if I don’t die of embarrassment first.

“You’re lucky I love you,” I muttered through gritted teeth.

“Back at ya.” Celeste winked.

My cheeks flamed red hot. Sweat broke out along my forehead and the nape of my neck. I dipped into a quick, awkward curtsey.

“Thank you. Thanks,” I muttered. Avoiding eye contact, I trained my gaze on the intricacies of the marble pattern on the floor.

While I appreciated Celeste’s gesture, the crowd’s praise turned my stomach. Their adulation seemed too good to be true. I didn’t trust it. The image of Stephen King’s Carrie doused in blood popped into my head. It seemed like a warning.