Diary of the White Witch

A Witches of East End Prequel

Melissa de la Cruz

Praise for the Witches of East End

Series

“What could be more fun than a summer on Long Island? A
summer on Long Island with witches, of course. Smart,
stylish, and just a bit wicked, the witches in Melissa de la
Cruz’s

Witches of East End

series manage to be both

thoroughly modern and delightfully mythic.”

—Deborah Harkness,

New York Times

bestselling author

of

A Discovery of Witches

and

Shadow of Night

“Move over, zombies, vampires, and werewolves, and
make way for witches. Melissa de la Cruz, author of the
bestselling

Blue Bloods

series, ably sets the stage for a

juicy new franchise with

Witches of East End

…De la Cruz

balances the supernatural high-jinksery with unpredictable
twists and a conclusion that nicely sets up book 2. B+”

—

Entertainment Weekly

“Centuries after the practice of magic was forbidden,
Freya, Ingrid and their mom struggle to restrain their witchy
ways as chaos builds in their Long Island town. A bubbling
cauldron of mystery and romance, the novel shares the
fanciful plotting of

Blue Bloods

, the author’s teen vampire

series…breezy fun.”

—

People

“A magical and romantic page-turner….

Witches of East

End

is certain to attract new adult readers…The pacing is

masterful, and while the witchcraft is entertaining, it’s
ultimately a love triangle that makes the story compelling.
De la Cruz has created a family of empathetic women who
are both magically gifted and humanly flawed.”

—

Washington Post

“For anyone who was frustrated watching Samantha
suppress her magic on ‘Bewitched,’ Ms. de la Cruz brings
some satisfaction. In her first novel for adults, the author…
lets her repressed sorceresses rip.”

—

New York Times

“What happens when a family of Long Island witches is
forbidden to practice magic? This tale of powerful women,
from the author of the addictive

Blue Bloods

series, mixes

mystery, a battle of good versus evil and a dash of Norse
mythology into a page-turning parable of inner strength.”

—

Self

“

Witches of East End

has all the ingredients you’d expect

from one of Melissa’s bestselling YA novels—intrigue,
mystery and plenty of romance. But with the novel falling
under the ‘adult’ categorization, Melissa’s able to make her
love scenes even more…magical.”

—MTV.com

“De la Cruz has, with

Witches

, once again managed to

enliven and embellish upon history and mythology with a

clever interweaving of past and present, both real and
imagined…[it] casts a spell.”

—

Los Angeles Times

“De la Cruz is a formidable storyteller with a narrative voice
strong enough to handle the fruits of her imagination. Even
readers who generally avoid witches and whatnot stand to
be won over by the time the cliffhanger-with-a-twist-ending
hits.”

—

Publishers Weekly

“Fantasy for well-read adults.”

—

Kirkus

“A sexy, magical romp, sure to bring de la Cruz a legion of
new fans.”

—Kelley Armstong,

New York Times

bestselling author of

The Otherworld

series

Contents

Title page

Praise for the

Witches of East End

Series

Diary of the White Witch

About the Author

Also by Melissa de la Cruz

Copyright

More about the world of Melissa de la Cruz

Coming in Summer 2012

Diary of the White Witch

Wednesday, April 20
Dryden Road, Ithaca, New York

I can’t help but think of Dad, the indomitable seafarer, as I
write my first entry in this journal, a parting gift from my
coworkers at Cornell. Of course, it’s no ordinary journal.
One would expect no less from a team of top-rate paper
conservators and archivists. It’s an ancient, unused leather-
bound captain’s logbook; the left-hand pages display an
ever-so-faint ghost of a grid for the captain of the ship to log
the day of the week, speed, wind, and compass directions,
while the right-hand pages are left blank for sundry thoughts
and observations. There is a gold-leaf compass on the
worn leather cover, and each of the hand-cut pages have
received some form of treatment in the lab from my fellow
staff members, so that I, Ingrid Beauchamp, may write here
without worry that this centuries-old coarse-grained paper
might crumble beneath my pen. It has been ages since I
have kept a diary. What a perfect and timely gift!

It did cross my mind that some of these pages could

have been doused with poison, and before setting pen to
paper, I brought the book up to my nose for a sniff of
possible malfeasance. Hmm. It appears my coworkers
have forgiven me after all. There was no scent of bitter
almonds, only leather with faint traces of lanolin and neat’s-

foot oil, and aging paper. Perhaps now that I’m leaving and
no longer pose a threat to my coworkers’ tenuous jobs, the
vipers have withdrawn their fangs. Ever since rumors of
massive layoffs began circulating last semester, there’s
been quite a bit of backstabbing in the old library. But if
anything, everyone grew quite fond of me since I
announced my departure. Who can blame them? One more
job has been secured.

The farewell party was all smiles, ladyfingers, chocolate,

champagne, a tiny jar of caviar nestled in a silver dish with
ice, and some of my lab students dropping by, promising to
keep in touch. I will miss them the most, as well as my daily
bike rides to and fro the university past apple orchards.

And so, on this first day of spring, when the air is laced

with hyacinth and day and night momentarily match with
equal length, I set off, much wind in my sails and many
propitious portents for the journey ahead. I’m going home,
finally, and maybe this time, to stay. Mother will be so
pleased.

I have wanted to leave the school for a long time now, as

I have become weary of academia; it appears the smaller
the piece of the pie, the more bitter the feuds for the
crumbs. Last week, I received a letter from one Hudson
Rafferty of the North Hampton Library. Months ago, enough
to have forgotten, I sent an inquiry about a possible position
as an archivist there, but never heard back. Apparently
there is a sudden need, and Mr. Rafferty is requesting I
come in for an interview as soon as time will permit, as the
ranking archivist has up and left out of the blue. I sent him a

formal reply, expressing great interest, along with my
résumé, and notified Mr. Rafferty that I will be in North
Hampton in a week’s time and am looking forward to
scheduling an interview.

The idea of being my own boss in a small-town library—

with “a decent collection of local architectural blueprints and
rare maps that will need maintenance,” as he put it, “and
running things, since we are all junior librarians at the
moment and in a tizzy”—is much more appealing to me
than slipping back into the sludge of pernicious academic
politics.

North Hampton. I can feel it calling me. I need to be near

Mother, near the seam, the epicenter. A few months ago I
began having dreams—nightmares, really—from which I
would awake gasping. In my mind’s eye I saw the seam
fraying, loosening, harm seeping in like quicksilver, the sea
bubbling and drowning the small, sleepy town of North
Hampton. Mother will need my help, I can feel it.

At the very least, I long to see my family back together.

We have been apart too long. Salem 1692 were the last
days we were together. Ugly, violent, confusing days. And
now if something evil is upon us again as I fear, we
Beauchamps need to stick together. Enough time has
passed for old wounds to heal. Mother and Dad must get
over themselves and stop being so pigheaded. On my way
out to Long Island, I’ve planned a stopover in New York
City, where I will attempt to persuade my sweet, wild sister
to sell the bar, that albatross of hers, and come home, too.
Perhaps between the three of us we can even work on

getting our Fryr back from Limbo.

Outside the opened window by my desk, the sun sinks

beneath the horizon, leaving tinges of pink in its wake,
signaling fair weather ahead. Though dusk sets in and fills
the corners of the cottage with shadows after a long day, I
no longer feel weary. Oscar has curled up at my feet. A
warm fragrant breeze flows in, filling me with that light,
heady feeling of spring. I am eager for the journey ahead.

Thursday, April 21
Amtrak Train, Empire Route, Syracuse–New York City

Margaret, a bright, promising library science major with one
too many tattoos, drove me to the Amtrak station this
morning. The poor girl’s eyes turned as pink as the shock
running through her raven hair, then brimmed with tears
when we said good-bye. I gave her a hug, then the gentlest
little push away from me, as if to say,

Go forward, be brave

—you can do this, kiddo!

“Don’t forget to retrieve my bike

at the cottage,” I reminded her. “It’s yours.” She smiled and
quickly turned away, and no sooner had she done so, a
lump formed in my throat, and tears sprang in my eyes as
well. I should be used to this—they all graduate, after all.

With a heavy heart, I walked down the platform, my heels

clicking with a hollow sound, my suitcase swerving behind
me, just as I homed in on a distress signal. Something
wasn’t right, and I could feel darkness lurking. Then I saw
the hubbub further down the platform. I stopped and
watched, wiping my tears, pushing a loose strand of hair

into my bun.

A woman had collapsed on the platform. She lay still as

blood dripped from her nose. I lunged forward. My heart
leapt. I wanted to help. I knew I could—I wasn’t Joanna, but
like all witches I had some talents in this arena. My body
tingled, a surge of magic building inside me, wanting to
burst forth, but I couldn’t allow it. Paramedics pushed past
me. A crowd had gathered. The magic fizzled out and died
inside me; I’d locked it back up in its cage. Even to help
someone in distress is forbidden by the Restriction. The
medics appeared to have it under control anyway.

I kept walking, just another mortal like the rest, just

another quiet, ordinary girl—“mousy,” one might even say—
with my hair in a bun, wearing a tan trench and plain navy
suit, looking for a car with an empty window seat. An
Amtrak worker appeared from nowhere, blocking my way,
telling me to get in the last car. There was an odd glint in his
eye, as if he were deriving pleasure from being bossy.
“Well, okay, then,” I said, making a face as I passed him.

By the time I plopped into my seat, I felt drained and

achy. I kicked off my shoes, wriggled my toes, feeling the
suppressed magic like a physical ache. Magic. I miss it
with every bone. I miss it like a hunger. I’ve often wondered
if what I used to feel when I was able to practice magic
freely is tantamount to what people experience when they
fall in love. I wouldn’t know. But when I read about love in
poems and novels, it sounds very similar. Except with
magic there is only happiness, euphoria—never pain.

The train has left the station. The seats beside and

across from me are empty. There is scarcely a passenger
in this car. Maybe that Amtrak guy was being nice, and I’m
the one in a nasty mood. A few rows ahead, I spy the back
of a man’s head. He stared at me and smiled when I
boarded the train—jet-black hair, piercing blue eyes,
square jaw, clean-shaven, cleft chin, and an air that says

I

know I’m so very handsome

. Freya told me all about men

like this. Ick. Why did he stare? Why did he smile like that? I
found it disturbing. Across the aisle is a teenager listening
to his iPod from beneath his wool cap, staring out the
window as he bobs his head. I can hear the repetitive beat
from the earbuds. Behind me, a mother tells her child to
shush, but the boy continues to ask her every few minutes
how long it will take to get to NYC. “And how long now,
Mommy?”

I call Freya and leave a message that I’m en route and

will call as soon as I’m in a taxi on the way to her place.
Before I slip the phone back into my pocket, I make sure
the ringer is on in case she calls back. Then I watch the
scenery unfold—verdant rolling hills, pink and white
blossoms, a mare and her foal taking its first tremulous
steps in a field by a barn.

Oscar has flown ahead. My familiar doesn’t like trains

and prefers his independence. When I spoke with Mother
last night, she was so excited about my arrival she couldn’t
stop talking about all the pies she has planned to bake for
me. She’ll make me fat if I don’t watch out.

I must have fallen asleep. The diary is still in my lap.

Some sort of disturbance jolted me awake. Is it me or has

the train begun to wobble? It is suddenly very dark outside
—dense storm clouds have swept in all around us.
Whatever woke me has stopped. When I stand to look
around, everyone else is looking around as well.
“Something weird is going on,” the teen across from me
says. “Don’t worry. It’s over,” I reply, trying to sound
reassuring but not believing my words. Why is it suddenly
so dark? The good-looking man is no longer in front of me
but gone from the car altogether. We are speeding along
through a gunmetal gloom. The car begins to vibrate
alarmingly. The child lets out a frightened wail. I better go
see what is going on, find a ticket person or conductor.
Something—

Sunday, April 24
Beth Israel Hospital Room, New York City

The doctors told me I slept for forty-eight hours, and when I
woke up, my head was bandaged in gauze, hooked up to
all sorts of unnecessary devices. My long slumber had been
mistaken for a coma, though the X-rays revealed no
concussion or major harm. I had probably done most of my
healing while I was transported to the hospital. The theory is
that I got pinned in place, possibly lodged beneath a seat,
as the train rolled over, thus no broken bones. My journal
and iPhone were on the hospital bedside table when I
came to.

“You’re a miracle!” the nurse said when she came into

my room. “Some train wreck! They’re still talking about it on

the news.” She told me that my sister had visited and would
return; Freya had seen the wreckage and carnage on the
news, the glimpses of bodies being pulled out; then she
tracked me down at the hospital. The nurse said they had to
pry the logbook from my grip when they wheeled me in. I
had been muttering the word “black” in my sleep.

“What do you mean, ‘black’?” the nurse asked, to which I

shrugged, feigning no idea.

What I remember: There was a loud clang, and the car

wobbled as it detached from the train ahead. We became
completely enshrouded in the gray mist, so that there was
no visibility beyond the windows. Everything had gone
silent. I’d stood up, gripping the diary to my chest. The
passengers in the car were suddenly asleep, which was
when I realized this was all directed at me. Was I being
challenged? I could feel the presence of one of my own kind
nearby. “Who are you? Are you from the White Council?” I
asked, annoyed. I hadn’t even used my magic on that
woman at the station, merely contemplated it. I had followed
the rules. I’d been following those damn rules for centuries
now.

We were still moving along the tracks, but the car was

slowing. “Show yourself!” I challenged. I laughed. I did. I
really didn’t think much else would happen. I thought this
was a little slap on the wrist for a very minor infraction.
“Well? Get on with—”

No sooner had I uttered these last words that something

rammed against the side of the car. This was surely not
from the White Council. This was something else.

Something malicious, evil. It hit us again but with such
tremendous force that the car came off the tracks, flipping
over, and we were rolling down an incline, my body
smacking against seats and windows, all of us tossed like
clothes in a dryer. It was a swirling blur of shock and
helplessness and cracking bones and pain. I blacked out.

Only the teenager and I survived. He’s in the trauma

center. The others weren’t so lucky. Mother and child are
dead along with about five others.

I realized then that I knew something was going to

happen. I’d felt it pulsing just underneath the surface: the
lady collapsing on the platform; the sudden eerie feeling in
the air after Margaret left me at the station; the Amtrak
worker appearing out of nowhere, telling me to board the
last car; the handsome man who smiled at me, then
vanished—the last two, maybe one and the same person?

“Black…”
Indeed. It was black magic and of the most powerful and

lethal sort.

There had been a surge of it at the station, which I had

sensed and now only realize in retrospect. I’ve grown too
rusty. It sapped the life out of that poor woman who
collapsed. Some are susceptible like that, their life force
used for fuel. But who would have had the audacity to
practice post-Restriction? Black magic nonetheless?
Strong enough to send a train flying off its tracks. Who even
possesses that kind of power?

I’m certainly no match for it.
Now more than ever I am convinced that I must be with

my family. Something is brewing. This was just a warning,
and only together can we fight it.

I sense her as soon as the elevator doors open onto my

floor, like a waft from a field of daffodils—earthy, rich, wild
goodness, and wholesome milk and honey. My sister is
here. Freya!

Sunday Night, April 24
Freya’s Apartment, East 7th Street, Lower East Side,
New York City

Before we left the hospital, we visited the kid who’d been
on the train with me. He was unconscious and on a
respirator in the trauma ward, the only signs of life his
rhythmic raspy breath in and out of the tube, the labored
rise and fall of his chest, and the slow and steady pulse
from the heart monitor. His face was swollen beyond
recognition, body broken in a thousand pieces from the
multiple blunt force trauma, limbs suspended, held in place
with metal contraptions and pins, abrasions and lacerations
covering every inch of his skin.

“That was no accident,” I told my sister as we hopped

into a cab. Freya had brought me something to wear, and I
was entirely too uncomfortable in the tight black shirt and
skintight pants. She gave the cabbie directions to her place
on the Lower East Side, then turned to me, her green eyes
alarmed. “I was so worried! They said the car detached at a
crossing! I had a feeling—are you sure? But who and why
would anyone do this?”

I told her what happened: the dark mass, the malicious

spirit. “You’ve got to come home with me. Sell the bar and
join me in North Hampton. We haven’t been all together in
so long,” I pleaded. She stared at me, and now I saw the
dark circles beneath her eyes, and her face, though
youthful, looked puffy, as if she had been drinking too much.
She needed a good detox—Joanna’s love and care,
Joanna’s rehab center, the country life.

“I can’t leave. I’m happy here. I love the Holiday Lounge.

And besides, I help people,” she said.

“Help?” I asked, surprised. “Help them by getting them

drunk?”

She scoffed. I knew what I said sounded snooty, and I

immediately regretted it. I tried a different tact. “How can
you help when we are not allowed to practice magic?”

She laughed. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me!” I challenged. But she only smirked and

crossed her arms, turned away from me, and stared out the
window as we hurled down Second Avenue.

“I help the lost, the brokenhearted, the bereaved,” she

explained later at the apartment.

“Not too long ago there was a human boy, one who’d

been abandoned by his vampire…I helped him move on.”

I grabbed her by a shoulder. “I’m not judging you, Freya,

but you know we aren’t supposed to intervene. Please
come home, or at least consider it. You don’t look happy to
me.”

She harrumphed, went about making some coffee

before work, her back turned to me, but I knew I had

reached her. I decided to give it a break and visit her later
at the bar after I had settled in.

That evening, I borrowed a pair of jeans, a black T-shirt,

and boots with not too steep a heel—not my usual dress—
and strolled over to the Holiday on St. Mark’s. In the dim
light of the neon signs and strands of Christmas lights
(apparently Freya hadn’t yet changed the decor to a spring
theme), I saw my sister leaning over the bar top in a white
tank, locked in a kiss with a young lady with long black hair
and tattoos of exotic flowers snaking up her arms. The
patrons cheered them on. When they broke away, everyone
clapped.

Freya spotted me wedged in my little spot and smiled

broadly. “Ingrid, look how cute you look!”

I waved a hand. “What was going on just then?” I asked,

changing the topic.

“Oh, just a harmless little game of truth or dare.” She

poured me a glass of white wine, then let the other
bartender take over as we huddled together at a quieter
end of the bar. I needed to drive my point in somehow.

I asked her to place her hands in mine, a game we

played as children.

“What? You’re going to peer into my lifeline, Ingrid?”
I begged her to give me just the tiniest peek and not to

block me. She relented. We held hands and closed our
eyes.

It was odd and confusing what I saw—a jumble of

images mixing themselves with my most recent experience.
Perhaps I still wasn’t quite right from the accident. I saw a

house, or rather a mansion, on a small island in the
distance, mist rising around it. I saw the handsome man
from the last car. He winked at me this time, then sat down
in the passenger seat and opened a newspaper. And there
was Freya in a slinky dress at a party, showing Mother the
engagement ring on her finger. The teen looking out the
window, bobbing his head, suddenly appeared, turning his
swollen, bruised face to me. Then Freya in a cramped
bathroom, sitting up on the vanity, one leg in the air, a man
with his face in the crook of her neck, his body tightly
pressed against hers so that I couldn’t see him. That was
too much information. But the image was quickly
juxtaposed by another: Freya on the deck of what appeared
to be a yacht, calling out to someone in the darkness. I
couldn’t hear her, but I felt her desperation. Something had
gone wrong. She was full of self-hatred and longing in that
moment. The images stopped and I opened my eyes.

Freya was beaming at me. I smiled back happily

because now I knew she would join me in North Hampton—
eventually. She had a mischievous glint in her eye.

“What?” I asked, perplexed.
“You, my dear, are about to meet a very dashing man

indeed. He’s very special, Ingrid. Oh my god, it’s all so
sweet!”

Freya grinned. I laughed. That was about the silliest thing

I had ever heard; she was obviously messing with me. As if
I cared about such things!

“I’m rather of incapable of that sort of—”
Freya shushed me, placing a finger to my lips. “Trust

me,” she said.

I was going to tell

her

the truth—well, not all of it. “You are

going to come to North Hampton, and you will get
engaged.”

Her eyes widened, and for a moment it didn’t seem she

would stop laughing. Apparently my pronouncement was
hysterical. When she finally stopped, she said, “Now that is
a bunch of bogus, Ingrid. A flat-out lie if I’ve ever heard one,
and it’s certainly not going to get me to come home.”

A girl in the bar shrieked. Freya and I stared at each

other, and I gathered the courage to tell her what I else I had
gleaned from my vision.

“If you come to North Hampton,” I said slowly, “you will

find Balder, your long lost love.”

She stared at me silently, then her eyes suddenly grew

watery. “That is so not funny, Ingrid!”

I reassured her it was no attempt at humor. I had no

doubt. I knew it wouldn’t exactly be smooth, but I wasn’t
about to tell her that.

“Balder!” she said, breathless, her mouth falling agape.

“Ingrid, that’s a low trick if you are trying to manipulate me
to sell this bar and move home.”

From Freya’s opened windows, I heard the crowd from

the sidewalk German bar nearby. Cars honk their horns;
kids scream in the streets; someone shouts, “Yo, throw
down the keys!” A drumbeat sounds from Tompkins
Square. The city is perpetually alive. No wonder Freya
loves it here. Even so, crammed as it is, I sensed
loneliness in nearly every person I passed on the way

home, strangers in a crowd, too afraid to reach out to one
another.

I’m now propped against the pillows of the big plush

vintage couch by the fireplace in Freya’s trompe l’oeil
apartment. I will sleep well tonight. My business here is
done.

Monday, April 25
Freya’s, New York City

I called Mr. Rafferty first thing this morning and set up an
interview for the job at the North Hampton Library. I meet
with him on Wednesday. He sounds nice, albeit a bit
panicked. We talked for a while. He admitted to me that he
is in his seventh year of working on a PhD in Romance
languages, and that he has also been interning at the library
for that same length of time, perhaps even longer. He told
me to call him Hudson. And though he “knows his way
around the bookshelves by now,” he is in desperate need
of help from someone as experienced as me. I have a
good feeling about this.

I also called Joanna and let her know that I will be

arriving Tuesday afternoon. She doesn’t know about the
train accident. This is the good thing about Mother not
having a TV.

Freya and I went shopping. I bought a few new outfits

and something for my interview. I’ve shipped my wardrobe
ahead to Joanna’s, but could no longer continue wearing
Freya’s clothes in the interim. Freya asked if I really, truly

think it was Balder I saw in my vision. I told her I was pretty
sure.

Tuesday, April 25
Joanna’s House, North Hampton, Long Island

The train ride to Long Island was peacefully uneventful.
Joanna picked me up at the station. I saw her coming a
mile away in her garden clogs and a big cable-knit off-white
sweater, a red foulard around her long white hair. By the
way, her garden is a stunning pandemonium of blooms and
blossoms and tangles of green. She couldn’t hug or kiss
me enough.

I told her what had happened and about my visit with

Freya during the car ride home.

“Yes, you are right—we girls will need to be together if

something is amiss. I’ve been sensing it myself—a
disturbance of some sort. What happened was horrific,
Ingrid! I am so delighted you are here.”

Given the gravity of the train wreck, her reaction seemed

rather flippant. Perhaps any impact was eclipsed by her
happiness at my return.

“It sounds like you gave Freya just the right amount of

bait to lure her here,” she said with a conspiratorial snicker.

I assured her that what I saw and felt during the vision

appeared true. Well, perhaps it wasn’t Balder per se, but
someone charming and special enough for Freya to be
willing to accept an engagement ring. Which in her book is
almost as bad as a noose—no witch pun intended here,

and I really shouldn’t joke about things like that.

“I have a feeling she’ll come home,” I said to Mother.
Joanna glimpsed at me, her eyes shining with joy, then

squeezed my knee and told me I did well and how happy
she was to have me home. The dozen pies she baked was
testimony to that joy.

I haven’t told her about my plans to eventually contact

Dad. I don’t think that would go over so well. I’ll wait.

Wednesday, April 26
Joanna’s House, North Hampton, Long Island

So there was a bit of a mishap today at the library, and I am
still quite peeved.

It was a glorious, sunshiny day, and when I arrived a

quarter hour before the appointed time for my interview, I
saw him: a tall, broad-shouldered man sitting on the steps
of the library, a book in his lap, waiting, staring right at me
with a welcoming smile. He stood. I took it that Mr. Rafferty
had been impatient for me to arrive, having been left in the
lurch by the previous archivist. He had come outside to
greet me. I hadn’t quite pictured him this, well, athletic-
looking. Something about his panicked tone on the phone
had suggested someone who might, say, sport argyle vests
and bow ties and perhaps even round spectacles—
someone delicate-looking. This was not the case.

This man wore a simple but stylish dark sports jacket

and light-colored pants. He had light brown hair; an Irish
face; a big, strong, square jaw; a nose sprinkled with

freckles; and huge, limpid blue eyes. At the time I did note
that his eyes appeared sincere and honest. I don’t know
why, but I felt butterflies. I was suddenly nervous about the
interview, which is not like me. I’m more than qualified for
the position. I just hadn’t expected someone so handsome
and manly, someone who looks more like a football player
than a librarian. It threw me for a loop. But I told myself one
shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, of course.

“Ingrid Beauchamp,” I said reaching out my hand. We

shook.

“Very glad…well,

extremely

glad to meet you…

Miss

Beauchamp?”

I nodded. “Yes, Miss. It was very nice of you to have

come outside to greet me.”

“Not a problem. It is such a beautiful day, after all, isn’t

it?”

He lingered, gazing at me, and I cleared my throat and

said we should go inside and get started. He stared at me
quizzically for a beat, then smirked and agreed. My
stomach did another flip. What was wrong with me? I
wondered. I could feel a bead of sweat collecting at my
forehead. This Mr. Rafferty was making me very
uncomfortable. There was something suddenly so
unprofessional about the whole thing.

“Yes,” he finally said, “let us go then, you and I…”
“When the evening is spread out against the sky,” I

automatically continued as we walked up the steps, then
caught myself and stopped.

He held the door open for me, ever the gentleman.

The library was filled with light, and out a window, I spied

the sea. It was love at first sight.

It was a shame that this Mr. Rafferty was so odd. I knew I

was a shoo-in, but I could see it could be uncomfortable
working with him. He was…flirtatious? Was that what it
was? At any rate, so very unprofessional, I thought.

Right then, almost as soon as we entered, I immediately

knew I had been entirely mistaken. A tall reedy fellow in an
argyle sweater and bow tie (no spectacles) was quickly
making his way toward me, reaching out a hand. “You must
be Ms. Beauchamp!” he said. “I imagined you just so. I’m
Hudson. Hudson Rafferty. And I see you have already met
our local hero?”

I turned toward the other Mr. Rafferty, or rather, the

imposter Rafferty, who was grinning at me, pleased as
punch with himself.

“Hero?” I said, swallowing. I was utterly mortified for

having been so foolish. But why hadn’t he told me he was
someone else? Why had he played me like that? I wanted
to smack him. He was six-foot-something, but I knew my
hand could reach that smarty-pants rosy cheek of his. And
the worst of it was he continued to smile stupidly at me.

Mr. Rafferty explained, “This is North Hampton’s senior

detective, Matthew Noble. Quite the dashing hero!”

“Pshaw!” said the detective, whom I now despised. He

reached out a hand to me. “Call me Matt.” He smiled some
more, and I ignored the hand. He looked down, then held up

One Hundred Years of Solitude.

“Here to return this book,

Hudson. I just finished the last pages on the steps outside.

You always recommend a good one, Hudson.”

And now I am not sure why I related this very long story.

This man does not deserve to take up this much space in
my precious logbook. I could have instead written a very
brief entry:

Today I got the job at North Hampton’s Public Library. I

will be the ranking archivist; in fact, the only one. I am
beside myself with joy. Plus, I already adore Hudson
Rafferty. Joanna doesn’t understand why I am going to
turn down the university job for this one, but so be it. Also,
today I met North Hampton’s senior detective, Matthew
Noble, and I already loathe him.

About the Author

Melissa de la Cruz

is the author of the

New York Times

and

USA Today

bestselling series

Blue Bloods

, which has

three million copies in print. She is a former journalist who
has contributed to many publications, including

Glamour

,

Cosmopolitan

,

Harper’s Bazaar

,

Allure

, and

Marie Claire

.

She spent many summers on Shelter Island, New York,
which served as the inspiration for the fictional town of
North Hampton. She lives in Los Angeles and Palm
Springs with her family.

www.melissa-delacruz.com

Also by Melissa de la Cruz

Witches of East End

Serpent’s Kiss

Copyright

Copyright © 2012 Melissa de la Cruz

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S.
Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be
reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by
any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system,
without the prior written permission of the publisher. For
information address Hyperion, 114 Fifth Avenue, New York,
New York 10011.

eBook Edition ISBN 978-1-4013-0512-3

Hyperion books are available for special promotions and
premiums. For details contact the HarperCollins Special
Markets Department in the New York office at 212-207-
7528,

fax

212-207-7222,

or

email

[e-mail].

First eBook Edition

Cover design by Laura Klynstra

www.HyperionBooks.com

To learn more about the world of

Melissa de la Cruz, read:

Wolf Pact

An original e-Book featuring

Arthur Beauchamp and the adventures

of the Wolves of Memory

COMING FALL 2012

THE BLUE BLOODS SERIES

The Gates of Paradise

The seventh and final book in the bestselling epic saga

JANUARY 2013

The story of the Witches of East End continues with

The Winds of Salem

JUNE 2013

Coming in Summer 2012

Want to find out more?

Check out Melissa’s website at:

www.melissa-delacruz.com

Or keep up with her on Facebook and Twitter:

facebook.com/authorMelissadelaCruz

twitter.com/melissadelacruz