Diary of the White Witch: A Witches of East End Prequel

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

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

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

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.

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

Copyright

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

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First eBook Edition

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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