DiaryoftheWhiteWitch

AWitchesofEastEndPrequel

MelissadelaCruz

PraisefortheWitchesofEastEndSeries

“What could be more funthan a summer on LongIsland? A summer on LongIsland with witches, ofcourse. Smart, stylish, andjustabitwicked, thewitchesin Melissa de la Cruz’sWitches of East End series

managetobeboththoroughlymodern and delightfullymythic.”

—DeborahHarkness,NewYorkTimesbestsellingauthor

ofADiscoveryofWitchesandShadowofNight

“Move over, zombies,vampires, and werewolves,and make way for witches.MelissadelaCruz,authorofthe bestselling Blue Bloodsseries, ably sets the stage for

a juicy new franchise withWitches of East End…De laCruz balances thesupernatural high-jinkserywithunpredictable twists anda conclusion that nicely setsupbook2.B+”

—EntertainmentWeekly“Centuries after the practiceof magic was forbidden,Freya, Ingrid and their momstruggle to restrain theirwitchy ways as chaos builds

in their Long Island town.Abubblingcauldronofmysteryandromance,thenovelsharesthe fanciful plotting of BlueBloods, the author’s teenvampireseries…breezyfun.”

—People“A magical and romanticpage-turner…. Witches ofEast End is certain to attractnew adult readers…Thepacingismasterful,andwhilethewitchcraft is entertaining,

it’s ultimately a love trianglethat makes the storycompelling. De la Cruz hascreated a family ofempathetic women who areboth magically gifted andhumanlyflawed.”

—WashingtonPost“For anyone who wasfrustratedwatchingSamanthasuppress her magic on‘Bewitched,’ Ms. de la Cruzbrings some satisfaction. In

her first novel for adults, theauthor…lets her repressedsorceressesrip.”

—NewYorkTimes“What happens when afamilyofLongIslandwitchesis forbidden to practicemagic?This tale of powerfulwomen, from the author ofthe addictive Blue Bloodsseries,mixesmystery,abattleof good versus evil and adashofNorsemythologyinto

a page-turning parable ofinnerstrength.”

—Self“Witches ofEastEnd has allthe ingredients you’d expectfrom one of Melissa’sbestselling YA novels—intrigue, mystery and plentyof romance. But with thenovelfallingunderthe‘adult’categorization,Melissa’sabletomakeherlovescenesevenmore…magical.”

—MTV.com“De la Cruz has, withWitches,onceagainmanagedtoenlivenandembellishuponhistoryandmythologywithaclever interweaving of pastand present, both real andimagined…[it]castsaspell.”

—LosAngelesTimes“De la Cruz is a formidablestoryteller with a narrativevoicestrongenoughtohandlethe fruits of her imagination.

Even readers who generallyavoid witches and whatnotstand to be won over by thetime the cliffhanger-with-a-twist-endinghits.”

—PublishersWeekly“Fantasy for well-readadults.”

—Kirkus“A sexy,magical romp, suretobringdelaCruzalegionofnewfans.”

—KelleyArmstong,New

YorkTimesbestsellingauthorofTheOtherworldseries

Contents

TitlepagePraisefortheWitchesofEastEndSeriesDiaryoftheWhiteWitchAbouttheAuthorAlsobyMelissadelaCruzCopyrightMoreabouttheworldof

MelissadelaCruzCominginSummer2012

DiaryoftheWhiteWitch

Wednesday,April20DrydenRoad,Ithaca,NewYorkIcan’thelpbutthinkofDad,the indomitable seafarer, as Iwrite my first entry in thisjournal, a parting gift frommy coworkers at Cornell. Of

course, it’s no ordinaryjournal.Onewouldexpectnoless from a team of top-ratepaper conservators andarchivists. It’s an ancient,unused leather-boundcaptain’s logbook; the left-hand pages display an ever-so-faintghostofagridforthecaptainof the ship to log thedayoftheweek,speed,wind,andcompassdirections,whilethe right-hand pages are leftblankforsundrythoughtsand

observations.Thereisagold-leaf compass on the wornleathercover,andeachofthehand-cutpageshavereceivedsomeformoftreatmentinthelab from my fellow staffmembers, so that I, IngridBeauchamp, may write herewithout worry that thiscenturies-old coarse-grainedpapermight crumble beneathmy pen. It has been agessince I have kept a diary.What a perfect and timely

gift!It did cross my mind that

some of these pages couldhave been doused withpoison,andbeforesettingpento paper, I brought the bookup tomy nose for a sniff ofpossible malfeasance. Hmm.Itappearsmycoworkershaveforgiven me after all. Therewas no scent of bitteralmonds, only leather withfaint traces of lanolin andneat’s-foot oil, and aging

paper. Perhaps now that I’mleavingandno longerpose athreat to my coworkers’tenuous jobs, thevipers havewithdrawn their fangs. Eversince rumors of massivelayoffs began circulating lastsemester,there’sbeenquiteabitofbackstabbingintheoldlibrary. But if anything,everyone grew quite fond ofme since I announced mydeparture. Who can blamethem?Onemorejobhasbeen

secured.The farewell party was all

smiles, ladyfingers,chocolate, champagne, a tinyjar of caviar nestled in asilverdishwithice,andsomeof my lab students droppingby, promising to keep intouch. I will miss them themost,aswellasmydailybikeridestoandfrotheuniversitypastappleorchards.And so, on this first day of

spring, when the air is laced

with hyacinth and day andnight momentarily matchwith equal length, I set off,much wind in my sails andmany propitious portents forthe journey ahead. I’mgoinghome,finally,andmaybethistime, to stay.Motherwill besopleased.I have wanted to leave the

schoolforalongtimenow,asI have become weary ofacademia; it appears thesmaller the piece of the pie,

the more bitter the feuds forthe crumbs. Last week, Ireceived a letter from oneHudsonRaffertyoftheNorthHampton Library. Monthsago, enough to haveforgotten, I sent an inquiryabout a possible position asan archivist there, but neverheard back.Apparently thereis a sudden need, and Mr.Rafferty is requestingIcomeinforaninterviewassoonastime will permit, as the

ranking archivist has up andleftoutoftheblue.Isenthima formal reply, expressinggreat interest, alongwithmyrésumé, and notified Mr.Rafferty that I will be inNorth Hampton in a week’stimeandamlookingforwardtoschedulinganinterview.The idea of being my own

boss in a small-town library—with“adecentcollectionoflocal architectural blueprintsand raremaps that will need

maintenance,” as he put it,“andrunningthings,sinceweareall junior librariansat themoment and in a tizzy”—ismuch more appealing to methan slipping back into thesludge of perniciousacademicpolitics.NorthHampton.Icanfeelit

callingme. Ineed tobenearMother, near the seam, theepicenter.A fewmonths agoI began having dreams—nightmares, really—from

which I would awakegasping. In mymind’s eye Isaw the seam fraying,loosening, harm seeping inlike quicksilver, the seabubbling and drowning thesmall, sleepy town of NorthHampton. Mother will needmyhelp,Icanfeelit.At the very least, I long to

seemy familyback together.Wehavebeenaparttoolong.Salem 1692 were the lastdaysweweretogether.Ugly,

violent, confusing days. Andnowifsomethingevilisuponus again as I fear, weBeauchamps need to sticktogether. Enough time haspassed for old wounds toheal. Mother and Dad mustget over themselves and stopbeing so pigheaded. On myway out toLong Island, I’veplanned a stopover in NewYork City, where I willattempt to persuade mysweet, wild sister to sell the

bar,thatalbatrossofhers,andcome home, too. Perhapsbetween the three of us wecanevenworkongettingourFryrbackfromLimbo.Outside theopenedwindow

by my desk, the sun sinksbeneath the horizon, leavingtinges of pink in its wake,signaling fair weather ahead.Thoughdusksets inand fillsthe corners of the cottagewith shadows after a longday, I no longer feel weary.

Oscar has curled up at myfeet.Awarm fragrant breezeflows in, fillingmewith thatlight,headyfeelingofspring.I am eager for the journeyahead.

Thursday,April21AmtrakTrain,EmpireRoute,Syracuse–NewYorkCityMargaret,abright,promisinglibrary science major withone too many tattoos, drove

metotheAmtrakstationthismorning.Thepoorgirl’seyesturned as pink as the shockrunning through her ravenhair,thenbrimmedwithtearswhen we said good-bye. Igave her a hug, then thegentlestlittlepushawayfromme,as if tosay,Goforward,be brave—you can do this,kiddo! “Don’t forget toretrieve my bike at thecottage,”Iremindedher.“It’syours.” She smiled and

quickly turned away, and nosooner had she done so, alump formed in my throat,and tears sprang in my eyesas well. I should be used tothis—they all graduate, afterall.With a heavy heart, I

walked down the platform,my heels clicking with ahollow sound, my suitcaseswervingbehindme,justasIhomedinonadistresssignal.Somethingwasn’tright,andI

could feel darkness lurking.Then I saw the hubbubfurther down the platform. Istopped andwatched,wipingmy tears, pushing a loosestrandofhairintomybun.Awoman had collapsed on

the platform. She lay still asblooddripped fromhernose.I lunged forward. My heartleapt. I wanted to help. Iknew I could—I wasn’tJoanna, but like allwitches Ihadsometalentsinthisarena.

My body tingled, a surge ofmagic building inside me,wanting to burst forth, but Icouldn’t allow it.Paramedicspushedpastme.Acrowdhadgathered. The magic fizzledout and died inside me; I’dlocked itbackup in itscage.Even to help someone indistress is forbidden by theRestriction. The medicsappeared to have it undercontrolanyway.I keptwalking, just another

mortal like the rest, justanother quiet, ordinary girl—“mousy,” one might evensay—with my hair in a bun,wearingatantrenchandplainnavy suit, looking for a carwith an empty window seat.An Amtrak worker appearedfrom nowhere, blocking myway, tellingme to get in thelast car. There was an oddglintinhiseye,asifhewerederiving pleasure from beingbossy. “Well, okay, then,” I

said, making a face as Ipassedhim.By the time I plopped into

my seat, I felt drained andachy. I kicked offmy shoes,wriggledmytoes, feeling thesuppressed magic like aphysical ache.Magic. I missit with every bone. I miss itlike a hunger. I’ve oftenwondered if what I used tofeel when I was able topractice magic freely istantamount to what people

experience when they fall inlove. I wouldn’t know. Butwhen I read about love inpoems and novels, it soundsvery similar. Except withmagicthereisonlyhappiness,euphoria—neverpain.Thetrainhasleftthestation.

The seats beside and acrossfromme are empty. There isscarcely a passenger in thiscar. Maybe that Amtrak guywas being nice, and I’m theone in a nasty mood. A few

rowsahead,Ispythebackofaman’shead.Hestaredatmeand smiled when I boardedthe train—jet-black hair,piercing blue eyes, squarejaw, clean-shaven, cleft chin,and an air that says I knowI’msoveryhandsome. Freyatold me all about men likethis. Ick. Why did he stare?Whydidhesmilelikethat?Ifound it disturbing. Acrossthe aisle is a teenagerlistening to his iPod from

beneathhiswoolcap, staringoutthewindowashebobshishead.Icanheartherepetitivebeatfromtheearbuds.Behindme,amothertellsherchildtoshush, but the boy continuestoaskherevery fewminuteshowlongitwilltaketogettoNYC. “And how long now,Mommy?”I call Freya and leave a

messagethatI’menrouteandwill call as soon as I’m in ataxi on theway to her place.

Before I slip the phone backinto my pocket, I make surethe ringer is on in case shecalls back. Then I watch thescenery unfold—verdantrolling hills, pink and whiteblossoms,amareandherfoaltakingitsfirsttremulousstepsinafieldbyabarn.Oscar has flownahead.My

familiar doesn’t like trainsandprefershisindependence.When I spoke with Motherlastnight,shewassoexcited

aboutmyarrivalshecouldn’tstoptalkingaboutallthepiesshe has planned to bake forme. She’ll make me fat if Idon’twatchout.I must have fallen asleep.

The diary is still in my lap.Some sort of disturbancejoltedme awake. Is it me orhas the train begun towobble? It is suddenly verydark outside—dense stormclouds have swept in allaround us. Whatever woke

mehasstopped.WhenIstandtolookaround,everyoneelseis looking around as well.“Something weird is goingon,” the teen across frommesays. “Don’t worry. It’sover,”Ireply,tryingtosoundreassuring but not believingmywords.Whyisitsuddenlyso dark? The good-lookingman is no longer in front ofme but gone from the caraltogether. We are speedingalong through a gunmetal

gloom. The car begins tovibrate alarmingly.The childlets out a frightened wail. Ibetter go see what is goingon, find a ticket person orconductor.Something—

Sunday,April24BethIsraelHospitalRoom,NewYorkCityThe doctors told me I sleptfor forty-eight hours, andwhen I woke up, my headwas bandaged in gauze,

hooked up to all sorts ofunnecessarydevices.Mylongslumber had been mistakenforacoma,thoughtheX-raysrevealed no concussion ormajor harm. I had probablydone most of my healingwhileIwastransportedtothehospital. The theory is that Igot pinned in place, possiblylodged beneath a seat, as thetrain rolled over, thus nobrokenbones.MyjournalandiPhone were on the hospital

bedsidetablewhenIcameto.“You’re a miracle!” the

nurse said when she cameinto my room. “Some trainwreck! They’re still talkingabout it on the news.” Shetold me that my sister hadvisited and would return;Freya had seen thewreckageandcarnageon thenews, theglimpses of bodies beingpulled out; then she trackedmedownat thehospital.Thenursesaidtheyhadtoprythe

logbook from my grip whenthey wheeled me in. I hadbeen muttering the word“black”inmysleep.“What do you mean,

‘black’?” the nurse asked, towhichIshrugged,feigningnoidea.What I remember: There

wasaloudclang,andthecarwobbled as it detached fromthe train ahead. We becamecompletelyenshrouded in thegray mist, so that there was

no visibility beyond thewindows. Everything hadgone silent. I’d stood up,gripping the diary to mychest. The passengers in thecar were suddenly asleep,which was when I realizedthis was all directed at me.Was I being challenged? Icouldfeelthepresenceofoneof my own kind nearby.“Whoareyou?AreyoufromtheWhiteCouncil?” I asked,annoyed. I hadn’t even used

my magic on that woman atthe station, merelycontemplated it. I hadfollowed the rules. I’d beenfollowing those damn rulesforcenturiesnow.Wewerestillmovingalong

the tracks, but the car wasslowing. “Show yourself!” Ichallenged.Ilaughed.Idid.Ireally didn’t thinkmuch elsewould happen. I thought thiswas a little slap on thewristfor a very minor infraction.

“Well?Getonwith—”No sooner had I uttered

these last words thatsomething rammed againstthe side of the car. Thiswassurely not from the WhiteCouncil. Thiswas somethingelse. Something malicious,evil. It hit us again but withsuch tremendous force thatthe car came off the tracks,flipping over, and we wererolling down an incline, mybody smacking against seats

andwindows,allofustossedlikeclothesinadryer.Itwasa swirling blur of shock andhelplessness and crackingbonesandpain.Iblackedout.Only the teenager and I

survived. He’s in the traumacenter.Theothersweren’t solucky. Mother and child aredead along with about fiveothers.I realized then that I knew

something was going tohappen.I’dfeltitpulsingjust

underneath the surface: thelady collapsing on theplatform; the sudden eeriefeeling in the air afterMargaret left me at thestation; the Amtrak workerappearing out of nowhere,telling me to board the lastcar; the handsome man whosmiled at me, then vanished—the last two, maybe oneandthesameperson?“Black…”Indeed. It was black magic

andofthemostpowerfulandlethalsort.Therehadbeenasurgeofit

at the station, which I hadsensed and now only realizein retrospect. I’ve grown toorusty.Itsappedthelifeoutofthat poor woman whocollapsed. Some aresusceptiblelikethat,theirlifeforce used for fuel. But whowould have had the audacityto practice post-Restriction?Black magic nonetheless?

Strongenoughtosendatrainflying off its tracks. Whoeven possesses that kind ofpower?I’m certainly no match for

it.Now more than ever I am

convincedthatImustbewithmy family. Something isbrewing. This was just awarning, and only togethercanwefightit.I sense her as soon as the

elevator doors open ontomy

floor,likeawaftfromafieldof daffodils—earthy, rich,wild goodness, andwholesome milk and honey.Mysisterishere.Freya!

SundayNight,April24Freya’sApartment,East7thStreet,LowerEastSide,NewYorkCityBefore we left the hospital,wevisitedthekidwho’dbeenonthetrainwithme.Hewasunconscious and on a

respiratorinthetraumaward,the only signs of life hisrhythmic raspy breath in andout of the tube, the laboredriseandfallofhischest,andthe slow and steady pulsefrom the heart monitor. Hisface was swollen beyondrecognition,bodybrokeninathousand pieces from themultiple blunt force trauma,limbs suspended, held inplacewithmetalcontraptionsand pins, abrasions and

lacerations covering everyinchofhisskin.“That was no accident,” I

told my sister as we hoppedintoacab.Freyahadbroughtme something towear, and Iwas entirely toouncomfortable in the tightblack shirt and skintightpants. She gave the cabbiedirections toherplaceon theLowerEastSide, then turnedto me, her green eyesalarmed. “I was so worried!

Theysaidthecardetachedata crossing! I had a feeling—are you sure? But who andwhywouldanyonedothis?”I told her what happened:

the dark mass, the maliciousspirit. “You’ve got to comehome with me. Sell the barand join me in NorthHampton. We haven’t beenall together in so long,” Ipleaded. She stared at me,and now I saw the darkcircles beneath her eyes, and

her face, though youthful,looked puffy, as if she hadbeen drinking toomuch. Sheneeded a good detox—Joanna’s love and care,Joanna’s rehab center, thecountrylife.“I can’t leave. I’m happy

here. I love the HolidayLounge. And besides, I helppeople,”shesaid.“Help?” I asked, surprised.

“Help them by getting themdrunk?”

She scoffed. I knewwhat Isaid sounded snooty, and Iimmediately regretted it. Itried a different tact. “Howcanyouhelpwhenwearenotallowedtopracticemagic?”Shelaughed.“Youwouldn’t

understand.”“Tryme!”Ichallenged.But

sheonlysmirkedandcrossedher arms, turned away fromme, and stared out thewindow as we hurled downSecondAvenue.

“I help the lost, thebrokenhearted,thebereaved,”she explained later at theapartment.“Nottoolongagotherewas

ahumanboy,onewho’dbeenabandonedbyhisvampire…Ihelpedhimmoveon.”Igrabbedherbyashoulder.

“I’m not judging you, Freya,but you know we aren’tsupposed to intervene.Pleasecome home, or at leastconsider it. You don’t look

happytome.”Sheharrumphed,wentabout

making some coffee beforework,herback turned tome,butIknewIhadreachedher.I decided to give it a breakand visit her later at the barafterIhadsettledin.That evening, I borrowed a

pairof jeans,ablackT-shirt,andbootswithnottoosteepaheel—not my usual dress—and strolled over to theHolidayonSt.Mark’s.Inthe

dim light of the neon signsand strands of Christmaslights (apparently Freyahadn’t yet changed the decortoa spring theme), I sawmysisterleaningoverthebartopin a white tank, locked in akiss with a young lady withlongblackhairandtattoosofexoticflowerssnakingupherarms. The patrons cheeredthem on. When they brokeaway,everyoneclapped.Freyaspottedmewedgedin

my little spot and smiledbroadly. “Ingrid, look howcuteyoulook!”Iwavedahand.“Whatwas

going on just then?” I asked,changingthetopic.“Oh, just a harmless little

game of truth or dare.” Shepoured me a glass of whitewine, then let the otherbartender take over as wehuddled together at a quieterend of the bar. I needed todrivemypointinsomehow.

I asked her to place herhands in mine, a game weplayedaschildren.“What? You’re going to

peerintomylifeline,Ingrid?”Ibeggedhertogivemejust

the tiniest peek and not toblock me. She relented. Weheld hands and closed oureyes.It was odd and confusing

what I saw—a jumble ofimages mixing themselveswith my most recent

experience. Perhaps I stillwasn’t quite right from theaccident. I saw a house, orrather amansion, on a smallisland in the distance, mistrising around it. I saw thehandsome man from the lastcar. He winked at me thistime, then sat down in thepassenger seat and opened anewspaper. And there wasFreya in a slinky dress at aparty, showing Mother theengagement ring on her

finger. The teen looking outthe window, bobbing hishead, suddenly appeared,turning his swollen, bruisedface to me. Then Freya in acrampedbathroom,sittingupon the vanity, one leg in theair,amanwithhisfaceinthecrook of her neck, his bodytightlypressedagainstherssothat I couldn’t see him. Thatwas too much information.But the image was quicklyjuxtaposed by another: Freya

onthedeckofwhatappearedto be a yacht, calling out tosomeone in the darkness. Icouldn’t hear her, but I felther desperation. Somethinghadgonewrong.Shewasfullof self-hatred and longing inthat moment. The imagesstopped and I opened myeyes.Freyawasbeamingatme.I

smiled back happily becausenow I knew she would joinme in North Hampton—

eventually. She had amischievousglintinhereye.“What?”Iasked,perplexed.“You,mydear,areaboutto

meet a very dashing manindeed. He’s very special,Ingrid.Ohmygod,it’sallsosweet!”Freya grinned. I laughed.

That was about the silliestthing I had ever heard; shewas obviously messing withme.As if I cared about suchthings!

“I’m rather of incapable ofthatsortof—”Freyashushedme,placinga

fingertomylips.“Trustme,”shesaid.I was going to tell her the

truth—well, not all of it.“You are going to come toNorthHampton,andyouwillgetengaged.”Hereyeswidened,andfora

moment it didn’t seem shewould stop laughing.Apparently my

pronouncement washysterical. When she finallystopped, she said, “Now thatisabunchofbogus,Ingrid.Aflat-out lie if I’ve ever heardone, and it’s certainly notgoing to get me to comehome.”A girl in the bar shrieked.

Freya and I stared at eachother, and I gathered thecouragetotellherwhatIelseIhadgleanedfrommyvision.“If you come to North

Hampton,” I said slowly,“you will find Balder, yourlonglostlove.”She stared at me silently,

then her eyes suddenly grewwatery.“Thatissonotfunny,Ingrid!”I reassured her it was no

attempt at humor. I had nodoubt. I knew it wouldn’texactly be smooth, but Iwasn’tabouttotellherthat.“Balder!” she said,

breathless, her mouth falling

agape. “Ingrid, that’s a lowtrick if you are trying tomanipulatemetosellthisbarandmovehome.”From Freya’s opened

windows, I heard the crowdfrom the sidewalk Germanbar nearby. Cars honk theirhorns; kids scream in thestreets;someoneshouts,“Yo,throw down the keys!” Adrumbeat sounds fromTompkinsSquare.Thecityisperpetually alive.Nowonder

Freya loves it here. Even so,crammed as it is, I sensedloneliness in nearly everyperson I passed on the wayhome, strangers in a crowd,tooafraidtoreachout tooneanother.I’mnowproppedagainstthe

pillows of the big plushvintagecouchbythefireplacein Freya’s trompe l’oeilapartment. I will sleep welltonight. My business here isdone.

Monday,April25Freya’s,NewYorkCityI called Mr. Rafferty firstthingthismorningandsetupaninterviewforthejobattheNorth Hampton Library. Imeet with him onWednesday. He sounds nice,albeit a bit panicked. Wetalked for a while. Headmitted to me that he is inhis seventh year of workingon a PhD in Romance

languages, and that he hasalso been interning at thelibraryforthatsamelengthoftime,perhapsevenlonger.Hetold me to call him Hudson.And though he “knows hisway around the bookshelvesby now,” he is in desperateneedofhelpfromsomeoneasexperienced as me. I have agoodfeelingaboutthis.I also called Joanna and let

her know that I will bearriving Tuesday afternoon.

She doesn’t know about thetrain accident. This is thegood thing aboutMother nothavingaTV.FreyaandIwentshopping.I

boughtafewnewoutfitsandsomething for my interview.I’ve shipped my wardrobeahead to Joanna’s, but couldno longer continue wearingFreya’sclothesintheinterim.Freya asked if I really, trulythink it was Balder I saw inmy vision. I told her I was

prettysure.

Tuesday,April25Joanna’sHouse,NorthHampton,LongIslandThe train ride toLong Islandwas peacefully uneventful.Joanna picked me up at thestation. I saw her coming amileawayinhergardenclogsandabigcable-knitoff-whitesweater,a redfoulardaroundher long white hair. By theway,hergardenisastunning

pandemoniumof blooms andblossoms and tangles ofgreen. She couldn’t hug orkissmeenough.I told her what had

happened and aboutmy visitwithFreyaduringthecarridehome.“Yes, you are right—we

girlswill need tobe togetherif something is amiss. I’vebeen sensing it myself—adisturbance of some sort.What happened was horrific,

Ingrid!Iamsodelightedyouarehere.”Given the gravity of the

train wreck, her reactionseemed rather flippant.Perhaps any impact waseclipsed by her happiness atmyreturn.“It sounds like you gave

Freyajusttherightamountofbaittolureherhere,”shesaidwithaconspiratorialsnicker.IassuredherthatwhatIsaw

and felt during the vision

appeared true. Well, perhapsit wasn’t Balder per se, butsomeone charming andspecial enough for Freya tobe willing to accept anengagement ring. Which inherbookisalmostasbadasanoose—no witch punintended here, and I reallyshouldn’t joke about thingslikethat.“I have a feeling she’ll

come home,” I said toMother.

Joanna glimpsed atme, hereyes shining with joy, thensqueezed my knee and toldmeIdidwellandhowhappyshe was to have me home.Thedozenpiesshebakedwastestimonytothatjoy.Ihaven’t toldheraboutmy

plans to eventually contactDad.Idon’tthinkthatwouldgooversowell.I’llwait.

Wednesday,April26Joanna’sHouse,North

Hampton,LongIslandSotherewasabitofamishaptodayatthelibrary,andIamstillquitepeeved.It was a glorious, sunshiny

day, and when I arrived aquarter hour before theappointed time for myinterview, I saw him: a tall,broad-shouldered man sittingon the steps of the library, abook in his lap, waiting,staring right at me with a

welcomingsmile.Hestood.Itook it thatMr. Rafferty hadbeen impatient for me toarrive,havingbeenleftinthelurch by the previousarchivist. He had comeoutside to greetme. I hadn’tquite pictured him this,well,athletic-looking. Somethingabout his panicked tone onthe phone had suggestedsomeone who might, say,sport argyle vests and bowties and perhaps even round

spectacles—someonedelicate-looking. This wasnotthecase.Thismanworeasimplebut

stylishdark sports jacketandlight-colored pants. He hadlight brown hair; an Irishface; a big, strong, squarejaw; a nose sprinkled withfreckles; and huge, limpidblue eyes. At the time I didnote that his eyes appearedsincere and honest. I don’tknow why, but I felt

butterflies. I was suddenlynervous about the interview,which is not like me. I’mmore than qualified for theposition. I just hadn’texpected someone sohandsome and manly,someonewholooksmorelikea football player than alibrarian. It threw me for aloop. But I told myself oneshouldn’t judgeabookbyitscover,ofcourse.“Ingrid Beauchamp,” I said

reaching out my hand. Weshook.“Very glad…well,extremely glad to meetyou…MissBeauchamp?”Inodded.“Yes,Miss.Itwas

very nice of you to havecomeoutsidetogreetme.”“Notaproblem.Itissucha

beautiful day, after all, isn’tit?”He lingered, gazing at me,

and I cleared my throat andsaidweshouldgo insideand

get started. He stared at mequizzically for a beat, thensmirked and agreed. Mystomach did another flip.What was wrongwithme? Iwondered.Icouldfeelabeadof sweat collecting at myforehead. This Mr. Raffertywas making me veryuncomfortable. There wassomething suddenly sounprofessional about thewholething.“Yes,” he finally said, “let

usgothen,youandI…”“Whentheeveningisspread

out against the sky,” Iautomatically continued aswewalkedup the steps, thencaughtmyselfandstopped.He held the door open for

me,everthegentleman.The library was filled with

light, and out a window, Ispied the sea. It was love atfirstsight.ItwasashamethatthisMr.

Raffertywassoodd.IknewI

wasashoo-in,butIcouldseeit could be uncomfortableworkingwithhim.Hewas…flirtatious? Was that what itwas? At any rate, so veryunprofessional,Ithought.Right then, almost as soon

aswe entered, I immediatelyknew I had been entirelymistaken.A tall reedy fellowinanargylesweaterandbowtie (no spectacles) wasquickly making his waytoward me, reaching out a

hand. “You must be Ms.Beauchamp!” he said. “Iimagined you just so. I’mHudson. Hudson Rafferty.And I see you have alreadymetourlocalhero?”I turned toward the other

Mr. Rafferty, or rather, theimposter Rafferty, who wasgrinning at me, pleased aspunchwithhimself.“Hero?” I said, swallowing.

I was utterly mortified forhaving been so foolish. But

whyhadn’thetoldmehewassomeone else? Why had heplayedmelikethat?Iwantedto smack him. He was six-foot-something, but I knewmy hand could reach thatsmarty-pants rosy cheek ofhis. And the worst of it washecontinuedtosmilestupidlyatme.Mr. Rafferty explained,

“This is North Hampton’ssenior detective, MatthewNoble. Quite the dashing

hero!”“Pshaw!”saidthedetective,

whom I now despised. Hereached out a hand to me.“Call me Matt.” He smiledsomemore,andIignoredthehand. He looked down, thenheld upOne Hundred Yearsof Solitude. “Here to returnthis book, Hudson. I justfinished the lastpageson thesteps outside. You alwaysrecommend a good one,Hudson.”

AndnowIamnotsurewhyI related thisvery longstory.Thismandoesnotdeservetotake up this much space inmypreciouslogbook.Icouldhave instead written a verybriefentry:TodayIgotthejobatNorthHampton’s Public Library. Iwillbe the rankingarchivist;in fact, the only one. I ambesidemyselfwithjoy.Plus,Ialready adore HudsonRafferty. Joanna doesn’t

understandwhyIamgoingtoturn down the university jobforthisone,butsobeit.Also,todayImetNorthHampton’ssenior detective, MatthewNoble, and I already loathehim.

AbouttheAuthor

Melissa de la Cruz is theauthoroftheNewYorkTimesand USA Today bestsellingseriesBlueBloods,whichhasthree million copies in print.Sheisaformerjournalistwhohas contributed to manypublications, includingGlamour, Cosmopolitan,Harper’sBazaar,Allure, andMarieClaire.Shespentmanysummers on Shelter Island,New York, which served as

the inspiration for thefictional town of NorthHampton. She lives in LosAngeles and Palm Springswithherfamily.www.melissa-delacruz.com

AlsobyMelissadelaCruz

WitchesofEastEndSerpent’sKiss

Copyright

Copyright©2012MelissadelaCruzAllrightsreserved.Exceptaspermitted under the U.S.Copyright Act of 1976, nopart of this publication maybereproduced,distributed,ortransmittedinanyformorbyany means, or stored in a

database or retrieval system,without the prior writtenpermission of the publisher.For information addressHyperion, 114 Fifth Avenue,NewYork,NewYork10011.eBook Edition ISBN 978-1-4013-0512-3Hyperionbooksare availablefor special promotions andpremiums.Fordetailscontactthe HarperCollins SpecialMarkets Department in the

NewYorkofficeat212-207-7528, fax 212-207-7222, oremailspsales@harpercollins.com.FirsteBookEditionCover design by LauraKlynstrawww.HyperionBooks.com

TolearnmoreabouttheworldofMelissadelaCruz,read:

WolfPactAnoriginale-BookfeaturingArthurBeauchampandthe

adventuresoftheWolvesofMemoryCOMINGFALL2012

THEBLUEBLOODSSERIES

TheGatesofParadiseTheseventhandfinalbookinthebestsellingepicsaga

JANUARY2013

ThestoryoftheWitchesofEastEndcontinueswithTheWindsofSalem

JUNE2013

CominginSummer2012

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at:www.melissa-delacruz.comOrkeepupwithheronFacebookandTwitter:

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