“How long have you been involved with him?”
“We’re not involved.” Justine stared at the surface of the water, which quivered from the infinitesimal trembling of her legs. “We’ve gone out once for dinner, that’s all.”
“What happened to the last boyfriend? What was his name…?”
“Duane.”
“I rather liked him.”
“So did I. But I messed it up. We were having an argument about something stupid—I don’t even remember what it was—and I got so angry, I—” Breaking off, Justine sloshed her hand through the water, sending ripples across the surface. “The headlight on his motorcycle exploded. I tried to come up with an excuse for it, but Duane knew I caused it. Now every time he sees me in town, he makes the sign of the cross and takes off at a dead run.”
Rosemary looked at her sharply. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I just did.” Justine felt a riff of unease as she heard the consternation in the other woman’s voice. “I don’t want to bother you with every twist and turn of my love life, and besides—”
“Not Duane,” Rosemary interrupted. “I meant about the bulb exploding.”
“Oh. Well … it’s not all that unusual, right? I’ve seen you and Sage and a couple of the other coveners do tricks like that.”
“After years of training. But never as a novice.” Rosemary’s expression made Justine sorry she had mentioned anything about the lightbulb. “It’s not a trick, Justine, it’s a dangerous ability. Especially if you haven’t acquired the techniques for focusing and grounding. And it should never happen as a result of temper.”
“I won’t do it again,” Justine said. “I wasn’t even trying to do it in the first place.”
Rosemary picked up a hand towel from the edge of the sink and refolded it needlessly. “Was that the only time it’s happened?”
“Yes,” Justine said at once.
Rosemary’s brows lifted.
“No,” Justine admitted. She tried to sound casual. “I may have tripped a circuit breaker once.”
“What?”
“I dropped a can of floor wax on my foot,” Justine said defensively. “I was hopping around the room and swearing, and the next thing I knew, the circuit blew and I had to go trip the breaker switch in the basement.”
“You’re sure that you caused it? It wasn’t a coincidence?”
Justine shook her head. “I felt a weird kind of energy running under my skin.”
“Depolarization.” The hand towel was shaken out and refolded again. “All living cells generate natural electric charges. But a few individuals are able to build a charge imbalance until a current releases. Like an electric eel.”
“Can any crafter do it?”
“No. Only natural-born witches, and very few of those.”
Deciding to make light of it, Justine waggled her fingers in the air. “So how much power do you think I’ve got in these things?”
“Equal to the amount of your average defibrillator,” Rosemary said with quiet asperity.
Blinking, Justine lowered her hands.
“There is no choice, Justine: You must have instruction. A covener—Violet or Ebony would be best—will help you learn how to manage this. Otherwise you’ll be a danger to yourself and others.”
Justine groaned, knowing that the more she had to do with any of the coveners, the more they would pressure her to join. “I’ll manage it on my own. It’s not going to happen again.”
“Because you’ve decided so?” Rosemary asked caustically.
“Yes.”
That earned her a stern glance. “You can’t control your power, Justine. You’re like a six-year-old at the wheel of a car. Sage will discuss it with you later. I’m sure she’ll persuade you to see reason.”
Justine lifted her gaze heavenward, and began to nudge the floating bath sachet with her toes. She played idly with the chain around her neck, following it down to the small copper key that dangled between her breasts. Lifting the key, she tapped it absently against her lips. A storm gust hit the bathroom window with startling force, the wind shrieking as it rampaged from the roiling sea.
Hearing the hiss of a quick indrawn breath, Justine glanced at Rosemary.
The older woman’s gaze left the window and went to the copper key in Justine’s hand, and flicked back to the window again. “You’ve broken the geas,” she said dazedly. “Haven’t you? The spirits are in turmoil.”
“I—” Justine began, but the words died away as she saw the expression on Rosemary’s face, one she had never seen before.
Fear.
“Oh, Justine,” Rosemary said eventually. “What have you done?”
* * *
Before Justine had admitted to anything, she had insisted on an explanation about what Rosemary and Sage knew about the geas, and why they had never mentioned it to her. That had led to an impasse. “We’ll deal with it later,” Rosemary had finally said, “when you’re not exhausted.”
And when Sage is here to keep it from turning into a brawl, Justine thought darkly.
Rosemary helped her from the bath and gave her a white flannel nightshirt to wear. “You’ll nap on our bed for the afternoon,” she told Justine. “Tonight you can stay in the tower bedroom.” She paused diplomatically. “Will Mr. Black be sleeping with you, or will he take the sofa down here?”
“The sofa, I think.” Justine sighed in comfort as she settled onto the old four-poster bed with its deep cushiony mattress. Rosemary propped some pillows behind her and covered her with a quilt made up of random patches of silk, velvet, brocade, with a backing of sugar-sack fabric.
The storm had thickened, the afternoon sky the color of wet newspaper. A crack of lightning caused Justine to jump. As far as Justine was concerned, Jason couldn’t return a moment too soon. She wanted him safely back inside.
Sitting beside Justine, Rosemary began to braid her damp, freshly washed hair.
The feel of the older woman’s hands in her hair reminded Justine of all the times Rosemary had done the same thing for her when she was a little girl. In the endless whirlwind of being raised by Marigold, Justine had savored their visits to the lighthouse, where life had been calm and quiet and Sage had played old-fashioned songs on the piano, and Rosemary had taken her to the top of the tower to help clean the crystal Fresnel lens. Justine had thrived on their unconditional affection.
Impulsively she snuggled close to Rosemary.
A gentle hand came to her cheek.
Sage came into the room, humming “Pennies from Heaven.” She carried a stack of tissue-wrapped clothing, which she laid carefully on the bed.
“What is all that?” Rosemary asked, resuming her work on Justine’s hair.
“Mr. Black will need something to wear. I opened the cedar trunk and found some of Neil’s old clothes. They’ll suit him nicely.”
Justine bit back a grin as she saw how much Sage was enjoying the situation, having a man in the house.
“Heavens to Hades,” Rosemary said with annoyance, “those garments are from the sixties.”
“They’re still in perfect condition,” Sage said placidly, unwrapping the tissue. “And vintage style is so fashionable these days.” She held up a cream-colored linen shirt with a plain point collar. “Perfect. And these—” She shook out a pair of slim-cut casual trousers, tan with a subtle windowpane check.
“They won’t even reach Mr. Black’s ankles,” Rosemary said sourly. “Neil was hardly bigger than you, Sage.”
Sage laid out the garments and ran an assessing glance over them. “I’ll have to make some alterations, of course.” She said a few words beneath her breath and waved a small, pudgy hand. “How tall would you say Mr. Black is, Justine?”
“About six feet,” Justine said.
Sage tugged at the hem of one of the trouser legs. With each little pull, the fabric extended until she had added a good six inches to the inseam. The magic was accomplished with an ease that Justine admired. “A wonderful-looking man, isn’t he?” Sage asked of no one in particular. “And so well endowed.”
“Sage,” Justine protested.
“I was not referring to the fruit of his loom, dear. I meant endowed with looks and intelligence. Although…” Sage proceeded to lengthen the crotch of the pants. She held them up and asked Justine, “What do you think? Have I allowed enough room in the rise?”
“I think you’re a little too interested in what he’s packing.”
Rosemary gave a little snort. “Sage is trying to find out in her usual circuitous way whether you’ve slept with him, Justine.”
“No,” Justine replied with a sputtering laugh. “I haven’t, and I don’t intend to.”
“That’s probably for the best,” Sage said.
“I agree,” Rosemary added promptly.
Sage smiled at her partner. “You noticed, then.” She began to work on the linen shirt, adding inches to the sleeves.
“Of course.” Rosemary finished Justine’s braid and fastened an elastic band around it.
Justine’s puzzled gaze swept across them both. “Noticed what? What are you talking about?”
Sage replied with equanimity. “Mr. Black has no soul, dear.”
Twelve
“What does that mean?” Justine demanded, her eyes widening. “Jason told me the same thing a couple of nights ago.”
“He’s aware of it, then?” Sage asked, folding the trousers neatly. “How fascinating. Usually they have no idea.” She slid a significant glance to Rosemary.
“Someone explain it to me,” Justine said urgently. “Are you saying he’s a clinical sociopath or something?”
“Oh, not at all.” Sage chuckled and leaned over to pat Justine’s knee through the quilts. “I’ve met some perfectly lovely people with no souls. It’s nothing to criticize, and it certainly can’t be helped; it just is.”
“How did you know about it? What tipped you off?”
“Hereditary witches usually have the knack of sensing when someone is soulless. Didn’t you feel it when you first met Mr. Black?”
After considering the question, Justine replied slowly. “For a second I sort of wanted to step back from him. I wasn’t sure why.”
“Exactly. You’ll experience that from time to time when you meet someone new. But of course you must never say anything about it. Most of the soulless aren’t aware of what they lack, and they would never want to know.”
Justine was unaccountably upset. “I don’t get this. Any of it.”
“Even without a soul,” Rosemary explained, “you would still have emotions, thoughts, and memories. You would still be you. But you wouldn’t have … transcendence. There would be nothing left after the body dies.”
“No heaven or hell,” Justine said slowly, “no Valhalla, Summerland, or underworld … just ‘poof’ and you’re gone for good?”
“Exactly.”
“I’ve always wondered if they don’t sense it deep down,” Sage mused aloud. “People without souls rarely seem to reach old age, and they tend to live so very intensely. As if they’re aware of how limited their time is.”
“It reminds me of that little poem you’ve always liked, Sage. The one about the candle.”
“Edna St. Vincent Millay.” Sage smiled as she recited, “‘My candle burns at both ends; / It will not last the night; / But ah, my foes, and oh my friends— / It gives a lovely light!’”
“That describes the soulless perfectly,” Rosemary told Justine. “They are driven to experience everything they can before the ultimate demise. Voracious appetites. But no matter how much success they achieve, it’s never enough … and they never understand why.”
“How does someone end up without a soul?” Justine asked in a hushed voice.
“Some people simply aren’t born with one. It’s a trait just like eye color or the size of one’s feet.”
“But that’s so unfair.”
“Yes. Life is often unfair.”
“How can this be fixed?” Justine asked. “How could a person manage to get a soul if he doesn’t have one?”
“He can’t,” Rosemary replied. “It’s not possible. Or at least I’ve never heard of such a thing happening.”
“But if they realize they are soulless,” Sage said, “that’s when things become precarious. Every living creature is compelled to preserve its own existence. Is there anything a man like Jason wouldn’t do for a chance at eternity?”
No. He would stop at nothing.
Justine’s hand crept to the center of her chest, where the little copper key was hidden beneath the bodice of the nightgown.
Rosemary glanced at her with compassion. “I see that you understand now. Associating with a man like Jason Black could turn out to be a dance with the devil.”
“Could Jason ever love someone if he has no soul?”
“Of course,” Sage said. “He still has a heart, after all. What he doesn’t have is time.”
* * *
After seeing to the boat, Jason made the long, slow climb back to the lighthouse. The ancient stone steps had settled badly, some of them diagonally slanted, many of them cracked. The center of each step had been worn into hammock shapes by the tread of countless shoes. Rain had made all of them perilously slick. Wind gusts struck from different directions, challenging his balance. He still didn’t know how he’d managed to carry Justine up the stairs without falling; he’d been too jacked with adrenaline to think about it at the time.
He doubted he would ever recover from the sight of Justine struggling in the ocean, her face gray with the resignation of someone who was on her way to dying. He would have done anything for her, risked anything, without question. He would have given her his life, fed his own blood directly into her veins, if that would have saved her. And to say the least, self-sacrifice was a new concept for him.
The strangest part was that he wasn’t trying to reason himself out of it; he didn’t even want to. The way he felt about Justine was something he had no choice in, just as he had no choice about whether he wanted to breathe or sleep or eat. It was too soon to be this certain. But that didn’t matter, either.