She had a fist planted on one hip and was scowling. “If you and Scott are going to get married, I want a real wedding! Think of the Times announcement at least!”
The young man had grown impatient. “Excuse me!” he boomed, his voice a deep, operatic bass, like rolling thunder.
Ingrid huffed and swung around to confront him. Hudson craned his neck to peer up at the man, who was easily six feet five inches, dressed in a smart pin-stripe suit under a lush black cashmere overcoat, the jacket hanging unbuttoned on his large frame. She stared into the square-jawed face: large pale green eyes beneath light copper lashes and brows, a strong nose. A bolt of lightning struck her, and she nearly dropped her shopping bags.
“Erda?” he asked.
“Thor?” she said, knitting her brow.
“What’s going on?” said Hudson. “And am I hearing things or did you just call him Thor?”
Ingrid stared at the towering redhead before her. Freya had told her a while back that when she’d been living on the Lower East Side in New York City and running the Holiday Lounge on St. Mark’s, their old friend had set up shop nearly next door. Freya had made a few trips to spy on her competition, reporting to Ingrid that he had opened up a small, dusky, hole-in-the-wall after-hours club across the corner, the kind of place you might miss if you blinked. Known only to an elite set of mismatched night owls—the Fallen and the Waelcyrgean among them—with a new password circulated each week, the Red Door had a small stage featuring burlesque dancers, aerial artists, starry-eyed Hula-Hoop performers, and the occasional red-nosed clown. “Hottest thing in the city right now and I don’t mean the club,” Freya had said with a smirk. “You should see the ladies go wild for him!” To which Ingrid had replied, “I’d rather not!”
Thor, the god of thunder.
Her old flame.
He had carried a torch for Erda for centuries: she was different from all the goddesses who threw themselves at him, and the more she rejected him, the more he sought her out. But Erda knew Thor’s reputation for breaking many an immortal heart and had kept him at bay.
“My darling Erda,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it.
“It’s Ingrid now,” Ingrid said sharply.
“Will someone please explain to me what’s going on?” said Hudson. “Is someone going to introduce me to the Hunk—I mean the Hulk—or is it Thor? Or do I have to do it myself?”
Ingrid finally remembered to breathe. She turned to Hudson, flustered. “I’m sorry! This is—” She made a helpless gesture with her hands.
“Troy Overbrook,” the giant redhead said with an affable smile that made a dimple in his cheek. He held out a hand.
Hudson beamed as he shook it. It was obvious that he had already fallen under the handsome god’s spell. “Hudson Rafferty. Any friend of Ingrid’s is a friend of mine,” he said.
Troy tilted his head at her. “We have a lot of catching up to do, Ingrid!” He winked at the name. “You look amazing.”
Ingrid coughed. “Well, Hudson and I need to get back to work. We’re running late.”
“When can I see you again? I’m here in North Hampton for the winter. Coffee sometime?” Troy said, leaning seductively against the wall, playing shy for a moment as he looked down at his sneakers. “You know, it’s Valentine’s Day soon.”
“I’m at the local library,” she said flatly. “Come get some books.”
Hudson nudged her sharply in the ribs. “Don’t be silly, Ingrid. Give your old friend your phone number.”
Ingrid hesitated for a moment before riffling through her shoulder bag and fishing out a slightly shopworn business card to hand to Troy.
He slipped the card into his pocket and winked at her. “I’ll call you,” he promised before they parted ways.
Once he was out of earshot, Hudson spoke. “I can’t believe you were just going to walk away from that!”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about, Hudson!”
He glared at her. “Oh, really!”
Ingrid frowned. “Troy and I have a history.”
“Pray tell!”
“It’s a long and boring story. Besides, I have a boyfriend, remember?” They crossed the street toward the library. “One cup of coffee. Jesus!”
Hudson laughed. “I didn’t say, ‘Sleep with him!’ Although if you don’t, I will!”
chapter twenty-seven
The Family Three
“I’ll do it, ” Norman said simply, turning to his wife. They were on the train headed back to North Hampton. “I’ll do what the Oracle said would get Freya back.”
Startled, Joanna looked at her husband. She shook her head and frowned. “Absolutely not!” she said, letting her head fall on his shoulder. “There must be something else we can do.”
“There isn’t,” Norman said softly as he held her close. But he let the subject drop for the moment.
They had passed Patchogue, the midway point between New York City and Montauk, where Ingrid would pick them up. Norman’s car had broken down in the city. The trip had been more than the dinosaur Oldsmobile could handle.
He gazed out at the hills covered in frost, the weathered barns. The view gave hints of seascape, his beloved ocean. He lowered his Ray-Ban Clubmasters from the crown of his head over his eyes. He felt the pull of the water, but it was weakening, fading like a slowing pulse. His wife was now fast asleep, her head on his chest, and he dared not move an inch, even as his muscles cramped. Instead he sat awake, listening to the rhythmic thrum of the train. Small moments like this made him happy—he was here with Jo.
He thought of Freya trapped in Salem Village and recalled those horrific days. Before the witch hunts he and Joanna had lived happily as Waelcyrgean among mortals. They observed the rules of the White Council, interfering as little as possible in human affairs, keeping their powers secret and contained. He worked as a fisherman, Joanna as a midwife. Eventually, his girls got carried away, Ingrid with her healing ways, Freya with her potions.
When the witch hunts reached a fever pitch, and the ring of accusing girls ran out of names to name in their own village, they called out new ones, ones they had heard their parents speak of bitterly as they gossiped. Soon the marshal came and took Ingrid and Freya away. There was nothing Norman could do to stop any of it, no matter how much Joanna pleaded with him. The White Council forbade any interference. Ingrid and Freya would eventually be returned to them—they were immortal, after all. If they would let things be, Joanna would give birth to them again.