Freya liked rap just fine, and was known to blast the latest gangster throw-downs now and then, but at the North Inn she preferred the classics. The Brits: The Sex Pistols. The Clash. The '70s rock-opera - stylists: Queen. Yes. Early Genesis (this was crucial - Peter Gabriel - led Genesis, not the earsore it became under Phil Collins). Metal: Led Zeppelin. Deep Purple. Metallica. Party Rock: AC/DC. Def Leppard. Motley Crüe if she was feeling a tad ironic. Since she'd arrived to work at the North Inn, the place was always blasting with the screech of guitars and the fist-pumping dance-floor anthems that drove the crowd to its feet. But next to the drinks she poured, the music was almost irrelevant.
The redheaded bartender had a way of making the cocktails just right: the gin and tonics tart and bracing, the dark and stormies luscious with bite. It was a party every night, and every evening ended with patrons dancing on the bar, losing their inhibitions and occasionally their clothing. If you came into the North Inn alone and feeling blue, you left with either a new friend or a hangover, sometimes both.
However, a week after her engagement party, the bar, like Freya, was a bit subdued. While the music was still loud and strong, it had an underlying mournful echo. The Rolling Stones sang "Waiting on a Friend": I'm not waiting on a lady, I'm just waiting on a friend . . . , the cocktails were limp and sweet, the gin fizz didn't fizz, the champagne was flat, the beer turned lukewarm after only a few minutes. It was just like the engagement party, but worse. She was glad Ingrid wasn't around to notice; she didn't want her sister any more suspicious than she already was. What happened with Killian that evening had been an impulsive act, but it was over now and everything would be all right. There was no need to panic. So what if all she could dream about was Killian? So what if he had invaded her consciousness, had become the subject of her every waking thought? When she closed her eyes, she could still see his beautiful face, hovering above hers. She would make it go away. She would make him go away. If only it was Killian who was halfway around the world and not her love.
Bran called earlier: he had arrived safely in Denmark and was on his way to his meeting. She knew she had to get used to it; from the beginning he had explained that his life and his work entailed a great amount of travel and that he was rarely home, but he was planning to slow down after the wedding. Hearing his voice had cheered her up a little, but her dark mood continued to build as she leaned back on the bar, watching customers arrive. Dan Jerrods and his new girlfriend, Amanda Turner, walked in, and an image flashed in Freya's mind: Dan had Amanda up against a wall, the two of them gasping and clutching at each other, Amanda's blouse unbuttoned, Dan's jeans at his knees. That was just a few minutes before they'd set off for the bar. It was early in their relationship, and sex was still their way of saying hello. Freya certainly spoke that language.
Right behind the postcoital couple was Mayor Todd Hutchinson (fervent mast***ation last night in front of a computer), with his friend, flashy developer Blake Aland (a tangle of some sort in his car the other week: it was blurry and the vision wouldn't focus, but Freya sensed some kind of sexual frustration here), then the good reverend and his wife (a flash of leather whips and masks over the holiday weekend). Sometimes Freya felt a bit dizzy from all the information. She should be used to it by now, her talent - she refused to call it a "gift" - but it still came as a surprise.
This was just another manifestation of her nature, the ability to see intense emotion - and it wasn't just sexual passion or romantic love that she was able to see. Freya could also read intense anger and hatred, the opposite of love as it were: murderous rage, overwhelming anxiety. Over the centuries, her talent had been very useful. Although there was very little of it, North Hampton was not immune from crime. When it did happen, it was usually scandalous and spectacular, like the chilling murder of a socialite who had been poisoned at her own dinner party, or sad and unusual, like what had happened to Bill and Maura Thatcher. Their bodies had been found on the beach just last winter, both of them bleeding from the head. Bill died from his injuries but Maura was still in intensive care, comatose at the hospital.
Freya had been instrumental in bringing the socialite's murderer to justice. An aggrieved housekeeper who was an occasional patron was behind the heiress's death. Freya saw exactly how she did it, putting a thimbleful of poison into the champagne, expertly popping back the cork. She had pointed the police in the right direction so that they were able to build their case. The detectives had found a bottle of the toxic substance among the housekeeper's possessions, which led to the conviction, a thrilling conclusion all around.
She was glad to be helpful, to be able to use her natural talents in a discreet way that was technically still within the restriction placed upon her. She wasn't practicing any witchcraft, after all. She couldn't help it if she could see motive, intent, and guilt, and since almost everyone in town walked into the North Inn, Freya kept the pulse of the community in hand. She always knew who had stolen from the cash register, or broken into the guest house, or vandalized the public school. If the policemen had once been skeptical of her they were no longer, except for that one detective who kept badgering her for explanations of her hunches. So it was odd that she still had no idea what had happened to the Thatchers, who had both been well-liked. Perhaps the police were right, it was a random act of a vagrant, a stranger, but it frustrated Freya not to know.
She served Dan and Amanda their drinks. She smiled at the honeymooning couple - the first two weeks of any relationship was a honeymoon as far as Freya was concerned. Couples waited so long to marry these days, or had been living together for years before, that most honeymoons had very little mooning or honey. The sex, if there was any, was usually of the garden variety, missionary style. Most couples were much more excited about their plush hotel rooms than about seeing each other naked. The days of trembling virginal brides slipping in between cold sheets were long past. Which was why Freya looked on new couples with affection. These were her people, worshippers at her temple. She blessed them with her smile and copious free drinks.
The reverend and his wife ordered a decent bottle of wine, and Blake wanted a beer. She set the orders on the bar and turned to her final customer. "What can I get you, sir?" she asked the mayor.
"Whiskey, straight, thanks Freya."
"Sure thing, Mayor," she said. Todd Hutchinson was young, slick, and ambitious. He had big plans for North Hampton and had swept into office on the campaign donations of people like Blake Aland. The young mayor was popular around town, although Freya knew her sister, Ingrid, was not a fan ever since she'd gotten wind of his proposal to sell the library. Poor Ingrid, there was nothing she would be able to do if the proposal was approved.