The Witch's Grave

Prologue

Do you ache?

Do you burn

With the half remembered dream

Of a lifetime long ago

Where your soul touched mine?

Do you wait?

Do you long

To find the forgotten feelings

Of a moment gone in time

Where your soul touched mine?

Do you mourn?

Do you cry

Over the once lost love

Of a past life ended

Where your soul touched mine?

Do you pray?

Do you hope

For the grace and redemption

Of a promised tomorrow

Where your soul touches mine?

One

Isn’t this great? I exclaimed as my eyes swept down the path winding between the tidy rows. Woody vines grew straight out of the Iowa soil as their branches reached out like open arms to embrace the hot, August sunshine. Dark green leaves draped those branches, and peaking out from beneath them, clusters of deep, red grapes hung heavy in the sun. The scene looked like something out of a Grant Wood painting.

Darci lowered her sunglasses, and her blue eyes rimmed with black mascara studied me with skepticism. Who are you and what have you done with the grumpy Ophelia Jensen we all know and love?

Ha ha, I shot back, giving her a playful shove. A bubble of excitement tickled through me. I’m just having a good time, that’s all. This is a great party, I said with a sweep of my arm.

"Exactly my point—you don’t like parties. You hate socializing—"

"Since I’m the librarian in Summerset and this is a fund-raiser for the library, I interjected, I couldn’t very well not attend."

True—Claire did a terrific job organizing the event—but you always try and wiggle out of stuff like this.

I shrugged one shoulder. Maybe I’m trying to change.

Darci crossed her arms. She didn’t look convinced.

Ignoring her, I turned away from the railing and watched the crowd assembled on the deck of the winery.

Men and women gathered in small groups and large groups, some sitting in lawn chairs and some standing. Their laughter rode on the breeze and mingled with the sound of the live band that played in the arbor located on the lawn below. Everyone held long-stemmed wineglasses, while plastic buckets with dark bottles of wine nestled in clear cubes of ice were within easy reach. A couple of men were casting surreptitious glances our way—Darci’s way.

I understood the attention. With her big, blond hair and her curvy figure, in black cigarette pants and a hot pink halter top, she was gorgeous. Add a blinding smile that could charm almost anyone, and you had a pretty potent package. But there was more to the package than just Darci’s appearance—intelligence hid behind those big, blue eyes. And any guy not smart enough to recognize it usually lived to regret it.

Me? Did men notice me? Dressed in my navy sun dress, I looked okay, but not outstanding. Just your everyday small-town librarian. In my thirties, five-four, brown eyes, brown shoulder-length hair, with no noticeable scars or impediments. Someone passing me in the street wouldn’t give me a second glance. I smiled to myself. I looked normal—and normal’s good. It’s something I’ve wanted to be all my life. Unfortunately, I didn’t fall into anyone’s definition of normal. Not with the witch-psychic thing that ran strong in the women of my family.

My eyes traveled to my grandmother, Abby, someone else who always drew attention, deep in conversation with her elderly boyfriend, Arthur. Her voice still carried the soft cadence of the mountain in Appalachia where she’d been raised. I didn’t know if it was her voice or the air of gentleness that always seemed to surround her, but people were drawn to her like moths.

Today, her silver hair was coiled in an elegant knot on the top of her head, and her flowing skirt, stirred by the soft breeze, floated around her ankles. A very classy woman, my grandmother, and I felt a stirring of pride as I observed her. She didn’t consider herself, or me, peculiar at all. She might not broadcast her talents, but still reveled in her ability to see things and cast spells.

Not far from Abby, Claire Canyon, our library board president, talked with a blond man I didn’t recognize.

I poked Darci. Hey, who’s the guy talking to Claire?

I don’t know…some politician. The place is crawling with them, all stumping for votes in the upcoming election. She smirked. But whoever he is, Claire isn’t happy with him.

With her glasses lowered, Claire was peering at him over the rims. It was the look. The look that made a person feel like they were something to be scraped off the bottom of a shoe. She raised her other hand and pointed a finger at his chest as she made her point.

Glad it was him and not me. I avoided such confrontations with Claire at all costs. Wonder what he’d done to irritate her?

Darci interrupted my thoughts with a nudge. Let’s get back to the ‘new’ Ophelia. She leaned against the railing, her back to the vineyard, and studied me closely. What’s brought on this big change?

Tracing the beads of moisture trickling down my glass, I tried to think of a way to explain.

A feeling best described as part anticipation, part anxiety, seemed to chase after me wherever I went these days. A sense that something waited right around the next corner. Okay, so I’m a witch and a psychic, and that might have something to do with what I was experiencing. But the dreams…

My skin grew suddenly warm. Fanning myself with my hand, I let a long breath escape from my lips.

Darci pushed away from the railing in concern. What is it? You’re flushed, she said, laying her palm on my arm.

Touching my cheek, I gave a nervous laugh. Seems to be happening to me a lot lately.

She grabbed the bottle of wine we were sharing from our bucket and filled my glass with the pale pink liquid.

I took a drink and let the sweet cool wine trickle slowly down my throat. When I lowered my glass, I felt her eyes still on me.

Okay, spill it—what’s going on? she demanded. Are you worried about Tink?

No, not really. I gave my head a little shake. It was hard to watch her walk out the door today—the kidnapping wasn’t that long ago, but I know she’s safe with Nell and her mom.

Her lips tightened when I mentioned the kidnapping of my soon-to-be adopted daughter. I hope those two crazies, Winnie and Gert, she said grimly, referring to Tink’s kidnappers, are locked up for years and years.

Oh, they will be. I took another sip of wine. The district attorney has refused their plea bargain, so they’re looking at a long stretch in prison. Tink will be grown, with children of her own, by the time those two get out.

Good, serves them right, she replied emphatically. So if it’s not Tink that’s bothering you, what is it?

I can’t shake the feeling something’s about to happen—

Oooh, she said, cutting me off. Her face glowed with excitement. Mur—

Stop right there, I said, holding up my hand. It’s not that kind of feeling. I made quotations marks in the air with my fingers.

Shoot, she said in a voice tinged with disappointment. No psychic premonition?

Shh, your voice will carry, I hissed as I glanced over her shoulder at the nearest group of revelers. Taking her arm, I guided her down the deck’s steps to the shade of a big maple tree.

Stopping under the tree, Darci watched me expectantly as I tugged at my bottom lip and tried to frame my words.

It’s weird…I’ve been having strange dreams almost every night. Then I wake up with this feeling…like there’s something I’m supposed to do, but I can’t remember what it is.

She tapped her chin with a long red fingernail. Have you mentioned this to Abby?

I gave a snort. Are you kidding? I pictured my seventy-plus grandmother’s bags of potions, herbs, and magick spells. You know how she’d react. She’d look at the moon signs, whip out her crystals, and want to do a little hocus-pocus. I shook my head. No, I’m handling this one on my own.

Why? Darci asked, sounding perplexed.

I, well, hmm, I stalled. See these dreams are…ah…well—

Are what? she asked with a flounce. If they’re not prophetic?

I felt hot blood rush to my face again. Ah, you see… My voice faltered. "I don’t think they’re visions of future events. I play a starring role and I never have premonitions about myself. My talent doesn’t work that way. The dreams are…well, really personal. I inhaled sharply. And they’re, um…erotic," I finished in a whisper.

She ripped her sunglasses off and scooted toward me. And you don’t want Abby to pick up on them? she asked, her eyebrow arching.

My God, no! I said with passion. "Would you want your grandmother to know that you’re dreaming about some hot guy in a field of wildflowers?"

She giggled. No. Hot guy, huh? Who? Rick, Ned, Henry? She rattled off a list of men who’d drifted in and out—mostly out—of my life over the past couple of years. Darci snapped her fingers. I’ve got it, Ethan!

Ah yes, Ethan, slash, Cobra, the elusive DEA agent who kept popping up when I least expected it.

No, it’s not Ethan—that’s the strange part—it’s someone I’ve never met, but it’s like I’ve known him all my life.

Maybe you’re dreaming of your own true love.

I took a step back. My own ‘true love’?

Yeah. Her face took on a dreamy expression and her voice seemed to trill. Your soul mate, the man you’ve been waiting for all your life. Two hearts calling to one another through—

Don’t go flying off into some romantic rapture, I scoffed. It’s not like that.

She fisted her hand on her hip. "So what is it like?"

I don’t know. I shoved my hands into the deep pockets of my dress. I’ve never experienced anything like this before. I’ve had plenty of dreams involving murder or mayhem, but these… Staring off into the distance, I recalled one of the dreams. We’re in this field of wildflowers, and I’m dressed in a long, loose dress. Bees are flitting from flower to flower, and the sky’s scattered with white, puffy clouds. He’s waiting for me at the top of a rise, and it’s like I can’t wait to be with him. Another blush began to creep up my neck and into my face, and I stopped.

Go on, she prodded with anticipation, what happens next?

Never mind, I said, waving the images away. "Let’s just say for a witch and a psychic, these are pretty good dreams."

She tapped a foot on the hard, cracked ground in annoyance. Okay, if you’re not going to give me the details, at least tell me what this guy looks like.

He’s dressed in a white shirt, with billowing sleeves… I paused. You know, like the ones pirates wear?

Darci rolled her eyes. Maybe you’ve checked in one too many romance novels and the cover art seeped into your subconscious.

Listen, I said in a curt voice. Do you want to know what he looks like or not?

Okay, okay, she mumbled. Sorry.

He’s blond, tall with wide shoulders, and his eyes are blue—an incredibly deep blue. As dark as sapphires. Eyes that just pull you in… A softness stole over me as I imagined the man in my dreams. The way he made me feel, the way his arms…I shook myself out of my revelry, banishing the gooiness I felt inside. That’s about it, I commented, trying to put a hard edge back in my voice.

Does he say anything?

No, he just smiles a lot.

Humph, I bet, she said with a knowing glance.

I felt my cheeks bloom bright red.

Okay, she said, her eyes scanning the crowd. Tall, blond—

Yes, but, I interjected swiftly before she jumped to conclusions, he wasn’t the man arguing with Clair.

Okay, so blue eyes, wide shoulders. Her eyes stopped. How about the guy surrounded by all the women? He’s tall, has wide shoulders and blond hair, but I can’t tell if his eyes are blue. He’s wearing sunglasses.

I spun around and followed her gaze to where it rested on a stranger.

The man Darci referred to wore dark navy jeans and a bright white sport shirt. From the side view, he fit Darci’s description—built exactly like the stranger from my dreams, but I couldn’t know at that distance without seeing his eyes.

Feeling my stare, his head moved in my direction and he removed his sunglasses.

A slow smile spread across his face, and, as our eyes locked, my heart almost stopped.

It was him—literally the man of my dreams.

Two

Ophelia, Ophelia.

Darci’s voice sounded very far away, and the chatter of the crowd dimmed until all I could hear was the thump of my heart pounding in my ears. My fingers, holding the stem of my wineglass, felt numb as I watched the man make his way with an easy stride to where Darci and I still stood by the maple tree.

He looked down at me. Hi, I’m Stephen Larsen.

Images of my dreams flickered through my mind, and I prayed I wasn’t blushing again. My tongue felt thick in my mouth, making it difficult to talk.

Ophelia Jensen, I managed to mumble.

Have we met? he asked, giving me a quizzical grin.

Ah, no, ah, I don’t think so, I stammered.

Stephen’s eyes shifted toward Darci.

Hi, I’m Darci West, she said, shaking his hand.

My pleasure, he replied quickly before turning his deep blue eyes back to me.

Well… Darci paused. If you’ll excuse me, she continued with a tinge of amusement in her voice. It appears we need a new bottle.

My attention remained riveted on the stranger, but I heard her three-inch mules slap across the hard ground as she walked away. A moment of panic hit me.

I wasn’t good at making small talk with strangers, especially a stranger who’d haunted my dreams for the last couple of weeks. The silence between us grew while Stephen continued to stare at me.

Are you sure we haven’t met? he asked in a puzzled voice.

Have you ever been to the library in Summerset?

Stephen’s laugh rang out. I’ve been in lots of libraries, but not that one.

I cocked my head. You visit libraries?

Yeah, he said with a crooked grin. I’m an author.

My mind scrambled while I tried to run through our list of authors. Stephen Larsen, Stephen Larsen—nope, the name didn’t mean anything to me.

Are you famous? I blurted.

A smile quivered at the corner of his mouth. I don’t know if you’d call it ‘famous.’ I write nonfiction under my real name, but horror under the pen name of M. J. LaSalle.

Oh, my gosh. My eyes widened in shock. You’re M. J. LaSalle?

He nodded shyly.

I’m sorry…I didn’t recognize you, I exclaimed.

That’s okay. Most people don’t, he said good-naturedly. After all, who really pays attention to a picture on a dust jacket?

I thought of all the books I’d entered into our system over the years and their authors—John Grisham, Barry Eisler, J. A. Konrath, Charlaine Harris, Debbie Macomber—all had works very popular with our patrons. However, most readers had problems remembering the titles, let alone what the author looked like.

You’re right, not many, but your books fly off our shelves.

His eyebrows shot up. You own a bookstore?

No, I’m the librarian in Summerset, I explained with pride.

Ahh, he said slowly, that’s why you asked me if I visited libraries.

I gave my head a quick dip. "So what’s a New York Times best-selling author doing here in our little corner of Iowa?"

Stephen’s eyes drifted over to a group of men standing by the arbor and talking to one of vineyard’s employees. His gaze held for an instant, and a shadow of a frown crossed his face. Mind if we take a walk? he asked without answering my question.

Although confused by the sudden change in his expression, I fell into step next to him. Umm, no, that would be great.

Just as long as we stay away from any field of wildflowers, I thought. What happens when I’m dreaming is one thing, but I didn’t intend to make those dreams a reality…not yet.

We walked down the gravel drive away from the winery, away from the noise of the crowd and the sound of the music. As we strolled by past several residents of my small Iowa town, I noticed a couple of eyebrows lift in surprise.

Peachy. By tomorrow morning it would be all over town that I was spotted at the fund-raiser with a strange man. I’d be fielding questions all day. Edna Simpson, with her false teeth sliding precariously around in her mouth, would want to know who Stephen was, where he lived, and what his line-age was, dating back to the Mayflower. I didn’t think anyone would recognize his picture from the back of his book cover. I certainly hadn’t.

As we strolled, silence hung in the air, but it wasn’t strained. It felt comfortable, and there was a sense that if I did talk, Stephen would find what I said interesting.

The feeling of having known him all my life settled around me.

I—

You—

We both spoke at the same time.

Go ahead, I said, laughing.

I’m trying to think of a way to say this. He stopped, shoving both hands in his front pockets. I have the strongest feeling that I know you. A chagrined expression crossed his face. Flaky, isn’t it?

No, I said with a slight shake of my head. I was just thinking the same thing—that I feel like I’ve known you a long time.

Wow, maybe I can read your mind, he said with a chuckle.

Oh God, I hope not, I thought, not meeting his eyes. In my experience, reading minds wasn’t all that much fun.

He tilted his head and gave me a funny look. Has this ever happened to you before?

No. I paused, thinking about all the strange things, due to my so-called gift, that I’d encountered. No, I repeated firmly.

Good, then we’re in this together, he said, removing his hand from his pocket and taking mine.

At his touch, a tingle shot up my arm, catching me off guard. Did he feel it, too? I gave him a slanted glance. No, no reaction at all.

Stephen led me near the trees marking the boundary of the vineyard.

Clearing my throat, I tried to make small talk. You didn’t say why you’re in Iowa, I said. Why you’re here at the winery.

A shuttered expression flashed in his eyes. I’ve been in eastern Iowa doing research, and I heard that someone I wanted to meet would be here.

Research, huh? I asked, trying to ignore how it felt to have his fingers wrapped around mine. For a Stephen Larsen book, or an M. J. LaSalle?

A Stephen Larsen. He squeezed my hand and chuckled again. It’s confusing—there are mornings I wake up and don’t know which persona I’ll be for the day.

I never thought about that—I suppose it is. I’ve met authors before. When I lived in Iowa City, I attended events at Prairie Lights Bookstore, but I’ve never had a conversation with a writer.

I hope I don’t disappoint you, he replied with a wink. Haven’t you had authors visit your library?

No. Summerset’s not exactly on the book tour circuit.

Personally, I enjoy libraries and meeting librarians. His hand tightened. Especially this librarian.

My hand in his, twitched. Is he flirting with me? Nervous, I changed the subject. How long will you be in Iowa?

I don’t know. It depends on how the research goes; how much background information I dig up. From here, I’m headed to Texas.

I couldn’t make the connection between Iowa and Texas in my head. You must be writing some story. What’s it about?

Stephen’s lips tightened, and I worried that I’d offended him.

I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry— I tensed and gave my hand a little tug.

It’s okay, he broke in without releasing my hand. I’m a little superstitious. I always think if I talk about a book too soon, it will somehow jinx it.

Relaxing, I smiled. "I wouldn’t want to do that. May I ask this…Where do you live?’

Stephen laughed. That’s a question I can answer. St. Louis. A condo near Laclede’s Landing.

Laclede’s Landing?

Yeah, it was named for the founder of St. Louis, Pierre Laclede, and it was where the fur trappers rendezvoused. Now the old warehouses are converted to businesses.

I heard the fondness in his voice as he talked of his home.

Sounds like you enjoy living there.

I do. I love the energy at Laclede’s. There’s always something to do, blues festivals, live music, fine restaurants, bars. He smiled. For a writer, it’s a great place to people watch. And my assistant, Karen Burns, lives nearby, so that’s handy.

A weird little spark of jealousy ran through me at the mention of another woman in Stephen’s life.

Jeez, Jensen, get a grip.

Do you discuss your writing with her? My question came out on the snippy side, and Stephen gave me a funny look.

A little, mainly just the M. J. LaSalle manuscripts. Like I said, I don’t talk much about my work while I’m writing.

It sounds like you have a very interesting life.

It is…to me anyway, he said with satisfaction. What about you?

Hmm, good question. Was my life interesting? I was raising a teenage daughter, I had my job at the library, I had this psychic/witch thing going on. And there was my little habit of tripping over bodies. Yeah, I guess I could say my life was interesting, but I had no intention of explaining it to Stephen.

No, not really, I lied, glancing up to the sky. Just your typical small-town life.

Looking back at Stephen, the grin on his face told me he didn’t believe me.

"No,