She left, and he watched her go, cussing himself for acting like an idiot and wondering what homy little demon had possessed him, just now. But no, he couldn't blame his actions on anyone but himself. He was getting cocky. Starting to buy into the bullshit his father's diaries were trying so hard to sell. No matter how ridiculous Alex told himself it was, he was falling into it. He felt himself falling into it.
Maybe he just wanted it to be true. Maybe he'd just wanted an identity so badly for so long that he was embracing his newfound heritage with a little more zeal than common sense. And maybe he ought to have listened to his first instinct and stayed the hell away from the secluded old mansion where his father had lived and died.
The thought of parting with the place, though, sent a pang through his chest. It and its musty contents were all he had of his father. All he would ever have.
Besides the genes. The blood. The power.
Part of him rolled his eyes at the latter notion. Another part of him considered hurling a lightning bolt at something, just to see.
Until recently the practical part, the skeptic, had been stronger. Lately the two seemed evenly matched, and he felt constantly torn by the struggle.
He sighed and went to his car. Everyone had gone their separate ways, but they were due to meet at the studios the next day to refilm today's scene. Karl and Merl were supposed to brainstorm changes to the script, though the actual implementation would be done by Merl's writing team, who would fax the new scripts to the actors tonight. Later Karl would head to the studio to talk special effects. Alex would have to approve all of it before they shot tomorrow, but none of it would be ready for hours yet. He had the afternoon free.
So did Melissa.
He could go out there, he thought with a stirring of hunger. But another thought, one that didn't feel like one of his own, overpowered the impulse. Don't chase her. Let her come to you. She will, you know. If all the things your father wrote in those diaries are true, she will - simply because you want her to. Wait and see.
He rolled his eyes at the ridiculous notion even as he wondered what a good shrink would make of the voices in his head that never sounded quite like his own inner monologue. Then he got in the Mercedes and drove to the house he couldn't quite think of as home.
Melissa used the afternoon to bury Alex's pentacle in the sand, in a spot too high for the tide to reach it, though well outside her sacred space. She called on the energies of Earth and Sea to cleanse it of its negative vibes, sprinkled rosemary, angelica, rue, and sage into the hole with it, and sank a tall stick into the sand beside it to mark the spot.
Then she washed her hands repeatedly, first in the sea, then with soap and water in her bathroom sink, and finally with Moon Water that had been blessed and charged with lunar energy.
After that, she got on the phone with Alex's secretary and got his address from the woman. He was famous enough that Melissa expected his secretary would be extremely careful about letting the information out. It surprised her when the secretary gave her the address without even a token protest. Strange.
So it was done. She'd buried the pilfered pent' to cleanse it, and she'd gotten the address without effort. Now all she had to do was work up the nerve to go over there and tell him what she'd done... and maybe why she'd felt compelled to do it.
But what was she supposed to say? Was she going to lecture him about what he'd been reading, who he'd been talking to? Grill him about who the hell this father of his was that he'd gone around with a half-pound of diamond-studded gold hanging from his neck? It was none of her business. She barely knew Alex, and she was certainly in no position to preach to him. He was wealthy, powerful, successful, and respected. How dare she presume to know what was good for him?
Even if she did.
She wasn't certain whether she should go over there or not, and she wasn't going to be able to come to a reasonable decision in this state. She needed to get centered.
A long hot soak in a scented bath helped. She added sandalwood and myrrh oils to the water. Very grounding. She dressed in her comfort clothes - a gray fleece warm-up suit and thickly cushioned white socks. She tied her hair in a loose ponytail and then phoned her favorite take-out place and ordered a bowl of seafood chowder. Thick and creamy. Rich and piping hot.
After she'd eaten, she went to the quietest room in the house. It had been intended as a second bedroom, but since she only needed one, it had become her temple room. Beaded curtains hung in the doorway. Goddess statues stood on pedestals, and there were shelves lined with books upon books. A small table, her working altar, stood in the center of the room.
She lit her candles, fired up her censer, then went to the west, sat on the floor on a soft cushion, and let her body relax. She focused on her breaths, rushing in and out, like waves on the sea, and she felt her mind slow and quiet. Absence of thought, stillness of the mind, that was true meditation, and it was that peace she sought.
When one didn't consciously search for an answer, that was when the answer was free to come on its own. At least that theory had proven true for her, time and time again. So she emptied her mind and sat in silence, floating in a peaceful void, without expectations or demands.
The darkness beyond her eyes began to fill with shapes and colors. The silence came alive, very slowly, with whispers and sounds.
Gradually, the shapes and colors took on more solid form.
Alex was there. No. The man from her dream, the one who looked like Alex, only dressed in dark robes and wearing that pent'. He had blood on his hands. He stood, facing toward her but not looking at her.
Melissa, where are you? I need you.
She frowned, certain that voice was not Alex's. And yet the face, the eyes, of the apparition were so like his -
She shivered and realized the entire room had gone icy cold. She opened her eyes to end the vision and saw her own breath cloud in front of her face.
Melissa's alpha state faded so fast she felt as if she had literally fallen from the sky, landing solidly in her body with a jarring thud. She was still sitting on the floor, in her temple room. She rubbed her arms against the chill.
"He's in trouble," a woman's voice whispered. "Help him, my sister."
Melissa jerked her head around, searching for the owner of that soft voice. But there was nothing, no one. Rising slowly, she inspected everything in the room for some clue. The spiral of incense smoke wasn't doing anything unusual. The candles' flames were steady and strong.
Except for the one in the west. It was flickering rapidly. And now that she was looking that way, she noticed the incense smoke was sort of flowing inward from that direction as well.
"I should have cast a goddamn circle," she muttered, because it was clear something had come in. She hadn't imagined the woman's voice or the man in the vision. She'd been a Witch too long to doubt her own senses, even the ones most people didn't believe in. She walked to the cabinet, took out a bundle of sage, changed her mind, and reached instead for the tightly sealed jar of asafetida, devil's dung. Removing a piece, keeping her face averted, she touched it to the candle's flame. The herb blazed up, and she blew it out, then walked counterclockwise around the room, smudging it with the rancid-smelling smoke.
"Spirits, depart!" She didn't whisper or chant or intone. This was a time for a clear, firm tone, one of command. "Depart through the gate you entered. This is my home and you have not been invited here. Depart, and go your way. Go, I say!"
The only sign that anything had happened was that the incense smoke swirled in a funny little eddy for a moment and then flowed steadily in the opposite direction, outward, toward the west. Melissa went to the western quarter and used the smoldering weed to draw a banishing pentagram in the air with its foul smoke. Then she doused the devil's dung, and using her hands she mimicked closing the veil, pulling it tight. She sealed the gateway with an equal-armed cross.
"So mote it be," she muttered. Then was still for a moment, waiting, sensing. But the chill was gone, as was that sense of someone else in the room.
Sighing, she extinguished her candles and her censer. Then she opened the window, to let the disgusting smell out. She left the ritual room through the tinkling beaded curtain and wondered what sort of visitation she'd just had.
She'd seen Alex. Or a man who looked like Alex - a man with blood on his hands. But what did it mean? Whether actual or symbolic, it would mean the same thing. Alex - or whoever the apparition was - was somehow responsible for causing harm, perhaps even death. She remembered the dream she'd had the night before - the woman she'd seen pushed from a bridge. Had that other voice been hers? Or was she some version of Melissa herself?
She shouldn't meddle in Alex's life any more than she already had - especially without his consent or knowledge.
There were forces moving in his life that were beyond her depth. Things she knew she would be better off not touching.
Yet her instincts were telling her to go to him.
And she never ignored her instincts.
She took her car keys from the hook and picked up the slip of paper with Alex's address on it before she headed out the front door.