She took his arm, the dark alley almost intimate as the foghorn groaned out past the cove. He breathed in her scent and tried to relax. He was safe with her. But he knew relaxing would be impossible as long as he was in Moriah’s Landing. And dangerous.
The apparition came out of the mist so unexpectedly Jonah didn’t even have time to reach for his weapon, let alone sense the presence. Suddenly a dark figure appeared in front of them, her black hooded cloak blowing out in the breeze like the wings of a vulture.
He started at the sight of the old crone, her gray hair a silver aura sticking out from under her black hood, her eyes bottomless holes in her wrinkled face.
Reflexively he stepped between his date and the old woman as the crone reached clawlike gnarled fingers toward them.
“It’s just Arabella,” his date whispered. “She’s harmless.”
How little she knew.
The old woman’s gaze locked with his for an instant, then she stumbled back as if she’d seen a ghost. Or something worse. “Katherine,” she cried, fear contorting her face as she gasped for breath and reached around him, trying to pluck at the fabric of his date’s jacket sleeve.
“Danger comes in with the fog,” the crone croaked, her gaze on Jonah. “Danger and death.” Then the old woman stumbled back into the mist, leaving Jonah shaken. If he couldn’t even sense an old woman coming in the fog, how did he plan to protect himself from the real trouble here?
Katherine must have seen his expression. “Arabella’s just local color,” she said with a laugh, and pulled him toward the Moriah’s Landing Inn. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the town council paid her to freak out visitors as part of our witch-folklore ambience.”
Jonah looked over his shoulder. The old woman was gone. But like him, she’d sensed something had come in with the fog, unleashing evil in Moriah’s Landing.
They walked past one of the “witch” shops along the narrow alley that peddled magic, from herbs and oils to tarot cards and crystals.
“I’m sure you’ve heard about all this foolishness?” his date asked as she glanced into the shop window, then at him.
“What foolishness?” he asked, pretending he didn’t know and that he wasn’t still shaken by their run-in with Arabella.
“Witches, the supernatural, all the hype that comes with Moriah’s Landing,” she said with a laugh. “According to local legend, early resident McFarland Leary was a consort to a witch.”
They crossed Main Street to the entrance of the Moriah’s Landing Inn. He opened the door for her, anxious to get inside. Because of the hour, the hotel lobby and the restaurant were nearly empty. A young waiter showed them to a table by the window facing the cove—farthest away from the door and Main Street.
“When they started burning witches at the stake in Salem, many of the witches fled to Moriah’s Landing where they were hidden by McFarland Leary and his consort, a witch named Seama,” she said, and nervously plucked up her cloth napkin from the table. “Seama and her secret coven give the town its supernatural ambience.”
She glanced at him, then out at the foggy darkness as if there was nothing to fear beyond the window. “McFarland Leary is our resident ghost, cursed by the witch he betrayed.” She swung her gaze back to him. Definitely nervous, making him pretty sure she didn’t know much about him. “Seama was carrying Leary’s child when she caught him cheating on her with a mortal and she damned him for eternity. Then she disappeared with her unborn baby. Some people swear she later returned to town and her descendants live among us.” She smiled at that. “The town accused Leary of being a warlock and sentenced him to die. Warlocks were used for kindling around the stakes to get the fire going hot enough to burn the witches. But Moriah’s Landing likes to be different. The town hung Leary from a big oak tree on the town green and buried him in St. John’s Cemetery as a warning to others who might want to consort with witches. Now Leary rises from his grave every five years to seek revenge on the town. Or at least that’s what the chamber of commerce wants you to believe.”
She took a breath as she finished her story and let out a little tense laugh. “Welcome to Moriah’s Landing.”
Obviously, her real date wasn’t from town. He smiled, gazing intently into her dark blue eyes, anxious to change the subject, no matter what it took, even if it meant flirting with a beautiful woman. “I like it already, Katherine.” At least Arabella had provided him with his date’s name.
“Kat.” She dropped her gaze, a faint blush rising in her cheeks, making her even more appealing, as if she wasn’t already. “Everyone just calls me Kat.”
Except for Arabella. He glanced toward Waterfront Avenue, the fog too thick to know if the man he’d seen was still out there looking for him. “You sound as if you don’t like the town,” he said, not sure how much he was supposed to know about her but determined to keep her talking about herself so she didn’t start questioning him. “What makes you stay?”
She seemed surprised and he feared he’d already messed up. He wasn’t ready to go back out on the street. Even if it had been safe, he found his “date” intriguing. Maybe too intriguing.
She took a sip from her water glass, then picked up her menu. “I’ve never even thought about leaving. Can you believe it? I didn’t even leave to go away to college.”
So she went to the all-girl Heathrow College at the edge of town.
“I’m eighth generation,” she said as if that explained it. “In Massachusetts you aren’t considered a native unless you have at least eight generations buried in the local cemetery.”
A local girl. Just his luck.
“Your ancestors must have been fishermen,” he guessed, opening his own menu, although he wasn’t in the least bit hungry.
“Seventh generation,” she said. “Dad died at sea when I was a sophomore in college.”
“I’m sorry.”
She nodded and peered at him over her menu, her wide blue eyes magnetic. “Commercial fishing,” she said, then dropped her gaze again behind the menu.
He nodded to himself, more than aware that the sea had always taken men from small fishing villages like Moriah’s Landing and would continue to as long as men went to sea. And men would always be drawn to the sea. Some forces in nature pulled at you with a witchery that Jonah understood better than most.
“What about your mother?” he asked, hoping his question was general enough.
“My mother—” he heard the catch in her throat, the hesitation in her voice “—died when I was three. I can’t remember her.” She closed her menu, clearly closing the subject.
“I’m sorry. I hope that isn’t all the family you have here,” he said, doing a little fishing of his own.
“There’s my half sister, Emily. She’s seventeen and a real handful, but I love her. She’s all the family I have left and she graduates from high school next week. Tell me more about you.”
More about him. He studied his menu wondering about the man she was supposed to be having dinner with tonight. He could only guess that they met online, considering her comment about getting her e-mail, and that they obviously hadn’t met face-to-face—until tonight. He knew nothing about online dating. But it was pretty clear that she didn’t know her date very well—nor he her. “There isn’t much to tell.”
“Your father wasn’t a fisherman, I’ll bet.”
Far from it. He shook his head and smiled as he lowered