Witches of East End by Melissa de La Cruz Page A

magic, she kept telling herself. It was just a few words. A tiny little knot. No one would ever have to know. This was even more fun than removing that blockage; instead of merely cutting out the garbage, here she was creating something. Ingrid felt the magic bubbling inside, the thrilling rush that came from harnessing and directing a wild and unimaginable power to her bidding, and she felt her cheeks turn red with excitement. She had missed this more than she could admit.
    “What are you making?”
    The sound of the voice shook her and the spell broke. Ingrid quickly put the knot away in her pocket. “Matthew Noble! You surprised me.” She didn’t answer his question.
    “It’s Matt, I keep telling you.” Matthew Noble smiled. He was a senior detective with the police department and even at thirty still looked like the college athlete he had once been, tall, with light brown hair, a pleasant Irish face, pale skin, sunburned nose, clear blue eyes, wearing his uniform of rumpled sports jacket and tan slacks. She could sense something in the way he looked at her—too frankly and too, well, appreciatively. He was certainly good-looking, but she wasn’t interested—not at all—and it was becoming something of a nuisance, his crush on her. It made her uncomfortable. Especially since he never did anything about it. If only he would ask her out so she could crush his crush. Yet he seemed satisfied with merely looking at her and needling her for books. She doubted he ever read them. He didn’t seem the bookish type.
    “Sorry to bother you, but there was no one at the front desk. And I thought you might have a book to recommend.” When he smiled his teeth actually shone.
    “I sure do,” Ingrid replied, thinking quickly. “Here,” she said, pressing J. J. Ramsey Baker’s latest into his hands. Ha. See what he thought of that! Serves Matthew Noble (did they live in Our Town ? Could his name be even more corny?) right. At least she had found a way to put his attraction to her to good use. “If you like the book I’d love it if you could recommend it to a lot more people.” Maybe that way she could keep it on the shelves and the sensitive author wouldn’t have a temper tantrum when he found it kicked to the curb, she thought, as she stamped his library card and logged the transaction in the computer.
    “Sure will.” Matt nodded, putting the book away without even glancing at its cover. He looked as if he were going to say something more, then decided against it. Ingrid watched him leave, noting his broad shoulders and easy glide, then went back to her weaving. Before the end of the day, she slipped the little knot of hair in Tabitha’s purse.
    No magic here. Just a lucky knot to help a friend, that was all it was, Ingrid kept telling herself. No one would ever know or find out.

chapter seven
    A New Boy
     
    M otherhood had robbed Joanna of her figure, of that she was sure. No matter how much she dieted (and she had tried them all: the Atkins and the Zone, the low-cal and the low-carb, the cabbage and the cookie, the Jenny and the Watchers, the South Beach and the Sugar Busters, the tea and juice cleanses, the endless hours spent exercising—first the running and then the spinning—the step classes and the yoga and the Pilates), she never could get rid of those dreaded last ten pounds, that tire around her belly. Her daughters chided her on her obsession, telling her she looked good for her age . And what age would that be exactly? Six thousand years?
    It was understood that women of a certain age no longer cared about their looks, but it was a lie. Vanity did not die of old age, especially in beautiful women, and oh, she had been beautiful once—so beautiful that she had wed the most fearsome god of all. But it was too late to think of what had been. Her husband had abandoned her, along with her good looks, a long time ago. Oh, in the right light she was attractive, she supposed, she was still “handsome,”