Diary of the White WitchA Witches of East End Prequel

Melissa de la Cruz

Praise for the Witches of East EndSeries

“What could be more fun than a summer on LongIsland? A summer on Long Island with witches, ofcourse. Smart, stylish, and just a bit wicked, the witchesin Melissa de la Cruz’s Witches of East End seriesmanage to be both thoroughly modern and delightfullymythic.”

—Deborah Harkness, New York Times bestsellingauthor of A Discovery of Witches and Shadow of

Night“Move over, zombies, vampires, and werewolves, andmake way for witches. Melissa de la Cruz, author of thebestselling Blue Bloods series, ably sets the stage for ajuicy new franchise with Witches of East End…De laCruz balances the supernatural high-jinksery withunpredictable twists and a conclusion that nicely sets upbook 2. B+”

—Entertainment Weekly

“Centuries after the practice of magic was forbidden,Freya, Ingrid and their mom struggle to restrain theirwitchy ways as chaos builds in their Long Island town.A bubbling cauldron of mystery and romance, the novelshares the fanciful plotting of Blue Bloods, the author’steen vampire series…breezy fun.”

—People“A magical and romantic page-turner…. Witches ofEast End is certain to attract new adult readers…Thepacing is masterful, and while the witchcraft isentertaining, it’s ultimately a love triangle that makes thestory compelling. De la Cruz has created a family ofempathetic women who are both magically gifted andhumanly flawed.”

—Washington Post“For anyone who was frustrated watching Samanthasuppress her magic on ‘Bewitched,’ Ms. de la Cruzbrings some satisfaction. In her first novel for adults, theauthor…lets her repressed sorceresses rip.”

—New York Times“What happens when a family of Long Island witches is

forbidden to practice magic? This tale of powerfulwomen, from the author of the addictive Blue Bloodsseries, mixes mystery, a battle of good versus evil and adash of Norse mythology into a page-turning parable ofinner strength.”

—Self“Witches of East End has all the ingredients you’dexpect from one of Melissa’s bestselling YA novels—intrigue, mystery and plenty of romance. But with thenovel falling under the ‘adult’ categorization, Melissa’sable to make her love scenes even more…magical.”

—MTV.com“De la Cruz has, with Witches, once again managed toenliven and embellish upon history and mythology with aclever interweaving of past and present, both real andimagined…[it] casts a spell.”

—Los Angeles Times“De la Cruz is a formidable storyteller with a narrativevoice strong enough to handle the fruits of herimagination. Even readers who generally avoid witchesand whatnot stand to be won over by the time the

cliffhanger-with-a-twist-ending hits.”—Publishers Weekly

“Fantasy for well-read adults.”—Kirkus

“A sexy, magical romp, sure to bring de la Cruz a legionof new fans.”

—Kelley Armstong, New York Times bestsellingauthor of The Otherworld series

Contents

Title pagePraise for the Witches of East End Series

Diary of the White Witch

About the AuthorAlso by Melissa de la CruzCopyrightMore about the world of Melissa de la CruzComing in Summer 2012

Diary of the White Witch

Wednesday, April 20Dryden Road, Ithaca, New YorkI can’t help but think of Dad, the indomitable seafarer,as I write my first entry in this journal, a parting gift frommy coworkers at Cornell. Of course, it’s no ordinaryjournal. One would expect no less from a team of top-rate paper conservators and archivists. It’s an ancient,unused leather-bound captain’s logbook; the left-handpages display an ever-so-faint ghost of a grid for thecaptain of the ship to log the day of the week, speed,wind, and compass directions, while the right-handpages are left blank for sundry thoughts andobservations. There is a gold-leaf compass on the wornleather cover, and each of the hand-cut pages havereceived some form of treatment in the lab from myfellow staff members, so that I, Ingrid Beauchamp, maywrite here without worry that this centuries-old coarse-grained paper might crumble beneath my pen. It hasbeen ages since I have kept a diary. What a perfect and

timely gift!It did cross my mind that some of these pages could

have been doused with poison, and before setting pento paper, I brought the book up to my nose for a sniffof possible malfeasance. Hmm. It appears mycoworkers have forgiven me after all. There was noscent of bitter almonds, only leather with faint traces oflanolin and neat’s-foot oil, and aging paper. Perhapsnow that I’m leaving and no longer pose a threat to mycoworkers’ tenuous jobs, the vipers have withdrawntheir fangs. Ever since rumors of massive layoffs begancirculating last semester, there’s been quite a bit ofbackstabbing in the old library. But if anything,everyone grew quite fond of me since I announced mydeparture. Who can blame them? One more job hasbeen secured.

The farewell party was all smiles, ladyfingers,chocolate, champagne, a tiny jar of caviar nestled in asilver dish with ice, and some of my lab studentsdropping by, promising to keep in touch. I will missthem the most, as well as my daily bike rides to and frothe university past apple orchards.

And so, on this first day of spring, when the air islaced with hyacinth and day and night momentarilymatch with equal length, I set off, much wind in my sailsand many propitious portents for the journey ahead. I’mgoing home, finally, and maybe this time, to stay.Mother will be so pleased.

I have wanted to leave the school for a long timenow, as I have become weary of academia; it appearsthe smaller the piece of the pie, the more bitter the feudsfor the crumbs. Last week, I received a letter from oneHudson Rafferty of the North Hampton Library.Months ago, enough to have forgotten, I sent an inquiryabout a possible position as an archivist there, but neverheard back. Apparently there is a sudden need, andMr. Rafferty is requesting I come in for an interview assoon as time will permit, as the ranking archivist has upand left out of the blue. I sent him a formal reply,expressing great interest, along with my résumé, andnotified Mr. Rafferty that I will be in North Hampton ina week’s time and am looking forward to scheduling aninterview.

The idea of being my own boss in a small-town

library—with “a decent collection of local architecturalblueprints and rare maps that will need maintenance,” ashe put it, “and running things, since we are all juniorlibrarians at the moment and in a tizzy”—is much moreappealing to me than slipping back into the sludge ofpernicious academic politics.

North Hampton. I can feel it calling me. I need to benear Mother, near the seam, the epicenter. A fewmonths ago I began having dreams—nightmares, really—from which I would awake gasping. In my mind’seye I saw the seam fraying, loosening, harm seeping inlike quicksilver, the sea bubbling and drowning thesmall, sleepy town of North Hampton. Mother will needmy help, I can feel it.

At the very least, I long to see my family backtogether. We have been apart too long. Salem 1692were the last days we were together. Ugly, violent,confusing days. And now if something evil is upon usagain as I fear, we Beauchamps need to stick together.Enough time has passed for old wounds to heal. Motherand Dad must get over themselves and stop being sopigheaded. On my way out to Long Island, I’ve

planned a stopover in New York City, where I willattempt to persuade my sweet, wild sister to sell thebar, that albatross of hers, and come home, too.Perhaps between the three of us we can even work ongetting our Fryr back from Limbo.

Outside the opened window by my desk, the sunsinks beneath the horizon, leaving tinges of pink in itswake, signaling fair weather ahead. Though dusk sets inand fills the corners of the cottage with shadows after along day, I no longer feel weary. Oscar has curled up atmy feet. A warm fragrant breeze flows in, filling me withthat light, heady feeling of spring. I am eager for thejourney ahead.

Thursday, April 21Amtrak Train, Empire Route, Syracuse–New YorkCityMargaret, a bright, promising library science major withone too many tattoos, drove me to the Amtrak stationthis morning. The poor girl’s eyes turned as pink as theshock running through her raven hair, then brimmedwith tears when we said good-bye. I gave her a hug,

then the gentlest little push away from me, as if to say,Go forward, be brave—you can do this, kiddo!“Don’t forget to retrieve my bike at the cottage,” Ireminded her. “It’s yours.” She smiled and quicklyturned away, and no sooner had she done so, a lumpformed in my throat, and tears sprang in my eyes aswell. I should be used to this—they all graduate, afterall.

With a heavy heart, I walked down the platform, myheels clicking with a hollow sound, my suitcaseswerving behind me, just as I homed in on a distresssignal. Something wasn’t right, and I could feeldarkness lurking. Then I saw the hubbub further downthe platform. I stopped and watched, wiping my tears,pushing a loose strand of hair into my bun.

A woman had collapsed on the platform. She lay stillas blood dripped from her nose. I lunged forward. Myheart leapt. I wanted to help. I knew I could—I wasn’tJoanna, but like all witches I had some talents in thisarena. My body tingled, a surge of magic building insideme, wanting to burst forth, but I couldn’t allow it.Paramedics pushed past me. A crowd had gathered.

The magic fizzled out and died inside me; I’d locked itback up in its cage. Even to help someone in distress isforbidden by the Restriction. The medics appeared tohave it under control anyway.

I kept walking, just another mortal like the rest, justanother quiet, ordinary girl—“mousy,” one might evensay—with my hair in a bun, wearing a tan trench andplain navy suit, looking for a car with an empty windowseat. An Amtrak worker appeared from nowhere,blocking my way, telling me to get in the last car. Therewas an odd glint in his eye, as if he were derivingpleasure from being bossy. “Well, okay, then,” I said,making a face as I passed him.

By the time I plopped into my seat, I felt drained andachy. I kicked off my shoes, wriggled my toes, feelingthe suppressed magic like a physical ache. Magic. Imiss it with every bone. I miss it like a hunger. I’veoften wondered if what I used to feel when I was ableto practice magic freely is tantamount to what peopleexperience when they fall in love. I wouldn’t know. Butwhen I read about love in poems and novels, it soundsvery similar. Except with magic there is only happiness,

euphoria—never pain.The train has left the station. The seats beside and

across from me are empty. There is scarcely apassenger in this car. Maybe that Amtrak guy wasbeing nice, and I’m the one in a nasty mood. A fewrows ahead, I spy the back of a man’s head. He staredat me and smiled when I boarded the train—jet-blackhair, piercing blue eyes, square jaw, clean-shaven, cleftchin, and an air that says I know I’m so veryhandsome. Freya told me all about men like this. Ick.Why did he stare? Why did he smile like that? I found itdisturbing. Across the aisle is a teenager listening to hisiPod from beneath his wool cap, staring out the windowas he bobs his head. I can hear the repetitive beat fromthe earbuds. Behind me, a mother tells her child toshush, but the boy continues to ask her every fewminutes how long it will take to get to NYC. “And howlong now, Mommy?”

I call Freya and leave a message that I’m en routeand will call as soon as I’m in a taxi on the way to herplace. Before I slip the phone back into my pocket, Imake sure the ringer is on in case she calls back. Then I

watch the scenery unfold—verdant rolling hills, pink andwhite blossoms, a mare and her foal taking its firsttremulous steps in a field by a barn.

Oscar has flown ahead. My familiar doesn’t liketrains and prefers his independence. When I spoke withMother last night, she was so excited about my arrivalshe couldn’t stop talking about all the pies she hasplanned to bake for me. She’ll make me fat if I don’twatch out.

I must have fallen asleep. The diary is still in my lap.Some sort of disturbance jolted me awake. Is it me orhas the train begun to wobble? It is suddenly very darkoutside—dense storm clouds have swept in all aroundus. Whatever woke me has stopped. When I stand tolook around, everyone else is looking around as well.“Something weird is going on,” the teen across from mesays. “Don’t worry. It’s over,” I reply, trying to soundreassuring but not believing my words. Why is itsuddenly so dark? The good-looking man is no longerin front of me but gone from the car altogether. We arespeeding along through a gunmetal gloom. The carbegins to vibrate alarmingly. The child lets out a

frightened wail. I better go see what is going on, find aticket person or conductor. Something—

Sunday, April 24Beth Israel Hospital Room, New York CityThe doctors told me I slept for forty-eight hours, andwhen I woke up, my head was bandaged in gauze,hooked up to all sorts of unnecessary devices. My longslumber had been mistaken for a coma, though the X-rays revealed no concussion or major harm. I hadprobably done most of my healing while I wastransported to the hospital. The theory is that I gotpinned in place, possibly lodged beneath a seat, as thetrain rolled over, thus no broken bones. My journal andiPhone were on the hospital bedside table when I cameto.

“You’re a miracle!” the nurse said when she cameinto my room. “Some train wreck! They’re still talkingabout it on the news.” She told me that my sister hadvisited and would return; Freya had seen the wreckageand carnage on the news, the glimpses of bodies beingpulled out; then she tracked me down at the hospital.

The nurse said they had to pry the logbook from mygrip when they wheeled me in. I had been muttering theword “black” in my sleep.

“What do you mean, ‘black’?” the nurse asked, towhich I shrugged, feigning no idea.

What I remember: There was a loud clang, and thecar wobbled as it detached from the train ahead. Webecame completely enshrouded in the gray mist, so thatthere was no visibility beyond the windows. Everythinghad gone silent. I’d stood up, gripping the diary to mychest. The passengers in the car were suddenly asleep,which was when I realized this was all directed at me.Was I being challenged? I could feel the presence ofone of my own kind nearby. “Who are you? Are youfrom the White Council?” I asked, annoyed. I hadn’teven used my magic on that woman at the station,merely contemplated it. I had followed the rules. I’dbeen following those damn rules for centuries now.

We were still moving along the tracks, but the carwas slowing. “Show yourself!” I challenged. I laughed. Idid. I really didn’t think much else would happen. Ithought this was a little slap on the wrist for a very

minor infraction. “Well? Get on with—”No sooner had I uttered these last words that

something rammed against the side of the car. This wassurely not from the White Council. This was somethingelse. Something malicious, evil. It hit us again but withsuch tremendous force that the car came off the tracks,flipping over, and we were rolling down an incline, mybody smacking against seats and windows, all of ustossed like clothes in a dryer. It was a swirling blur ofshock and helplessness and cracking bones and pain. Iblacked out.

Only the teenager and I survived. He’s in the traumacenter. The others weren’t so lucky. Mother and childare dead along with about five others.

I realized then that I knew something was going tohappen. I’d felt it pulsing just underneath the surface:the lady collapsing on the platform; the sudden eeriefeeling in the air after Margaret left me at the station; theAmtrak worker appearing out of nowhere, telling me toboard the last car; the handsome man who smiled atme, then vanished—the last two, maybe one and thesame person?

“Black…”Indeed. It was black magic and of the most powerful

and lethal sort.There had been a surge of it at the station, which I

had sensed and now only realize in retrospect. I’vegrown too rusty. It sapped the life out of that poorwoman who collapsed. Some are susceptible like that,their life force used for fuel. But who would have hadthe audacity to practice post-Restriction? Black magicnonetheless? Strong enough to send a train flying off itstracks. Who even possesses that kind of power?

I’m certainly no match for it.Now more than ever I am convinced that I must be

with my family. Something is brewing. This was just awarning, and only together can we fight it.

I sense her as soon as the elevator doors open ontomy floor, like a waft from a field of daffodils—earthy,rich, wild goodness, and wholesome milk and honey.My sister is here. Freya!

Sunday Night, April 24Freya’s Apartment, East 7th Street, Lower East

Side, New York CityBefore we left the hospital, we visited the kid who’dbeen on the train with me. He was unconscious and ona respirator in the trauma ward, the only signs of life hisrhythmic raspy breath in and out of the tube, thelabored rise and fall of his chest, and the slow andsteady pulse from the heart monitor. His face wasswollen beyond recognition, body broken in a thousandpieces from the multiple blunt force trauma, limbssuspended, held in place with metal contraptions andpins, abrasions and lacerations covering every inch ofhis skin.

“That was no accident,” I told my sister as wehopped into a cab. Freya had brought me something towear, and I was entirely too uncomfortable in the tightblack shirt and skintight pants. She gave the cabbiedirections to her place on the Lower East Side, thenturned to me, her green eyes alarmed. “I was soworried! They said the car detached at a crossing! Ihad a feeling—are you sure? But who and why wouldanyone do this?”

I told her what happened: the dark mass, the

malicious spirit. “You’ve got to come home with me.Sell the bar and join me in North Hampton. We haven’tbeen all together in so long,” I pleaded. She stared atme, and now I saw the dark circles beneath her eyes,and her face, though youthful, looked puffy, as if shehad been drinking too much. She needed a good detox—Joanna’s love and care, Joanna’s rehab center, thecountry life.

“I can’t leave. I’m happy here. I love the HolidayLounge. And besides, I help people,” she said.

“Help?” I asked, surprised. “Help them by gettingthem drunk?”

She scoffed. I knew what I said sounded snooty, andI immediately regretted it. I tried a different tact. “Howcan you help when we are not allowed to practicemagic?”

She laughed. “You wouldn’t understand.”“Try me!” I challenged. But she only smirked and

crossed her arms, turned away from me, and stared outthe window as we hurled down Second Avenue.

“I help the lost, the brokenhearted, the bereaved,”she explained later at the apartment.

“Not too long ago there was a human boy, onewho’d been abandoned by his vampire…I helped himmove on.”

I grabbed her by a shoulder. “I’m not judging you,Freya, but you know we aren’t supposed to intervene.Please come home, or at least consider it. You don’tlook happy to me.”

She harrumphed, went about making some coffeebefore work, her back turned to me, but I knew I hadreached her. I decided to give it a break and visit herlater at the bar after I had settled in.

That evening, I borrowed a pair of jeans, a black T-shirt, and boots with not too steep a heel—not my usualdress—and strolled over to the Holiday on St. Mark’s.In the dim light of the neon signs and strands ofChristmas lights (apparently Freya hadn’t yet changedthe decor to a spring theme), I saw my sister leaningover the bar top in a white tank, locked in a kiss with ayoung lady with long black hair and tattoos of exoticflowers snaking up her arms. The patrons cheered themon. When they broke away, everyone clapped.

Freya spotted me wedged in my little spot and smiled

broadly. “Ingrid, look how cute you look!”I waved a hand. “What was going on just then?” I

asked, changing the topic.“Oh, just a harmless little game of truth or dare.” She

poured me a glass of white wine, then let the otherbartender take over as we huddled together at a quieterend of the bar. I needed to drive my point in somehow.

I asked her to place her hands in mine, a game weplayed as children.

“What? You’re going to peer into my lifeline,Ingrid?”

I begged her to give me just the tiniest peek and notto block me. She relented. We held hands and closedour eyes.

It was odd and confusing what I saw—a jumble ofimages mixing themselves with my most recentexperience. Perhaps I still wasn’t quite right from theaccident. I saw a house, or rather a mansion, on a smallisland in the distance, mist rising around it. I saw thehandsome man from the last car. He winked at me thistime, then sat down in the passenger seat and opened anewspaper. And there was Freya in a slinky dress at a

party, showing Mother the engagement ring on herfinger. The teen looking out the window, bobbing hishead, suddenly appeared, turning his swollen, bruisedface to me. Then Freya in a cramped bathroom, sittingup on the vanity, one leg in the air, a man with his facein the crook of her neck, his body tightly pressedagainst hers so that I couldn’t see him. That was toomuch information. But the image was quicklyjuxtaposed by another: Freya on the deck of whatappeared to be a yacht, calling out to someone in thedarkness. I couldn’t hear her, but I felt her desperation.Something had gone wrong. She was full of self-hatredand longing in that moment. The images stopped and Iopened my eyes.

Freya was beaming at me. I smiled back happilybecause now I knew she would join me in NorthHampton—eventually. She had a mischievous glint inher eye.

“What?” I asked, perplexed.“You, my dear, are about to meet a very dashing

man indeed. He’s very special, Ingrid. Oh my god, it’sall so sweet!”

Freya grinned. I laughed. That was about the silliestthing I had ever heard; she was obviously messing withme. As if I cared about such things!

“I’m rather of incapable of that sort of—”Freya shushed me, placing a finger to my lips. “Trust

me,” she said.I was going to tell her the truth—well, not all of it.

“You are going to come to North Hampton, and youwill get engaged.”

Her eyes widened, and for a moment it didn’t seemshe would stop laughing. Apparently mypronouncement was hysterical. When she finallystopped, she said, “Now that is a bunch of bogus,Ingrid. A flat-out lie if I’ve ever heard one, and it’scertainly not going to get me to come home.”

A girl in the bar shrieked. Freya and I stared at eachother, and I gathered the courage to tell her what I elseI had gleaned from my vision.

“If you come to North Hampton,” I said slowly, “youwill find Balder, your long lost love.”

She stared at me silently, then her eyes suddenlygrew watery. “That is so not funny, Ingrid!”

I reassured her it was no attempt at humor. I had nodoubt. I knew it wouldn’t exactly be smooth, but Iwasn’t about to tell her that.

“Balder!” she said, breathless, her mouth fallingagape. “Ingrid, that’s a low trick if you are trying tomanipulate me to sell this bar and move home.”

From Freya’s opened windows, I heard the crowdfrom the sidewalk German bar nearby. Cars honk theirhorns; kids scream in the streets; someone shouts, “Yo,throw down the keys!” A drumbeat sounds fromTompkins Square. The city is perpetually alive. Nowonder Freya loves it here. Even so, crammed as it is, Isensed loneliness in nearly every person I passed on theway home, strangers in a crowd, too afraid to reach outto one another.

I’m now propped against the pillows of the big plushvintage couch by the fireplace in Freya’s trompe l’oeilapartment. I will sleep well tonight. My business here isdone.

Monday, April 25Freya’s, New York City

I called Mr. Rafferty first thing this morning and set upan interview for the job at the North Hampton Library.I meet with him on Wednesday. He sounds nice, albeita bit panicked. We talked for a while. He admitted tome that he is in his seventh year of working on a PhD inRomance languages, and that he has also been interningat the library for that same length of time, perhaps evenlonger. He told me to call him Hudson. And though he“knows his way around the bookshelves by now,” he isin desperate need of help from someone as experiencedas me. I have a good feeling about this.

I also called Joanna and let her know that I will bearriving Tuesday afternoon. She doesn’t know aboutthe train accident. This is the good thing about Mothernot having a TV.

Freya and I went shopping. I bought a few newoutfits and something for my interview. I’ve shipped mywardrobe ahead to Joanna’s, but could no longercontinue wearing Freya’s clothes in the interim. Freyaasked if I really, truly think it was Balder I saw in myvision. I told her I was pretty sure.

Tuesday, April 25Joanna’s House, North Hampton, Long IslandThe train ride to Long Island was peacefully uneventful.Joanna picked me up at the station. I saw her coming amile away in her garden clogs and a big cable-knit off-white sweater, a red foulard around her long white hair.By the way, her garden is a stunning pandemonium ofblooms and blossoms and tangles of green. Shecouldn’t hug or kiss me enough.

I told her what had happened and about my visit withFreya during the car ride home.

“Yes, you are right—we girls will need to be togetherif something is amiss. I’ve been sensing it myself—adisturbance of some sort. What happened was horrific,Ingrid! I am so delighted you are here.”

Given the gravity of the train wreck, her reactionseemed rather flippant. Perhaps any impact waseclipsed by her happiness at my return.

“It sounds like you gave Freya just the right amountof bait to lure her here,” she said with a conspiratorialsnicker.

I assured her that what I saw and felt during the

vision appeared true. Well, perhaps it wasn’t Balderper se, but someone charming and special enough forFreya to be willing to accept an engagement ring.Which in her book is almost as bad as a noose—nowitch pun intended here, and I really shouldn’t jokeabout things like that.

“I have a feeling she’ll come home,” I said toMother.

Joanna glimpsed at me, her eyes shining with joy,then squeezed my knee and told me I did well and howhappy she was to have me home. The dozen pies shebaked was testimony to that joy.

I haven’t told her about my plans to eventuallycontact Dad. I don’t think that would go over so well.I’ll wait.

Wednesday, April 26Joanna’s House, North Hampton, Long IslandSo there was a bit of a mishap today at the library, andI am still quite peeved.

It was a glorious, sunshiny day, and when I arrived a

quarter hour before the appointed time for myinterview, I saw him: a tall, broad-shouldered mansitting on the steps of the library, a book in his lap,waiting, staring right at me with a welcoming smile. Hestood. I took it that Mr. Rafferty had been impatient forme to arrive, having been left in the lurch by theprevious archivist. He had come outside to greet me. Ihadn’t quite pictured him this, well, athletic-looking.Something about his panicked tone on the phone hadsuggested someone who might, say, sport argyle vestsand bow ties and perhaps even round spectacles—someone delicate-looking. This was not the case.

This man wore a simple but stylish dark sports jacketand light-colored pants. He had light brown hair; anIrish face; a big, strong, square jaw; a nose sprinkledwith freckles; and huge, limpid blue eyes. At the time Idid note that his eyes appeared sincere and honest. Idon’t know why, but I felt butterflies. I was suddenlynervous about the interview, which is not like me. I’mmore than qualified for the position. I just hadn’texpected someone so handsome and manly, someonewho looks more like a football player than a librarian. It

threw me for a loop. But I told myself one shouldn’tjudge a book by its cover, of course.

“Ingrid Beauchamp,” I said reaching out my hand.We shook.

“Very glad…well, extremely glad to meetyou…Miss Beauchamp?”

I nodded. “Yes, Miss. It was very nice of you tohave come outside to greet me.”

“Not a problem. It is such a beautiful day, after all,isn’t it?”

He lingered, gazing at me, and I cleared my throatand said we should go inside and get started. He staredat me quizzically for a beat, then smirked and agreed.My stomach did another flip. What was wrong withme? I wondered. I could feel a bead of sweat collectingat my forehead. This Mr. Rafferty was making me veryuncomfortable. There was something suddenly sounprofessional about the whole thing.

“Yes,” he finally said, “let us go then, you and I…”“When the evening is spread out against the sky,” I

automatically continued as we walked up the steps, thencaught myself and stopped.

He held the door open for me, ever the gentleman.The library was filled with light, and out a window, I

spied the sea. It was love at first sight.It was a shame that this Mr. Rafferty was so odd. I

knew I was a shoo-in, but I could see it could beuncomfortable working with him. He was…flirtatious?Was that what it was? At any rate, so veryunprofessional, I thought.

Right then, almost as soon as we entered, Iimmediately knew I had been entirely mistaken. A tallreedy fellow in an argyle sweater and bow tie (nospectacles) was quickly making his way toward me,reaching out a hand. “You must be Ms. Beauchamp!”he said. “I imagined you just so. I’m Hudson. HudsonRafferty. And I see you have already met our localhero?”

I turned toward the other Mr. Rafferty, or rather, theimposter Rafferty, who was grinning at me, pleased aspunch with himself.

“Hero?” I said, swallowing. I was utterly mortifiedfor having been so foolish. But why hadn’t he told mehe was someone else? Why had he played me like that?

I wanted to smack him. He was six-foot-something, butI knew my hand could reach that smarty-pants rosycheek of his. And the worst of it was he continued tosmile stupidly at me.

Mr. Rafferty explained, “This is North Hampton’ssenior detective, Matthew Noble. Quite the dashinghero!”

“Pshaw!” said the detective, whom I now despised.He reached out a hand to me. “Call me Matt.” Hesmiled some more, and I ignored the hand. He lookeddown, then held up One Hundred Years of Solitude.“Here to return this book, Hudson. I just finished thelast pages on the steps outside. You always recommenda good one, Hudson.”

And now I am not sure why I related this very longstory. This man does not deserve to take up this muchspace in my precious logbook. I could have insteadwritten a very brief entry:

Today I got the job at North Hampton’s PublicLibrary. I will be the ranking archivist; in fact, theonly one. I am beside myself with joy. Plus, Ialready adore Hudson Rafferty. Joanna doesn’t

understand why I am going to turn down theuniversity job for this one, but so be it. Also, today Imet North Hampton’s senior detective, MatthewNoble, and I already loathe him.

About the Author

Melissa de la Cruz is the author of the New YorkTimes and USA Today bestselling series Blue Bloods,which has three million copies in print. She is a formerjournalist who has contributed to many publications,including Glamour, Cosmopolitan, Harper’s Bazaar,Allure, and Marie Claire. She spent many summers onShelter Island, New York, which served as theinspiration for the fictional town of North Hampton. Shelives in Los Angeles and Palm Springs with her family.

www.melissa-delacruz.com

Also by Melissa de la Cruz

Witches of East End

Serpent’s Kiss

Copyright

Copyright © 2012 Melissa de la Cruz

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S.Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication maybe reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any formor by any means, or stored in a database or retrievalsystem, without the prior written permission of thepublisher. For information address Hyperion, 114 FifthAvenue, New York, New York 10011.

eBook Edition ISBN 978-1-4013-0512-3

Hyperion books are available for special promotionsand premiums. For details contact the HarperCollinsSpecial Markets Department in the New York office at212-207-7528, fax 212-207-7222, or emailspsales@harpercollins.com.

First eBook Edition

Cover design by Laura Klynstra

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To learn more about the world ofMelissa de la Cruz, read:

Wolf PactAn original e-Book featuring

Arthur Beauchamp and the adventuresof the Wolves of MemoryCOMING FALL 2012

THE BLUE BLOODS SERIES

The Gates of ParadiseThe seventh and final book in the bestselling epic saga

JANUARY 2013

The story of the Witches of East End continues withThe Winds of Salem

JUNE 2013

Coming in Summer 2012

Want to find out more?

Check out Melissa’s website at:www.melissa-delacruz.com

Or keep up with her on Facebook and Twitter:facebook.com/authorMelissadelaCruz

twitter.com/melissadelacruz