Bloody Valentine

*with apologies to Nick Flynn

ONE The Holiday Cocktail Lounge

It was always Christmas down at the Holiday Cocktail Lounge on St. Mark’s Place in the East Village; the twinkling lights were left hanging up on the crossbeams year-round, just like the silver tinsel looped around the edge of the counter and the cheerful tree in the back, its ornaments glittering in the dim light. The Holiday, as the regulars called it, was a New York institution. The bar had been a speakeasy during Prohibition, and counted as its patrons the poet W. H. Auden, who lived next door, and Trotsky, who bunked across the street.

No one could put a finger on why the bar had lasted so long. Its resilient popularity was an anomaly in a town where velvet-rope emporiums serving thousand-dollar champagne bottles had become the norm. Maybe it was the custom-made cocktails—the bartender always seemed to know what you wanted to drink—or maybe it was the cozy, quiet feel of the place that murmured a welcome to every weary patron that walked through its doors. Or maybe it was the way the Rolling Stones sounded from the ancient jukebox, all heart and yearning. Time did not just stop at the Holiday, it came to a standstill, frozen in amber as thick and viscous as the home-brewed whiskey it served.

Interestingly enough, not once in its long life had it ever been raided, its swell of underage patrons never rounded up in paddy wagons and hauled off to the local precinct. While its neighbors routinely lost permits and licenses, the Holiday thrived and survived, serving its core clientele: the young and hip, the old and tired, hardened city journalists from the warring tabloids, and droves of tourists looking for an “authentic” New York experience.

It was late November, and in a few weeks the Holiday’s year-round frippery would soon be relevant again. During the Christmas season the owners of the establishment liked to add new trimmings—a lush green wreath nailed to the door, colorful hooked rugs featuring Santa and his elves, an elegant menorah by the window.

When Oliver Hazard-Perry walked in at half past five that afternoon, the place was packed. Oliver had been coming to the bar ever since he procured his first fake ID at fourteen. He turned up his collar and shuffled in, past the regular crew of men with long faces and low voices, who sipped their drinks as slowly as they nursed their failures.

Oliver took the very last seat at the counter, away from the exuberant college kids who’d had an early start and were already fumbling at darts. The Holiday held no attraction for the legions of fresh-faced hedge-funders eager to show off their black American Express cards. (In any event, the Holiday only took cash.) The Holiday was a port in the storm for those seeking shelter, for no matter what happened outside its doors—bankruptcy, apocalypse, collapse—one could find comfort and solace with a drink at its bar.

It was exactly what kept Oliver coming back. Just being at the Holiday made him feel better somehow.

“The usual?” the bartender asked.

Oliver nodded, grateful and a bit flattered to have been recognized. It had never happened before, but then, up until a week ago, he had never visited with much regularity. The bartender slid over a tumbler of the Holiday’s famous whiskey. Oliver slammed back the shot, then another and another. Drinking whiskey reminded him of how Schuyler once told him whiskey was the nearest to the taste of his blood. Like salt and fire. His sadness was something he picked at, like the scabs on his neck. He liked to scratch them until they bled, to see how much worse he could make them feel. He really should stop drinking whiskey. It reminded him too much of her. But then, everything in the goddamn city reminded him of her.

There was no escape. At night he dreamed of her, of their year together, of how they would sleep, back to back. He would remember how her hair smelled after a shower, or how her eyes crinkled when she smiled. In the mornings, when he woke up, he was a zombie, listless and anxious. She had left only a month ago, and would not return. Not to him at least; he had seen to that. He had practically given her away, not that she was his to give, but she would never have left otherwise. He understood the extent of her loyalty, as it ran as deep as his own.

He had done the right thing—he knew that—but it hurt nonetheless. It hurt because he knew she loved him; she had told him as much. It was just—just not enough, just not the same way as she loved the other. Oliver did not want to be second best, a consolation prize; he did not desire loyalty and friendship. He wanted her whole heart, and knowing that he would never have it was a difficult cross to bear.

If only he could forget about her. But his very blood yearned for her, for her soft lips to kiss his neck, for the feel of her fangs as they pierced his skin and filled him with an overwhelming wave of contentment. Now his entire body was attuned to its loss. It grieved and mourned along with his soul. He raised a finger for still another pour.

“Easy there, cowboy,” the bartender said with smile. “What is that, your fourth already? It’s not even six o’clock.”

“I need it,” Oliver mumbled.

“For what?”

He shook his head, and the bartender moved to take care of her customers on the other side of the counter.

Oliver fingered the card hidden in his pocket, tracing over the engraved words. It was a secret place that served humans like him—Red Bloods who had been abandoned by their vampires, human familiars who were now aching with need. He remembered his brave words to Mimi on the night they first visited the place, the false bravado he’d mustered. It was all a lie. He knew he would end up back there soon enough. He needed a fix, just one bite—it no longer mattered that Schuyler would not be administering it, he just wanted to feel whole again. He wanted someone to make the pain go away. To help him forget. Of course he knew the dangers, the risks—schizophrenia, infection, addiction; the possibility that after one night he might never want to leave. But he had to go. Anything was better than living with the terrible loneliness. He slammed back the shot with a vengeance, pounded the empty glass on the table, and signaled to the bartender again.

“Whatever it is you think you need that for, maybe you shouldn’t do it,” she said, as she wiped down the counter and gave him a cool once-over. The bartender had been working at the Holiday ever since he had started sneaking in when he was in eighth grade, and Oliver noticed for the first time that she never seemed to age. She looked exactly the same, not a day over eighteen, with long curly hair and intense green eyes. Her tiny white ribbed tanktop showed just a hint of her tanned, flat belly. Oliver had always harbored a little crush on her but had been too shy to do anything about it aside from leaving generous tips. Not that it was hopeless, but it was like being attracted to a movie star—the possibility of having one’s affection returned was very low to zero.

To his surprise, she seemed to take an interest. “I’m Freya,” she said, holding out a hand.

“Oliver,” he said, giving it a firm shake. Her skin was as soft as cashmere. He tried not to blush.

“I know. The kid with the fake ID from Hawaii,” she said with a laugh. “Why is it always Hawaii? Is it because it’s an easy one to copy? It must be. Oh, don’t look too surprised, I’ve known for years.”

“You guys don’t get raided?”

“Just let them try.” Freya winked. “So. Haven’t seen you here in a year or so. Now you’re back every night. What’s up?”

He shook his head.

“Where’s your little friend?” she asked. “You guys always used to come in together.”

“She’s gone.”

“Ah.” Freya nodded. “It’s her loss.”

Oliver laughed hollowly. “Yeah, right.” Her loss. He didn’t doubt that Schuyler missed him; of course she would. But he knew she was happier now that she was with Jack. The loss was all his. He reached for his wallet and fished out several twenty-dollar bills.

The sexy bartender dismissed them with a wave. “Your money’s no good tonight. Just do me a favor. Whatever you’re about to do, please don’t. Because it’s not going to help.”

He shook his head and placed a few dollars on the counter as a tip. “Thanks for the drinks, but I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he mumbled, not meeting her eyes. What did she know about what he was planning? What did she care?

Oliver walked out into the cloudless New York night. It was the kind of evening that not too long ago would have found him and Schuyler traipsing around the city, with only their whims to lead them. There would be no more late-night cappuccinos at Café Reggio. No more sneaking into tiny little pubs to hear the latest folksingers. No more ending the night and greeting the day with dawn breakfasts at Yaffa. There would be no more of that. Not again. Not ever.

No matter. His car and driver were idling by the curb. He gave the address. After tonight, he would forget everything, including her name. With luck, he would probably forget his own.

TWO Poisoned Apple

Oliver had not expected the blood house, which looked like a turn-of-the-century bordello, with velvet couches and dim lighting, to have such a modern medical facility in its quarters. The cigar-chomping madam who sent him to the top floor told him he had to pass a physical before she could register him as a house familiar.

“We need to make sure you don’t have any inconvenient diseases for our clients,” the doctor explained as he shone a flashlight down Oliver’s throat.

Oliver tried to nod, but his mouth was open, so he settled on silence. Afterward, he was poked and prodded with an array of needles that drew his blood. When the physical examination was over, he was brought to another room, where he was introduced to the house psychiatrist.

“De-familiarizing, that is, taking out the markers from your original vampire, is not a physical process,” the doctor said. “The poison in your blood is the manifestation of the love you feel for your vampire. What we do here is eradicate that love and disavow the hold it has on your psyche, thus eliminating the poison.

“It may be a painful journey, and one whose outcome is unpredictable. Some familiars experience a loss akin to a death. Others lose all their memories of their vampire. Every case is different, as is every relationship between vampire and familiar.” The doctor began scribbling on his pad. “Can you tell me a little about your relationship?”

“We were friends,” Oliver replied. “I’ve known her all my life. I was her Conduit.” He was relieved that the doctor did not seem to have an adverse reaction to the news. “I loved her. I still love her. Not just because she’s my vampire—it’s more than that.”

“How so?”

“I mean, I loved her before she bit me.” He thought of how he’d tried to fool himself, thinking that he’d only loved her once she had transformed. It wasn’t true. He had loved her his entire life. He’d only been lying to himself to feel better.

“I see. And the Sacred Kiss. Was it her idea or yours?”

“It was both of ours, I guess. I don’t remember really…. We were supposed to do it earlier but chickened out and then…it just happened. We didn’t really plan for it, not then.”

“So it was her idea.”

“I think so.”

The doctor ordered him to close his eyes, and Oliver did so dutifully.

“Let’s start at the beginning. Let’s remember all the happy memories, then one by one, reject them. Let them go.”

The doctor’s voice was in his head. It was a compulsion, he realized.

You are not bound to her.

You are no longer hers.

As the doctor’s calm voice droned on, images began to flash in Oliver’s mind. Schuyler at five: shy and mute. Schuyler at nine: teasing and petulant. Schuyler at fifteen: beautiful and quiet. The Mercer Hotel. The fumbling and the awkwardness. Then in her childhood bedroom, where it finally happened. The sweet smell of her—of her jasmine and honeysuckle perfume. The sharpness of her fangs as they pierced his skin.

Oliver could feel the wetness on his cheeks. He was crying. It was too much. Schuyler was in every part of his soul, in his blood; she was as necessary to him as his skin. He could not let go.

What was he doing? He didn’t belong here. This was against the Code. If the Repository found out, he would be kicked out of service. It would humiliate his family and destroy their reputation. He couldn’t remember why he had even come. He began to panic and started looking for a way out, but the litany continued, drumming the compulsion into his head.

You are no longer her familiar.

You are nobody.

No. No. It’s not true. Oliver felt wretched and confused. He did not want to let go of his love for Schuyler. Even if it pained him so much that he could no longer sleep, could no longer eat. He wanted to keep these memories. His sixteenth birthday, when Schuyler had drawn his portrait and bought him an ice-cream cake with two hearts on it. No. He had to hold on…. He had to…. He had to…. He could let go. He could listen to the nice calm voice and let go. Let it all go.

He was no one.

He was nobody.

The nightmare ended.

When he woke up, he found the faces of the doctors peering down at him. A voice—he wasn’t sure whose—said, “The lab reports came back. He’s clean. Put him in the line.”

A few minutes later he was standing in the lobby alongside a group of young familiars. Oliver swayed on his feet. His head hurt, and he couldn’t remember what he was doing there or why he had come. But he didn’t have time to think or puzzle over his muddled thoughts, because the curtains suddenly parted and a beautiful vampire entered the room.

“Bonsoir,” she greeted him. She was model-tall and carried herself with the confidence of a queen. She was from the European Coven, he could tell, with her immaculately tailored traveling clothes and sultry French accent. Her bondmate walked in after her. He was tall and thin with a mop of shaggy dark hair and a languid expression. They looked like two sleek cats, all angles and black turtlenecks, with their Gauloises cigarettes and sloe-eyed good looks.

“You,” she purred, looking directly at Oliver. “Come with me.”

Her partner chose a dazed-looking teenage girl, and the two humans followed the couple to one of the elaborate rooms on the top floor. Most of the blood house was furnished as perfunctorily as possible, with thin curtains dividing the rooms. But this was as plush as a five-star hotel suite, a grand space with a sumptuous fur-lined throw on the king-size bed, gilded mirrors, and baroque furnishings.

The male vampire pulled the girl down to the bed, slid her dress off, and immediately began to drink from her. Oliver watched but did not understand. He wasn’t sure what he was doing in the room, only that he had been chosen and wanted.

“Wine?” the female vampire asked, holding up a crystal decanter from the glass-topped bar.

“I’m all right, thanks.”

“Relax, I won’t bite.” She laughed. “At least, not yet.” She took a long slow sip from her glass and watched her bondmate drain the girl. “That looks delicious.” She put out her cigarette, stubbing it on the Persian rug and leaving a small brown hole.

“My turn,” she said, pushing Oliver down on one of the antique armchairs. The vampire straddled him and kissed his neck. She smelled like heavy oily perfume and her skin was papery. She was not as young as she first looked. “This way, please,” she said, turning his body toward the front of the room. “He likes to watch.”

He saw the male vampire leaning up on his elbow, smiling lasciviously, while the human girl lay unconscious and naked on the bedspread. Oliver did not flinch. He remembered now why he had come to this place.

The vampire had chosen him. Once she sank her fangs into his skin, he would have everything that he wanted…. He would experience the Sacred Kiss again…. His body needed it…. He wanted it so much….

He closed his eyes.

The vampire’s breath was hot and smelled like cigarettes; it was like kissing an ashtray, and the pungent smell took him away from the moment.

“Whatever you’re about to do. It’s not going to help.”

He blinked and saw a gentle, kind face looking at him.

Who was she? Freya, he remembered. She was worried about him. Freya was so beautiful, more beautiful than the vampire in his lap, whose looks were mere glamour, a sad façade hiding a wretched interior. Freya glowed with an incandescent light. She had a spark in her eyes. She had told him not to do this.

What was he doing?

Why was he here?

Then he remembered…the blood house. Wait. What had he done? He could live with the sorrow of losing her. He could live with missing…who was he missing? He couldn’t remember…but then with a jolt all his memories came flooding back. It was as if he were waking up. He felt alive again. He could live with the pain. But he would never forgive himself for doing this. He could not forget. He would not. He would never forget…Schuyler…

Schuyler.

Freya.

Schuyler.

The vampire bit his neck and fell back, screaming, her face scarred by the acid in his blood. “Poison! Poison! He is still marked!”

Oliver ran out of the room as fast as he could.

THREE Cleaning Up

It was close to four in the morning when he returned to the Holiday. Freya was standing behind the bar, hitting the side of a cocktail glass with a knife. “Last call. Last call, everyone.” When she saw Oliver, she smiled. “You’re back.” She studied his face. “You didn’t do it.”

“No. I…almost did.” He did not wonder anymore how she knew where he had been or what he had been about to do. “I didn’t because I was thinking of you.”

“Good boy.” She smiled as she pointed toward the utility closet. “Come on, help me clean up. A little elbow grease will make you feel better. Then I’ll let you walk me home.”

Oliver took a broom and began to sweep the floor and pick up the plastic straws and soggy napkins that had fallen there. He helped wipe down the counter and dry the glasses. He stacked them neatly on the back shelves. Freya was right: the physical labor made him feel better.

The last of the regulars stumbled out, and the two of them were left alone. He looked around, realizing that over the years he had never seen anyone work here but Freya. How did one tiny girl keep the whole place together?

When the bar was tidied and clean, Freya shrugged on a green army flak jacket, oversized and gigantic on her small frame. It was the kind of jacket worn by Special Forces teams parachuting into jungles, and it looked incongruous against her delicate features, which made the whole effect even more charming. She pulled up the hood to cover her hair. “Come on, I’m just down the street.”

On the way to her apartment, Freya stopped by the Korean grocer on the corner. She chose a bouquet of flowers, two tubs of fresh fruit, and a spray of mint. Unlike the usual lackluster offerings found at the corner deli, everything Freya touched seemed to glow: the strawberries red and succulent, the melons shone with orange intensity. The mint smelled like it had just been picked from a field in Provence.

She led him to a shabby tenement building with a broken front door. “We didn’t get the gentrification memo,” she joked. He followed her up the stairs to the third landing. It had four doors, and she opened the one painted red. “Thank goodness I face out to the street. Those two over there just look at the courtyard.”

It was a small apartment by anyone’s standards, but in terms of New York real estate, even tinier still. There was an old-fashioned claw-foot tub in the middle of the room and a minuscule galley kitchen with aging appliances. Against the window was a four-poster bed draped with a paisley print tapestry. But once Oliver entered the room, he was startled to find it was not as small as it had looked from the doorway. He had been mistaken. The apartment was large and magnificent, with a library full of books on one side and a proper formal dining room on the other.

“Sit,” she said, pointing to a grand settee that he was certain had not been there before.

There were ancestral portraits on the wall, and what looked like museum-quality art. Was that a Van Dyck? That one was surely a Rembrandt. The usual bohemian squalor had vanished, and instead Oliver was sitting on a proper couch in an elegantly furnished living room with a cracking fireplace. The windows to the fire escape still looked out onto Avenue C, but Oliver could swear he heard the ocean.

Freya disappeared into the back bedroom to change (again, he hadn’t seen it from the doorway—and what happened to the four-poster bed? And the claw-foot tub? Was he losing his mind?). When she returned she was wearing flannel pajamas. She fired up the stove—a sleek industrial design and not the old and ugly white one he had seen from the doorway—and began to crack eggs. “You need breakfast,” she murmured as she chopped the mint.

A delicious buttery smell began to waft from the kitchen, and after a few minutes, Freya placed two plates on the table in the little breakfast nook. By this time, Oliver had accepted the fact that the apartment was not quite what it was, and he was no longer surprised by the appearance of yet another cozy and beautiful piece of furniture. Was this a dream? If so, he wanted to keep sleeping.

Oliver took a bite. The eggs were soft and creamy, and the mint gave them a sharp and interesting taste. He finished the whole thing in three bites.

“You were hungry,” Freya observed, pulling up her knees to her chin.

He nodded and wiped his hands with a linen napkin. He watched as she ate her eggs slowly, savoring every bite. “Tell me about her,” Freya said, licking her fork.

“She was my best friend.” He told her everything about his friendship with Schuyler from the beginning to the bittersweet end. He found that with Freya, he could talk about Schuyler without feeling pain. He laughed and reveled in the memories. Oliver talked into the late morning hours. He dimly remembered helping with the dishes, and then falling asleep in her bed.

“You are too young to be so lost and so bereaved,” Freya had whispered, before he closed his eyes.

When he woke up later that afternoon, he had his arms around her.

FOUR Under New Ownership

Oliver went back to school and to his life. He felt better than he had in weeks, and he was looking forward to seeing Freya again. She had been hard to reach, neither picking up her phone nor returning his calls, but school and Repository work had kept him busy. It wasn’t until a week later that he returned to the Holiday Cocktail Lounge.

He noticed there was something different about the place as soon as he arrived. For one, there was a bouncer at the door with a flashlight who glared at his fake ID.

“Hawaii, huh?” the big gorilla asked skeptically.

“Look, I don’t want a drink. I’m just here to see Freya.”

“No one here by that name.”

“C’mon, man.”

“You can ask Mack, but he won’t tell you different,” the bouncer said, handing him back his ID. “But order a drink and you’re out of here.”

Oliver nodded his thanks and entered the bar. The bouncer wasn’t the only thing new. There were three bartenders behind the counter now. Two old men wearing bow ties, and a pretty girl who had the steely beauty of an aspiring actress but none of Freya’s charm. Even the crowd was different—polished and sleek in designer duds as they tilted back pastel-colored drinks in martini glasses. There was a leather-bound menu with brand-name spirits.

It was a sea of strangers. Where were the arguing tabloid journalists, the old men with long faces, the young kids at the dartboard? Speaking of, where was the dartboard? And the pool table? Sure, the Christmas lights were still up, but now there was a mechanical singing Santa, and instead of being infused with an offbeat, nostalgic charm akin to a well-worn watering hole, the Holiday looked like a plastic replica of what it had been.

Oliver shook his head and fought his way to a fancy bar stool. He ordered a sparkling water and waited. Even if the Holiday had changed, Freya was always here. She had to be.

Hours passed. Customers left. The bartenders glared at him. But Oliver sat there until last call.

FIVE Love and Courage

Oliver did not know how long he waited, standing on the sidewalk with a bouquet of lilies, but around four in the morning, she finally arrived. She was still wearing the puffy flak jacket from the other night, but this time she had kept the hood down, and her curly hair danced in the breeze.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, and Oliver was relieved to notice she did not sound angry, only mildly amused. “Hold this,” she said, handing him her grocery bag as she removed her keys from her purse.

“I waited for you at the Holiday. You never showed,” he said. “Did I do something wrong? Do you not want to see me?”

Freya shook her head and unlocked the main door. They walked up the narrow staircase. “How did you find me?” she asked, as she led the way into her apartment.

Oliver crinkled his brow. It had been difficult. He had been sure she lived on Seventh Street and Avenue C. But he had walked the entire block and not come across the Korean deli or the shabby tenement building with the red awning. He had all but given up when he realized it was right in front of him. How had he not noticed before?

“I don’t know, really.” Oliver settled into one of the cozy chairs. “What happened to the Holiday? It’s different. You’re not there.”

“I sold it. I’m moving.”

“Why?”

“It was time,” she said. She crossed her arms. “You look better.”

“Thanks to you,” he said.

“Tea?” she asked.

“Sure.” He waited while she boiled water and fixed him a cup. When she placed the teacup in front of him, he took her hand and held it for a long while. He wanted her so much. She looked down at him. For a moment they stood without speaking.

“I thought I had done everything I needed to do,” she finally said.

“Why are you keeping me away? I’m not a boy.” He pulled her closer and she sat on his lap.

She ruffled his hair. “No, you’re not. You’re right.”

He leaned over and kissed her. He had never kissed a girl other than Schuyler. But this time, he wasn’t thinking at all of Schuyler, only of Freya.

Freya smelled like milk and honey and the wonderful scent of spring. He felt her move against him, and he pulled her closer so that he could put his hand on her chest. He felt his heart begin to pound—he was so nervous—what was he doing?—he did not know how to do this—had not planned for this—and yet…he heard Freya sigh, but it was not a sigh of exasperation…it was the sound of acceptance and invitation.

“Come with me,” she said, and led him to the bed.

She undressed and slipped underneath the covers. She looked as beautiful as a Botticelli painting. Oliver’s hands trembled as he quickly removed his clothing and joined her under the blankets. He was so nervous—what if she laughed? What if he did it wrong somehow? Could one get it wrong? He wasn’t so innocent, but he wasn’t so experienced either. What if she didn’t like what he…. Her body was warm and inviting, and he fell on her like a thirsty man in front of a waterfall. He stopped doubting. Stopped worrying. Stopped feeling nervous.

It was his first time. With Schuyler, they had been waiting for the right time, or perhaps they had waited because they knew the right time would never arrive. It didn’t matter. Only Freya mattered now.

Her hands felt warm and light on his body, and he shivered against her. Her soft mouth on his neck kissed him sweetly. She pulled him ever closer, and then they were joined together. Her body rippled underneath him, and he looked into her eyes and heard her cry out for him.

There was so much to feel, so much to see. He was in and outside of his body, in and outside of his blood. He was flying above the ceiling, looking at the two of them from below, marveling at how sleek and slippery their limbs were as they rolled together, the beautiful shape they made, their bodies intertwined. It felt as if she were turning him inside out, and all he could do was keep doing what he was doing, and he felt her all around and inside his body and inside his soul.

When it was over, he was covered in sweat and shaking. He opened his eyes and saw he was still in the same room, looking at the same cracked ceiling. “I love you,” he said, over and over again. “I love you, Freya.”

Freya looked at him tenderly. “No, you don’t, my darling. But you are no longer in pain.”

SIX A Last Good-bye

The next morning they had breakfast at Veselka, a Ukrainian diner that was famous for its borscht. Oliver felt ravenous and energized. He did not know if it was the loss of sleep or the love they had made, but he felt like a new man. He felt sufficiently brave enough to ask Freya the question he had been dreading the moment he noticed the Holiday had been irrevocably changed.

“Where are you going?” he asked, spearing a pierogi and covering it with sour cream.

“My family is moving back home. To North Hampton.”

“Why?”

“It’s complicated,” she said ruefully. “A story for another day.”

Oliver settled against the booth, feeling the cracked leather dig into his skin. Did he feel better? Different? Worse? Better. Definitely better. He touched the side of his neck. He did not feel the same throb there.

Schuyler. He could say her name. He could remember her without the pain. Remember and honor their love, their friendship, but no longer be tortured by her absence. It was as if Schuyler was behind glass. Part of his past but no longer the torment of his future. He missed his friend. But he would survive her loss. Her loss.

He put down his fork. “Who are you? What are you?” he asked Freya.

“I’m a witch.” She smiled. “But then I think you already knew that, scribe.”

“You know about the Blue Bloods?”

“Yes. Of course. We have to. But we keep away from their business. My family does not like to…intervene. But you were a special case.”

“Will I ever see you again?”

“Maybe,” Freya said thoughtfully. “But I don’t think you’ll need to.”

She was right. He did not love her. He had loved her last night, as it was love that they had shared together. And now she was going away, but it was all right.

Oliver was himself again. He had the memories of his time as Schuyler’s human familiar, but he no longer felt the ache of need, the suffering in his very soul. Whatever he had felt for Schuyler had not been removed forcibly. Instead, his love had been absorbed and dispersed into his spirit. It would always be a part of him, but it did not have the power to hurt him anymore. Freya had done this. She had healed him. Freya, the witch.

“Thank you.” He rose to kiss her on the forehead. “Thank you so much.”

“Oh, sweetheart, it was my pleasure.”

One last hug, and then they parted.

Oliver walked down the street in the opposite direction. His cell phone began to vibrate, and when he saw the number, he answered it immediately. He listened for a moment, and his face broke into a smile. “Really? Wow. Congratulations. When? Of course I’ll be there. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

(For those who like their breakfasts fortified by a little magic )

eggs

salt

heavy cream

black pepper

chopped fresh mint

butter

As you chop the mint, repeat these lines:

Broken hearts take a toll.

Mint shall heal the shattered soul.

The Goddess breathes new life in you.

Go forth and find a love that’s true.

Whisk the eggs with the cream in a bowl. Add the chopped mint, salt, and pepper. Melt the butter on a pan over medium heat. Add the egg mixture; cook two minutes without stirring. Using a large spoon, gently turn over until it is cooked through but still soft.

Garnish with mint sprigs.

Serves one broken heart and one friendly one.

—Adapted from The Book of White Magic by Ingrid Beauchamp

*For more about Freya and her spellcipes, watch out for Witches of East End, due Summer 2011 from Hyperion.