“A vampire,” Chris repeated slowly, as if he were thinking it all through.
“You’d better sit down.” I gestured toward the sofa. If he fell, I didn’t want him to hit his head.
Ignoring my suggestion, Chris plopped himself in the wing chair instead. It was more comfortable, to be sure, but had been known to forcibly eject visitors it didn’t like. I eyed it warily.
“Are you a vampire, too?” Chris demanded.
“No.” I perched gingerly on the edge of my grandmother’s rocking chair.
“Are you absolutely sure that Clairmont is? That’s his child you’re carrying, right?” Chris sat forward, as though a great deal depended on the answer.
“Children.” I held two fingers in the air. “Twins.”
Chris threw his hands in the air. “Well, no vampire ever knocked up a girl on Buffy. Not even Spike. And God knows he never practiced safe sex.”
Bewitched had provided my mother’s generation with their supernatural primer. For mine it was Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Whichever creatures had introduced Joss Whedon to our world had a lot to answer for. I sighed.
“I’m absolutely positive that Matthew is the father.”
Chris’s attention drifted to my neck.
“That’s not where he bites me.”
His eyes widened. “Where . . . ?” He shook his head. “No, don’t tell me.”
It was, I thought, a strange place to draw the line. Chris wasn’t normally squeamish—or prudish. Still, he hadn’t passed out. That was encouraging.
“You’re taking this very well,” I said, grateful for his equanimity.
“I’m a scientist. I’m trained to suspend disbelief and remain open-minded until something is disproved.” Chris was now staring at the Blasted Tree. “Why is there a tree in the fireplace?”
“Good question. We don’t really know. Maybe you have other questions I could answer, though.” It was an awkward invitation, but I was still worried he might faint.
“A few.” Once again Chris fixed his dark eyes on mine. He wasn’t a witch, but it had been very difficult to lie to him for all these years. “You say Clairmont’s a vampire, but you’re not. What are you, Diana? I’ve known for some time that you aren’t like other people.”
I didn’t know what to say. How do you explain to someone you love that you’ve failed to mention a defining characteristic of yourself?
“I’m your best friend—or I was until Clairmont came along. Surely you trust me enough to come out to me,” Chris said. “No matter what it is, it won’t change anything between us.”
Beyond Chris’s shoulder a green smudge trailed off toward the Blasted Tree. The green smudge became the indistinct form of Bridget Bishop, with her embroidered bodice and full skirts.
Be canny, daughter. The wind blows from the north, a sign of a battle to come. Who will stand with you, and who will stand against you?
I had plenty of enemies. I couldn’t afford to lose a single friend.
“Maybe you don’t trust me enough,” Chris said softly when I didn’t immediately respond.
“I’m a witch.” My words were barely audible.
“Okay.” Chris waited. “And?”
“And what?”
“That’s it? That’s what you’ve been afraid to tell me?”
“I’m not talking neo-pagan, Chris—though I am pagan, of course. I’m talking an abracadabra, spell-casting, potion-making witch.” In this case Chris’s love of prime-time TV might actually prove useful.
“Do you have a wand?”
“No. But I do have a firedrake. That’s a kind of dragon.”
“Cool.” Chris grinned. “Very, very cool. Is that why you’ve stayed out of New Haven? Were you taking it to dragon obedience class or something?”
“Matthew and I had to get out of town quickly, that’s all. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
“Where were you?”
“In 1590.”
“Did you get any research done?” Chris looked thoughtful. “I suppose that would cause all kinds of citation problems. What would you put in your footnotes? ‘Personal conversation with William Shakespeare’?” He laughed.
“I never met Shakespeare. Matthew’s friends didn’t approve of him.” I paused. “I did meet the queen.”
“Even better,” Chris said, nodding. “Equally impossible to footnote, however.”
“You’re supposed to be shocked!” This was not at all what I’d expected. “Don’t you want proof?”
“I haven’t been shocked by anything since the MacArthur Foundation called me. If that can happen, anything is possible.” Chris shook his head. “Vampires and witches. Wow.”
“There are daemons, too. But their eyes don’t glow and they’re not evil. Well, no more so than any other species.”
“Other species?” Chris’s tone sharpened with interest. “Are there werewolves?”
“Absolutely not!” Matthew shouted in the distance.
“Touchy subject.” I gave Chris a tentative smile. “So you’re really fine with this?”
“Why wouldn’t I be? The government spends millions searching for aliens in outer space, and it turns out you’re right here. Think of all the grant money this could free up.” Chris was always looking for a way to diminish the importance of the physics department.
“You can’t tell anybody,” I said hastily. “Not many humans know about us, and we need to keep it that way.”
“We’re bound to find out eventually,” Chris said. “Besides, most people would be thrilled.”
“You think? The dean of Yale College would be thrilled to know that they’d tenured a witch?” I raised my eyebrows. “My students’ parents would be happy to discover that their beloved children are learning about the Scientific Revolution from a witch?”
“Well, maybe not the dean.” Chris’s voice dropped. “Matthew isn’t going to bite me to keep me quiet?”
“No,” I assured him.
Fernando inserted his foot between the keeping-room doors and nudged them open.
“I’d be happy to bite you instead, but only if you ask very nicely.” Fernando put a tray on the table. “Sarah thought you might like coffee. Or something stronger. Call me if you need anything else. No need to shout.” He gave Chris the kind of dazzling smile he’d bestowed on the coven’s female membership at the Lughnasadh potluck.