Secretly Sam (7 page)

At the moment, he and the girls occupied the large, renovated fourth floor of the historic mansion. This was the attic. This very room of this very library was the main reason Dietrich had decided to settle down in this town. While he’d been earning his history degree, he’d done quite a bit of research as to where to find the best records for certain cultures in the United States. This city happened to have at one time been a hub for people from all secular and non-secular walks of life. It was a crossroads of happenstance, a place where families coincidentally came together from a plethora of very different backgrounds for the sole purpose of finding the one thing they could all understand and agree upon: Gold.

Their grimoires, Books of Shadows, diaries, journals, and family records were eventually collected and stored here, in the public library, and formed the secret jewel in the crown of Lehrer’s occult knowledge. It was the town’s best kept secret, and it was Dietrich’s as well.

Neither of the girls wanted to be alone after what had gone down with Dominic, so when he’d told them he was headed to the library, they’d offered to tag along and help him research.

They were searching for anything that would help them be rid of Samhain before the blue moon rose on Halloween night. At this point, they knew that the second full moon of the fated month would see the Lord of the Dead’s retreat back into his realm for good, but that was three weeks away. A lot could happen in three weeks, as tonight’s unfortunate events plainly illustrated. How much
more
damage could Sam do in that time frame? Far too much. Too many lives were at stake; they needed to send him back
now
.

If they failed to find anything of real value, he planned to fall back on a trusty protection spell for Logan. He and Meagan could conjure a fairly potent one together; defensive magic was more powerful than offensive. It was a karma thing, perhaps.

“Do you think Alec would come back to life if Sam were defeated again?” Katelyn suddenly asked as she stared out the window, swinging her leg back and forth. Dietrich straightened in his seat and blinked. The thought had honestly not occurred to him.

He met Meagan’s gaze across the table; she looked as taken aback by the question as he did.

Katelyn turned in the window and swung both legs off of the seat. “I mean, all of those other people did, right? So why would Alec be any different?”

“It’s an interesting idea,” Dietrich admitted. “And I honestly don’t know. But it’s all the better reason for us to forcibly send him back to his realm before the second moon. I’m not sure that allowing him to go back on his own would constitute a ‘defeat,’ and as such, that it would have the same effect on those he’d killed.”

“Well, I don’t know about anything that will help us defeat him, but I did find something here you might want to look at,” Meagan said. She gently but firmly grasped the edges of the book she’d been reading, a large leather-backed book with warped, brown-edged pages and weathered ink, and turned it toward Dietrich. He rose from his chair and moved down the table to get a better look.

“This part here about bards,” said Meagan. “I recognize the words.”

Dietrich had been teaching his witches how to read the older languages; it was good to see that some of the instruction had paid off.

“Yes, I see it.” He read carefully, having to go a little more slowly over the words that were hopelessly faded.

The passage talked about the power of the bard, stating more specifically that a bard’s magic did not necessarily arise only from the creation of stories, which could be passed from one generation to the next verbally, but also by the actual placement of ink upon parchment.

“If this says what I think it does,” he said, “it means Logan doesn’t necessarily have to write a story to give Sam the power he needs. She could just make any word, or even possibly a
symbol
, with a pen or pencil and she’d be doing essentially the same thing.”

“Does she know that?” Katelyn asked.

“After what happened at the dance, she seemed pretty adamant about not writing anything new at all,” said Meagan, “I doubt she’s going to put this to the test.”

“Still,” said Dietrich as he reached for his cell phone, “better safe than sorry.”

Chapter Eleven

“I got these when I was eleven or twelve and my guitar instructor wanted me to start writing my own music,” Sam told her as he rooted through Dominic’s closet. Up on the shelf over the hanging jackets and vintage t-shirts were several shoe boxes. He reached for the third of four and pulled it down, knowing exactly what he would find inside.

He left the walk-in closet, his prize in his hands, and shut the door behind him. Logan was standing on the opposite end of the room, her arms crossed over her chest as if she were uncomfortable. Nervous, maybe.

He could see that. She was standing in the private bedroom of her eight-year crush. There was bound to be some discomfort involved. But he would quell it soon enough.

He took the box to the bed and sat down on its edge, pulling the top off to reveal dozens, if not hundreds of identically shaped and sized LEGOs. Beneath the pile of toys were white stick-on labels that could be placed in a computer printer. Also in the box were two Sharpies, probably dried up at this point, a tube of super glue, also no doubt dried up, and a small plastic bag filled with countless magnetic strips.

“It was almost impossible to print out music notes at the time, so I used these to draw on the labels and then place the labels on the LEGOs,” he told her. This was too perfect. He knew she liked LEGOs – she’d told him as much – and this would trick her into writing without realizing she was doing so.

“What is all that?” Logan asked as she came closer to peer into the box.

“LEGO poetry,” he said, chuckling. “Or at least that’s the idea. You put words on the labels, then attach the labels to the LEGOs and then attach the LEGOs to the magnets.”

Logan frowned. “Why not just attach the label to the magnets and forego the LEGOs?”

He chuckled. “I guess it’s more fun to have something solid to grab onto,” he said. “Plus, the LEGOs are different colors. And, well, this is just the way it’s always been done.” He shrugged, grinning.

Logan returned the smile. “Got it. So, LEGO poetry. Interesting.”

“For some,” he said. “For me, it was LEGO
music
. I would put the notes on the LEGOs, stick the magnets on the other ends, and use them on the fridge to compose at random. Fooled my instructor every time.”

Logan looked from the box to him, a quizzical smile on her beautiful face. “But I’ve heard you play your own music. It’s really good. Don’t tell me you got it like this?”

Sam blinked. Dominic hadn’t known that she’d heard him play. The guitarist had gone still inside of Sam, a sensation of surprise and thrill thrumming through his musician’s soul.

“You’ve heard my songs?” Sam asked softly.

At once, Logan’s cheeks flushed pink, and she averted her gaze. Sam had the sudden impulse to reach out, grab her chin, and turn her eyes back to his. But that was
him
talking, the Lord of the Dead, the King of an entire realm, not Dominic. Dominic was patient – far too patient for Sam’s liking – but Sam had a part to play.

All in good time.

“No,” he admitted, saving her from having to answer. “I’ve written an honest song here and there. I just used this for the assignments I had to give away.” He smiled, throwing in a wink for good measure, and Logan’s shoulders visibly relaxed. “I was thinking that you could help me make some LEGO poetry,” he suggested now, being careful how he chose his words. He set the top down, shook out the box’s contents on the bed, and began to organize them while he looked up at her. “This can’t possibly be mistaken for real writing,” he said, keeping his grin firmly in place. “Just words, not put in any order.” He held up the magnets. “We’ll let the fridge do the story telling for you.”

She smiled, albeit nervously, but there was a twinkle in her eye that hadn’t been there a second ago. Like a true bard, Logan was just desperate to feel a writing utensil between her thumb and forefinger.

“It’ll take our mind off things,” he said, looking down at the bed now and allowing his voice to grow quiet for emphasis. “Maybe make us both feel better.”

As he’d suspected, she took the bait, almost instantly diving for anything that would take her crush’s mind off of the tragedy he’d witnessed that night. It didn’t hurt that it also involved writing and would help take her mind off of things too.

She sat down beside him on the bed and reached for the labels and a black marker. “How old are these?” she asked.

“Several years,” he admitted.

She popped the top off of one and swiped it across the paper connecting the labels to see if it still worked. A thick, dark line remained on the page.

At once, Sam felt a spike in something inside of him. It was virile and good, and bad and volatile. His muscles flexed, his lips parted, and he felt a flare of the supernatural in his own eyes. Fortunately for him, Logan wasn’t looking at him.

She smiled down at the black mark. “Good markers,” she said, taking one of the full label sheets and placing it in her lap. “Now then… what words to choose….”

“I’ll help,” Sam said, quickly trying to cover his reaction and maintain a “normal” façade. He grabbed another sheet, the second Sharpie, and began scribbling words. Just in case it actually did matter what they created on the fridge later, he chose words that would have helped him if they were in one of Logan’s stories: “power,” “magic,” “vampire,” “fangs,” “trick” – and “treat.” He stopped short of writing the word “death.” That would have been pushing it.

Logan sat in quiet contemplation for a few moments, and the air was filled with the sound of his marker scratching against paper. He let her look at the words he’d created, and wondered what she would think. But he was a teenage boy, and a guitarist in a band no less, so he doubted Logan would think it strange that he focused on things a bit
darker
.

Eventually, apparently satisfied with what he was writing and probably inspired to create a few choice words of her own, Logan lifted her own marker and began writing.

Sam almost dropped his marker and laid back on the bed when more of the initial feeling that had spiked through him began to flood his system. It was like liquid pleasure, like being buzzed or high, or a combination of the two. His body felt stronger, his mind clearer, and his will progressively more powerful with each swipe of Logan’s felt tipped pen.

He looked over to read her words: “shade,” “forbidden,” “mask,” “lurking,” “pumpkin,” “midnight,” “lunar,” “ghost,” “train,” “forest,” “wolf.” Her imagination took him on a veritable ride through October Land without even having to string the words together for him. He closed his eyes, turning his back to her as his returning power threatened to overwhelm him.

Stars swam behind his closed lids, motes of light and magic and possibility. They swirled together, forming clouds of spells that awaited casting. They danced for him and then shot through him, infiltrating his physical form down to the molecular level, filling every ounce of him with the supernatural, the paranormal, with everything that he once was and now would be again.

His gums ached, he tasted metal in his mouth, and his tongue brushed the tips of razor-sharp fangs. They were back. And it had only been seconds.

“Dom?”

A gentle hand on his shoulder brought Sam’s head up with a snap. His eyes flew open, his vision in stark contrasts – black, white, and red.

“You okay?

Sam’s fist curled into the coverlet over Dominic’s bed. He could hear her heartbeat now, smell the blood running through her veins, and a new and familiar hunger began to yawn open inside of him. It was overwhelming, almost too much. It made him feel like a werewolf under a full moon, drunk and out of control.

But this was it.
Sam, pull yourself together
. This was the chance he’d been waiting for. If he could only gather his wits and hold on long enough for a few more words, he would have enough power to drain Logan dry and open the door to his realm to carry her across with him.

Sam closed his eyes, exhaling a shaky breath.

Suddenly, Logan’s cell phone rang, its harsh ring tone cutting through the thick, tense silence that preempted Sam’s awakening monster. He felt Logan shift beside him, but because he was so inundated with the deluge of sensation accompanying his returning strength, his reaction to her movement was far too slow. Before he could turn to stop her, she was answering the call.

Sam froze where he was, his back to her, and listened.

Dietrich Lehrer’s voice came through the phone’s speaker loud and clear, and Sam gritted his sharp teeth. The wizard’s timing was abominably apt.

Sam shut his eyes, willfully and painfully forced his fangs back into his gums, and pooled a good deal of this burgeoning power into one incredibly difficult task:  Biding his time.

Chapter Twelve

“How is Dominic?” Mr. Lehrer asked.

Logan glanced at Dominic’s turned back and noted the tension that visibly rode through his tall, strong body. She chewed on her lip for a moment. “About as you’d expect,” she finally decided.

There was a brief pause as Mr. Lehrer no doubt processed this. Then he asked, “How are you?”

“Okay. We’re playing with LEGOs.” She didn’t know why she added that. She supposed she thought that if he knew that they were doing something low-key and ultimately therapeutic, maybe he would worry less.

“Perfect. It sounds both relaxing and distracting. Listen, we found some older text in the library – about bards. I know you’ve already agreed not to write any new stories, but until we can get this all figured out, it would be best if you don’t put a pen or pencil to paper at all, okay? According to the mythos, there’s a kind of magic released at the moment when a bard actually marks parchment. So, no words, no symbols even. Stick to LEGOs.”

Logan blinked. She looked down at the paper full of labels that she’d filled out. “Umm….”