The Awakening (18 page)

Contacts, he'd thought.

Megan had been impressed with him.

They'd both been nice.

And he'd seen a good review on their act at the jazz club the next day, so he'd thanked his lucky stars, and forgotten the pair.

But now . . .

“Wicked!” he murmured.

“What?” Sally said, frowning.

He laughed. “New England expression, so I've been told. I hadn't seen this.”

Hadn't imagined that it might have existed. There was a large, clear picture of Megan and him on stage. There was information about their performance, and more information about the wonderful time to be had in Salem.

Then . . .

At the bottom of the article was a strange little notation where the author was given credit:
Jade McGregor Deveau is a frequent contributor.
Her E-mail address was down, and there was an invitation for anyone to write to her—
especially if they knew of the bizarre, unusual, or downright scary and dangerous.
A number of her books were listed—they all seemed to deal with the paranormal, rather than simple travel.

“Great article!” John complimented.

“And you were great,” Sally said. “You know, we didn't get a chance to buy the CD, and I'm not sure if we're going to be able to get back—”

“I'll be happy to get you one.”

“We can pay you?”

He had the feeling she was expecting his response, but that was all right. He'd been taught in his business classes that there was nothing like putting giveaways into the right hands to promote talent.

“It will be my sincere pleasure to give you a CD,” he told her. He started to hand the article back to her.

“You can keep it—just in case you can't get a copy of the paper.”

“Hey, thanks.”

He brought the couple a CD, hoping then that he didn't run into anyone else. It was growing late.

Susanna had a habit of always looking dour and ruining a good mood if you happened to be in one.

And Fallon . . .

Fallon always looked at him as if he were surely an ex-con in disguise.

But exiting quickly through the front of the house then, he saw no one else.

Megan hadn't taken the car, so he assumed she was walking around town somewhere. He'd do the same, he thought, until he found her. He was anxious to show her the article, but once he was down the street, he realized he'd left it in the room.

He didn't want to go back. He wanted to find his wife.

Everywhere, pumpkins, skeletons, and ghosts decorated yards and buildings. Boys playing kickball in the street apologized when they knocked their ball at his legs. He waved a hand and gave the ball a solid thrust back. They grinned and waved in return. He kept walking.

When he reached the common, he saw that Darren Menteith was out with Lizzie. Darren waved, and Finn walked over to the young man and the dog. Lizzie wagged her tail with delight, a friendly creature, despite her massive size.

“Caught your act again last night,” Darren told him cheerfully. “Man, I wish we had more like you around.”

“Thanks. I didn't see you.”

“I didn't want to bother you.”

“Don't worry about bothering us,” Finn said. “Trust me, there have been those times when I've thought we were playing to the walking dead.”

Darren grinned. “Well, hey, you know, it's Halloween around here. You might be playing to a few walking dead—dope-outs and lushes. But, hey, what the hell. As long as they move and put their hands together, huh? This whole Halloween thing here gets so crazy. Cute, too, though. I've seen some great art projects for kids going on in the streets.”

“It is the ultimate Halloween destination,” Finn said.

“Well, you must have expected it. Your wife coming from here, and all.”

“I don't think I was completely prepared,” Finn said wryly.

“Where is Megan?” Darren asked.

“Up and about somewhere. I slept late. In fact, I'm looking for her.”

“Haven't seen her. But tell her Lizzie and I said hello.”

“Sure thing.”

Finn moved on. He realized that he was heading straight for Morwenna's, and his footsteps slowed, but then he knew he was being stupid. If Megan was around here somewhere, she'd surely stop at her cousin's place.

There was no one at the door at the moment; he entered through a full shop, but one that wasn't as insanely busy as he'd seen it at times. Morwenna was behind the counter. She gave Finn a beaming smile when she saw him across the store. A few minutes later, she came around the counter, leaving the cash register to the young man they'd met on the first night.

She gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Hey, handsome. You're off on your own? Where's my cousin?”

“I'm not sure. I thought she might be here.”

Morwenna shook her head, frowning. “Are you two having an argument?”

His muscles quickened, and he willed himself not to appear tense, or take immediate offense. “Nope. I just slept late.”

“Well, you two work hard, and late, poor darling,” Morwenna said, studying his eyes. “I haven't seen her today, though, I'm sorry. I wish I would. Finn! You wouldn't believe it. Since you two appeared costumed from my shop last night, I've filled out more order forms than you can imagine. And we make the capes right here, you know, so it's incredibly wonderful for local business. I can't thank you enough.”

“Hey, you bailed us out. We owe you the gratitude.”

“Well, I hope you sincerely feel that way. I'd like you both to pick out something new for tonight.”

He hesitated, then shrugged. He still felt so uneasy—on guard—every time he was around Morwenna and Joseph. Foolish. They were trying hard. “I hate to keep taking your things, Morwenna. There's surely some wear and tear on them by the time we return them.”

“I swear! You're doing us the favor.”

“Well, then, sure.”

“Do you want to find something now?”

Again, he hesitated. Absurd. He didn't want to change clothing in that store. Not without Megan around. Great. He was a grown man afraid to take off his clothes.

“I think I'll find Meg, and come back, if that's okay? We can choose things that complement one another.”

“Great. If you want, though, take a quick look at some of the new things that just came in. Back room, by the reading area and dressing rooms. We received a massive shipment, today, can you imagine? Clothing and books, mainly. But take a quick look.”

What he wanted was to get out of the shop. Still, it was a fight to maintain a really friendly relationship with Morwenna and Joseph. He had sworn to himself that he would do so.

“All right.”

He walked into the back room, thinking he should feel privileged. Regular customers didn't get past the beaded curtain that separated the front from the back unless they were being led back for readings, or to use the fitting rooms.

The curtains fell around his shoulders with a little tinkling sound. He paused for a moment, then saw a rack where a number of shirts hung, having been just unpacked. There was a large, commercial steamer standing by the rack, since the clothing arrived folded and wrinkled.

He walked over to the shirts, and as he absently looked through them, he felt that strange sensation that warned him of another presence. He turned.

Not ten feet from him, Sara was on the floor with a stack of boxes. These contained books. She was pulling them out, discarding the packing material, and sorting them. But she had paused, her eyes on Finn.

“Sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you,” he murmured awkwardly. “Morwenna said I should look through the new things.”

“You're not disturbing me,” she said.

But she hadn't moved, and didn't still. She sat, legs—clad in black tights—sprawled at her sides. For a minute, she looked like an innocent little urchin.

“The books are a pain in the butt,” she muttered then, lifting up the one she was holding. “I don't know why on earth Morwenna ordered this thing in. It's by some travel writer with a little publishing house in the south and it's a look into the absurd. One of those things that makes a mockery out of the true practice of Wicca.” She glanced at the back cover, shaking her head with irritation.

He caught a glimpse of the back cover of the book and a little jolt of recognition shot through him. “May I see it?”

She shrugged. “Why not? You put on a good facade in the shop, but you really think we're a bunch of idiotic pagans anyway.”

“I just don't believe in casting spells or any of that mumbo-jumbo,” he said. “It's a free country, and freedom of religion is guaranteed. I am a big believer in the Constitution. May I see the book?”

She handed it to him. He turned it over. There was a picture of a very attractive woman on the back. The author photo was a casual shot, taken in Jackson Square, right in New Orleans. Naturally, he recognized Jackson Square. But he realized that he recognized the woman as well.

“Jade Deveau,” he murmured.

“An old girlfriend?” Sara asked.

He shot her an irritated glance, and decided not to reply. He didn't know why he was surprised that a book written by the woman might be in a Salem store. The author acknowledgment had stated that she was . . . what? Into the occult? Or intrigued by stories about things that went bump in the night?

It just seemed strange that a woman he'd met recently should—in a roundabout way—reenter his life twice within a few hours.

“You wouldn't like the book,” Sara said. “Trust me, you'd think it was a bunch of bunk!”

“Have you read it?”

Sara shrugged. “She has some strange ideas, certainly.” She sighed. “All right, maybe you would actually like the book. She feels that anything out of the ordinary needs to be inspected more deeply. In other words, she isn't of the opinion that all witchcraft is benign. By the way—where's your wife today?”

“Seeing some sights,” he muttered.

“So . . . did you let her out on her own, or did she trust you on the prowl?”

“Sara, being married doesn't mean that you're glued together.”

“No, it doesn't, does it?” she said huskily. Then added a quick, “So where do you think she is? And with whom?”

“I think she's shopping, and maybe saying hello to a few friends.”

Sara nodded. He wanted to walk right by her, but he kept staring at her. He could feel his jaw tightening, his teeth clenching. At the same time, he found himself noticing that she'd left a number of the buttons on her sweater undone and that she was almost spilling over the wool.

“You should leave, you know,” she said.

“I'm going.”

She shook her head. “Not the shop. Massachusetts.”

“Why? You go into some silly trance and tell me that I'm going to hurt my wife. I love my wife. You tell me I'm dangerous, but you also seem to have your claws out, as if you'd jump me if you could. What the hell is it with you, and what do you think I'm going to do? Or would breaking up a marriage just make you happy as hell?”

He was startled to see her look distraught, and somewhat ashamed. She looked down for a moment, as if confused herself.

“No, I don't intend to be a home wrecker. And as to what you're going to do
. . .
I don't know . . . exactly. But you should leave. There's just something about you . . . I don't . . . there's some
thing
over the two of you. There you are, nice and tall, broad shouldered, sleek and wiry, exuding that he-man, masculine aura! And there's your perfect blond Barbie-doll wife.” She cleared her throat, losing her air of confusion. “Isn't it scary sometimes, being so fucking perfect?”

“We're far from perfect—”

“Have you hurt her yet? Is that why she's away from you?”

He started past her, not willing to listen to any more. She caught his calf as he tried to walk by. “If you realize that you do need help, I'll be around.” The fingers curled around his calf suddenly stroked up his thigh. She jerked her hands away, as if she hadn't touched him on purpose. “You're an asshole. You should leave.”

He felt a strange prickling at the back of his neck. It was exactly what he wanted to do, no matter how sanity and logic fought against it.

But enough was enough. So much for being eternally polite just to get along with everyone for Megan's sake.

“Sara, leave me the fuck alone, will you?”

“I wish I could,” she murmured, her words almost incoherent. Then she stared at him hard. “Sure, you should stay. Like I said, when you realize you're in way over your tough, inflated, macho head, come see me.”

He stepped over and walked out of the back, listening as the beaded curtain crashed around him. Morwenna was behind the counter. He lifted his hand, waving good-bye.

He couldn't get out to the street fast enough.

It wasn't until he had walked far down the street that he realized he still had the book in his hand.

“So what do you think of him?” Mike Smith asked, a certain wry amusement in his voice.

“He's certainly . . . evil enough looking,” Megan replied.

She wasn't sure what had brought her back to the new museum where Smith was curator. She had avoided Morwenna's shop because she didn't want to start telling her cousin any of her problems. So she had wandered, seen the museum, and found herself hesitating in front of it. Then the same young girl who had been at the ticket counter the day before had spied her, and greeted her with tremendous enthusiasm, telling her that her own dream was to become a professional singer. Soon, Mike had come out, and told her that she had to see the new exhibit they were preparing.

The next thing she knew, she was walking through a door that said “Museum Staff Only,” and viewing their new display on the seventh-century vision of the devil and witchcraft.

The “devil” was big. About eight feet tall. Blood red with black markings. A forked tongue was just visible, and a long, arrow-shaped tail was fully evident. The eyes were truly creepy, seeming to follow the observer, and naturally, the creature came complete with horns in the temple.

It gave her a little jolt, reminding her of something very uncomfortable. She knew it had something to do with the nightmare that had so violently disturbed her in her sleep, but for the life of her, she could no longer remember much about the dream.

“I wouldn't want to be locked in here with him, that's for sure,” Megan added, grinning.

Mike studied the larger-than-life creature with a grin, then looked at Megan. “Can you believe that people really thought this guy came down and forced people to sign pacts? We've come a long, long way, thank God!”

“Right. Thank God.”

“A great deal of the problem in the colonies, of course, stemmed from the European background. This was really serious. And, whether legal or not, torture was widespread. You should read some of the confessions from the cases in Europe. But then again, you torture someone long enough, and they don't just confess, they get garrulous and creative. Once one person had confessed and given his or her tormenters a story, others were sucked in. But people did confess to relationships with the devil. They confessed to wild parties, kissing the buttocks of such a creature, dancing naked in the moonlight—and much worse, of course. Now, to our educated senses, it's easy to realize that someone being racked, burned, or broken would admit to almost anything to stop the pain. But back then . . . they just believed that they were forcing the truth from their pathetic victims.”

“The power of suggestion is very strong,” Megan murmured.

Mike looked at her, frowning. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” she said quickly. “I've just noticed that during the last few days . . . well, people talk about monsters, and then you dream about them. You know, you see a particularly eerie jack-o'-lantern, or some such thing, and then you put it into dreams.”

Mike laughed. “Well, that's true. Mine are usually a bit different. I was watching a game show before I went to sleep one night, and I had the greatest dream in the world. I'd won millions of dollars. The dream was incredibly real. I was heartbroken when I woke up and finally had to force myself to realize that I wasn't rich.”

Megan laughed. “Well, dreaming that you're rich isn't a nightmare, anyway.”

“Right. Waking up and realizing that you're not rich is the nightmare. But, hey, I love what I do, so I don't need to be rich.”

“That's the real payoff, isn't it?” Megan agreed.

“So we're both lucky.”

“Very,” she murmured.

“Hey, I'm due a break. Want to get some coffee or something?”

“Sounds great,” Megan agreed.

They left the museum, walking onto the main strip in the center of the old-town tourist section. They tossed a coin to choose between two coffeehouses, and laughed, since they both called heads, but forgot which side of the street was “heads.” One of them boasted the best hot mocha in the world, so they decided on it.

Once seated with two large mochas topped with whipped cream, they talked casually, Megan telling him how sorry she was when he shrugged and told her that his mom had died of cancer soon after he'd graduated high school, and he'd lost his father just two years ago to heart failure. “I think he missed her too much,” Mike said. “Anyway, they're together. What about your folks?”

“Alive and well in Maine,” she told him.

“Good for them. Of course, I see your Aunt Martha all the time, and she's still just as ornery as ever.”

“Ornery?” Megan protested.

Mike laughed. “Okay. Opinionated. Actually, I like her a lot. She's a no-nonsense kind of lady, all down to earth and practical. You should see some of the town meetings around here. The Wiccans are all up in arms about the trashy display of green women riding on broomsticks in certain advertisements, and Martha is always there to remind them that there is a percentage of the population that likes to have fun with Halloween and all. This remains a small community. Of all types. And she's like the voice of stern sanity at all times.”

“Good for her.”

“I thought she and Morwenna were going to come to blows, once.”

“What happened?”

“It was a silly argument over a decal someone wanted to sell. And bless her, Morwenna backed down rather than punch out Aunt Martha. Who knows—Martha might have been the one to deck her, she is one feisty lady.”

Megan laughed and moved her stirrer through her mocha. “What's the story with Andy Markham?”

Mike lifted a brow. “The story? Well, he tells stories. That's how he survives.”

“He seems to believe them.”

“Hey, you know what? People around here can convince you of almost anything. It's how they make a living. Megan!” he murmured suddenly, setting his hand upon hers. “It really does sound as if you're letting some of this get to you. Kid—you come from these parts! This stuff has been going on all your life, and you should remember it, even if you moved away for a while. You've got to remember that this place can be great—there's nothing as beautiful as autumn in New England. It's great that you're here, and I've never seen such a total community success as you and Finn have been, playing at the hotel. Relish the triumph! Savor it. Don't let the creepy-crawlies get into your dreams. Watch game shows before you go to sleep—even Huntington House offers dozens of cable channels these days. Cartoons—whoops, maybe not. Once, I dreamed I was the Road Runner and Wily E. Coyote was after me.”

Megan laughed again, remembering how she had always liked Mike, even in his ultraserious and academic moods. He had a nice, wry way of looking at the world, and could find humor in almost any situation.

She hesitated, then admitted, “Mike, I'm telling you, I've had such bad nightmares that Finn has suggested we just up and leave.”

He digested her words, watching her, and answering carefully, “Megan, it's really a small, tight area, like I said. And we do remember the old families, and the past. You're basically a native child. To some people, your husband is still a Confederate, a Rebel—certainly not good old Yankee stock. You're loved—he's under suspicion. But you two are a great pair. Don't let other people dictate your lives, or ruin something that is going great for you both. You spoke earlier about the power of suggestion. I'm dead serious. Make sure that any power of suggestion that's around you before you go to sleep is totally good, and then you'll have nice, sweet, dreams. You could wake up ruing the fact that your life is great but you're still broke, but that will be better than waking up in cold sweats and terror.”

“You're right. I told Finn that I wasn't going to give in to any kind of idiotic suggestion and run. And still . . .”

“He's not the one having the nightmares, huh?”

“He doesn't wake up screaming. But . . . I think we're both sleeping . . . weirdly.”

“Weirdly?”

She didn't want to explain that her husband didn't even remember intimacy when he woke up in the morning. That was too personal—as much as she did like Mike, and feel really comfortable about being with an old friend.

“Restlessly, I guess.”

“A different bed,” Mike said sagely, wiggling his brows.

She smiled. “Maybe. Except that we're both pretty good on the road. You have to get accustomed to different beds when you're musicians.”

“Listen, everyone knows that you two had split, and gotten back together not all that long ago. So here you are—your hometown. Naturally, you're both going to be uneasy. Even though you're the loved one here, you're worried about his reactions to your hometown. He's worried about what people think of him, because he knows they all love you. I had to take a fair amount of psychology to get out of school with my doctorate, you know.”

Megan leaned back, smiling. Mike had a nice, neat ability to put the world into perspective. Yet, as she sat back, she glanced out the window, and found herself frowning.

Finn was there.

Just outside, staring in. She could see his face over the glass where a large cup of steaming coffee had been painted on it.

She froze for a moment.

It didn't look like Finn. It
was
Finn, but . . .

She suppressed a little shiver, aware that his eyes were on her, and for a fleeting moment, they appeared to be red again.

Fiery red, like those eyes she had seen in her dream . . .

And his features . . . they were taut, so strained that he appeared almost skeletal. And the look he was giving her was filled with rage, menace, and . . .

Evil.

Evil. The word kept coming to her mind, in so many ways now, so very often.

She blinked, and swallowed. She'd imagined it all . . .

No, she hadn't. Finn was indeed there. But his eyes were their customary color, and his face wasn't pinched or taut at all. He'd donned one of his favorite coats, a black leather railroad jacket, and it fell nicely from his shoulders to his ankles, somehow very nicely emphasizing his height and the breadth of his shoulders and the clean lean lines of his waist, hips, and long legs. His hair was clean, a little shaggy, giving him an ever so slight rough-around-the-edges quality that was very appealing. He wasn't smiling; he looked a little grim, but not at all evil. In fact, she felt a little chill of excitement at the sight of him. Finn was, beyond a doubt, sexy.

He walked in.

“Finn!” she acknowledged.

He bent from behind, kissed her cheek, stood tall again, and nodded to Mike. “Hi, there. Nice to see you.”

The words were spoken with even civility. It was still clearly evident, to Megan at least, that Finn wasn't in the least pleased to see Mike.

Mike rose, offering Finn a hand. Finn took it—then let go of it quickly, drawing over an empty chair from the table beside theirs, and straddling it. “Break time from the museum?” Finn queried.

“I take a break when I choose,” Mike said pleasantly, as if he didn't notice in the least the note of hostility in Finn's voice. “Hell, I put in about eighty hours a week. That buys me the right to take a break whenever I choose. Hey, you guys were great last night.”

“Thanks. I didn't see you there,” Finn said.

“Oh, well, what the hell. When in Rome, you know. I wore a costume. And I'm not big on makeup, or fussing around in a way that takes a lot of time. Masks are the way to go for me.”

“Still!” Megan said. “You need to come up to the stage and say hi!”

“Next time, I will,” Mike promised.

“Do,” Finn said. His fingers had curled around Megan's empty cup. She thought that if it hadn't been made of thick ceramic, it would have crushed beneath the tension in his fingers. “Did you two run into one another in the street?”

“No,” Mike said.

“Yes,” Megan began. Finn arched his brows. “In a way,” Megan continued. “I was just out walking, one of the young museum employees saw me, Mike saw us . . . we went in to see a new exhibit going up, and came out for coffee then.”

“New exhibit?” Finn said.

His voice was bass deep. Hard.

“I planned it, and I really think it's one of my best,” Mike said, still being friendly and polite. How could he not hear the menace in Finn's voice? Megan wondered. She longed to kick Finn under the table, but oddly, she was afraid if she did so, he'd go straight for Mike's throat.

Or her own.

“What people don't grasp today about the situation in 1692 is just how serious the majority of the people considered the crime of witchcraft to be—and what they believed witchcraft to be. Remember, this is the same general time when young boys could be hanged for stealing loaves of bread—and before we hanged horse thieves in the American West with little thought of due process of law. So—”

“I'm sure it's a great exhibit,” Finn said.

Mike was perplexed by the interruption, but he still didn't seem to realize that while he was being friendly, Finn had suddenly decided to act like a horse's ass.

“Is it all set up?” Finn asked pointedly.

“Still in the process.”

“I can't imagine how you're tearing yourself away from it.”

“Good point.” Mike laughed a little awkwardly and rose. “I should get back. Please, both of you, stop by anytime. And if I can help in any way—clearing up any local hogwash or the like!—please don't hesitate to come by. I'm more than happy to help if I can.”