The Awakening (19 page)

Finn's brow was seared by a deep furrow as he stared at Megan. “Did we need help clearing up any local hogwash?”

“I did,” she snapped, and rose as well. For a moment, she was almost afraid to tell Mike good-bye with a kiss on the cheek.

But Finn was being a total ass, and he'd surely realize it.

“Mike, we'll see you soon,” she said firmly.

Finn rose as well. “Good afternoon,” he managed to murmur. Mike had a hand out. Finn pretended not to see it.

“Have a great night then,” Mike said, and offering a smile to Megan that assured her everything was all right, he made his way through the tables and exited.

Megan sank back into her chair and stared furiously at her husband. “What the hell was that all about?”

“You tell me,” he said coolly.

“What are you talking about?”

“What did you do, come running to your old friend for help? ‘My husband has become a monster! What do I do? I have nightmares, and he's in them all!' ”

For a moment she was so startled that she didn't reply. Then she leaned toward him, heedless of the darkness in his eyes. “You are truly being a jerk, and surely, you must see that yourself!”

He stared back at her. There was still a fury so intense in his features that she again felt a second's fear that he would leap; there was also something disturbingly seductive about the hot tension that radiated from him.

She was losing her sanity, that was for sure. Maybe he was right—they should screw everything else and leave.

But...

What if nothing changed? What if the problems were between them, and had nothing to do with time and place, or even All Hallow's Eve?

Finn leaned back suddenly. He lowered his head, and looked at her again. “You know what?” he said softly, a husky sound that was as much caress as apology, “You're right. And I'm sorry. I was acting like a jealous jackass. It's just that I woke up, and you were gone.” He hesitated, his jaw twisting. “After last night. When you said that you'd leave me before you'd leave Salem.”

“I didn't mean that the way it came out, Finn,” she said earnestly. “I just thought that if... if I were going to have these nightmares and wake up screaming . . . and I wasn't with you, well, then, no one could accuse you of doing anything.”

“Megan, they can accuse away.” He hesitated, features still tense, pained. “Megan, I'm still one insecure asshole. And I don't think I could bear it if you left me again.”

A slow smile curved into her lips. A damp hint threatened behind her lids. He was her life, everything she wanted in life.

But she didn't intend to burst into tears in the coffee shop, or even get more carried away with letting him see just how completely she was in love with everything about him, how desperately she needed and wanted him, always, in her life.

“How on earth could you ever be insecure?” she asked lightly, leaning back some and studying him as if she did so objectively. “You walk into a room, and all eyes turn on you. Women drool in your wake, you know,” she finished, and she was only halfway teasing.

His fingers brushed over hers. “Because there's only one woman I want drooling in my wake.”

There was still that something about him
. . .
he just had it all. The size, the smile, the eyes
. . .
the way he moved. Even the music. She wondered if she'd be this desperately attracted to him all her life.

“You could have denied women drool in your wake, you know.”

“Well, I would have, but I've been taught that perception is nine-tenths of the law. Therefore, if that's your perception . . . hell, I wouldn't want to change it.”

“Um, I see,” she murmured, then frowned, realizing that his arms were still taut, and held close to his body. And beneath one of them, something was sticking out. “Hey, what are you holding?”

“What?”

“What do you have clutched to your chest?”

He frowned, then seemed to realized that he was holding a book. “Shit!” he muttered.

“What?”

“I just stole a book. From your cousin's shop,” he said sheepishly.

“You stole a book from Morwenna?” she inquired skeptically.

“By accident. Hey, I forgot to tell you—we were written up,
nationally,
yesterday. Remember the reporter who came to the jazz club? Seems she wrote more—a little Halloween entertainment-across-the-country article, and we—and Salem, of course—were the main focus.”

“What does that have to do with the book?”

“Well, that's what's weird—and why I walked out with the book by accident. It's by the same woman.” He handed Megan the book, backside up, and tapped on the author photo. “See?”

Megan, looking at him, halfway grinning, slowly arched a brow. “This woman gave us great national exposure, and so you stole her book?”

“I took it by accident, I told you. Sara was there—making me feel all creepy—and I kind of hurried out.”

“Ah. Sara was making you feel
creepy
? Strange. I get the feeling Sara would like to make you feel something else.”

“Hey—who is being jealous now?”

She wanted to smile. She couldn't. “Me. But oddly enough . . . I think I'm right. I didn't say that you would respond, only that I think Sara . . . is just strange. It's as if she can't keep away from you.”

“It's my charm.”

“Of course.”

“I can eat garlic, or wear a cross, to keep her away from me.”

“I don't think that crosses do anything against horny Wiccans.”

He laughed, leaning back, threading his fingers lightly through her hair. “Probably not. Can I suffice it to say that I really, truly, find her creepy?”

“That will do pretty well. But it's strange, isn't it? Mike's girl acted that way about you, too. That Gayle Sawyer. She stared at you as if you were Michelangelo's
David.
”

He leaned close to her. “Maybe we're not that different.”

“Hm. I forgot to check out just how well hung that statue was.”

“Megan, I promise you, I'd sure as hell never let Sara get that close. You've just become too accustomed to my aura of raw sexuality.”

A shiver seized her suddenly.
No, that's certainly not it at all,
she thought, but had no intention of bringing up the strange volatility of their nights. Not now.

“Don't worry any,” she assured him. “If Sara gets too . . .
too
. . . close, I'll deck her for you.”

“You?”

“I preach nonviolence, and I believe in it. But I'll still deck her,” she assured him.

“I think I can manage.”

“Hey, you like to protect me at a bar!”

“Right, and you get mad when I do.”

“Because drunks can be handled.”

“They can be handled better when they see a six-foot-something bigger guy at your side.”

“And Sara will be handled if I deck her—only if she wants to get too close.”

“If she's smart, she'll keep her distance,” he said gravely.

Megan smiled, but was startled to feel a moment's sheer possessiveness. It wasn't like her. Maybe it was the banter, which was dangerous, because the trust was so important between them now. And maybe it was just the light, quick conversation as well, but she also felt . . .

Like crawling over her husband, then and there. Doing what Sara wasn't at all allowed to do.

“You know what?” she said, whispering close to his ear. “It's early. Actually, for people with a nighttime work schedule, it's very early. The afternoon and early evening stretch ahead.”

“You're in the mood for some drooling, are you?”

“Perhaps I could be convinced.”

He stood, stretching out his hand. She curled her fingers into his.

A pleasant smell of coffee filled the air around them. Children were laughing at one of the nearby tables. A waitress impatiently called out an order.

Her husband was grinning, the curl of his lips a bit wicked.

Good wicked.

She felt a surge of longing kick in as if she were being touched already, intimately.

The world was right.

He came around the table and pulled her against him. “I think you are a bit of a witch yourself,” he whispered softly.

She felt the oddest desire to protest.

Instead, she stroked his cheek, came on her toes, and murmured suggestively against his earlobe. “Let's go fool around. I'm just dying to see how well, how deeply and completely, you can apologize.”

“Watch that tone of voice,” he murmured, “or I'll be apologizing far too deeply and completely right here, right now.”

Laughing, she caught his hand and hurried ahead of him.

As they left the coffee shop, a little shiver shot through her. She paused for a minute, that odd feeling of being watched searing into her. She paused, turning, looking for the eyes that were surely boring into her back.

Finn was directly behind her, his hands on her shoulders. They warmed her. They seemed to give her a certain strength against whatever tugged at her. Insanity maybe, because the streets were busy, filled with activity, and if someone was standing somewhere, staring at her, she sure as hell couldn't see him—or her.

“Let's—” she began, looking up at Finn, and breaking off. He, too, was searching out the crowd.

“What's wrong?” she asked.

He shook his head, as if shaking off a feeling as well. His eyes touched down on hers. “I love you. I really love you, you know. And I would die before I ever let anyone hurt you.”

She smiled.

The breeze was gentle. The sun was still visible in an autumn sky that was still somehow soft blue, and wonderfully gentle, almost bright.

“I love you . . . so come on, please, let's hurry. I do hate to drool in the street.”

Darkness came so quickly in October in New England.

Of course, as Megan explained, while they lay curled together, watching the daylight fade through the crack in the curtains, it was even worse in December.

It was the best time they'd had together since they had come here. No dreams had plagued either of them. Megan had been playful, sensual; there had been moments of barely breathing urgency, muscle-knotted soaring, and mind-shattering climax. Intimacy so complete that it seemed no outside force could be noticed, much less intrusive. Their bond, combining hearts and senses, had never seemed so solid, and Finn was loathe for the afternoon to wane, and so, even as the darkness came, they lay together, spent, disheveled, limbs entangled, just watching as that darkness came.

Still entangled, though, the mundane had come into what at first was idle conversation, choices of music for the night, what they didn't want to do again, and what, though they'd done it already, was signature and popular, and therefore, good for the agenda once again. Megan turned to him suddenly, smiling, skimming a damp lock of hair from his forehead, and murmured, “It's almost like being back home again, isn't it?”

He smiled, catching her fingers, languidly teasing them with the tip of his tongue.

“Finn, for real, there's something special this afternoon. . . and you owe it all to Mike.”

He had just been feeling the slow, simmering rise of a renewed erection. Her words deflated him like a popped balloon.

“Mike? Wow. Was he in bed with us?”

She kicked his calf. “No, and if you're going to act like a jealous ass again, I'm going to get up.”

“You might want to explain what you're talking about, then.”

“He's just so wonderfully logical and pragmatic. I was really starting to worry about the dreams. I confess, when you said you wanted to leave, I wanted to run away from here more than anything in the world. But he was talking about his psychology classes, about the power of suggestion . . . and I realized, I was having nightmares because I was allowing myself to have them. Listening to old loons like Andy Markham, and whatever else. And, though you don't want to admit it, Mr. Tough Guy, you are subject to the same force of suggestion. So . . . before going to sleep from now on, we're going to watch game shows. Or old sitcom reruns. Like
Gilligan's Island.
Or
The Cosby Show.
Or Lucy!”

“I see,” he murmured.

“You're going to insist that you haven't had weird dreams? I'm the one who might have awakened screaming, but the other night . . . you don't even remember making love.”

Finn stared at the ceiling. “At least I didn't imagine you as some kind of wicked beast or awful, hideous creature.”

“The power of suggestion. I'd seen a statue of a beast of some kind, and therefore I dreamed it up. So . . . I'm not even going to take a good look at a well-carved jack-o'-lantern from here on out. Lucy and Desi,
Family Ties, Cheers
! That's it from now on.”

Finn tried to tell himself that maybe he should be grateful to Mike Smith.

If not grateful, he should at least manage to be decent around the guy. Trust had been a big issue between him and Megan, helping to break them apart before. If he had half a brain in his head, he'd quell the temper and jealousy that kept rising in him.

“Want me to write Mike Smith a thank-you note?” he queried.

“No.” Megan's toe moved over his calf.

“So . . .”

“When you see him, I just want you to be polite.”

Her toe moved up to his thigh. Her fingers crawled down his chest.

Hallelujah. What had died seemed to be rising again.

“I can be very polite,” he assured her huskily.

Megan was agile. Her toe and fingers collided.

“There are times to be polite . . .” she purred, her whisper heating his ear, “and times, you know, when you should just be downright friendly.”

“Very friendly,” he agreed, and decided they had talked enough.

He could be incredibly agile as well.

Darkness fell in deep soft blues. They were immune to the slow spiraling ground fog and the strange mist that surrounded the rising moon.

 

 

It was a deep blue orb as it rose high over the old cemetery.

There was no form of communication that could be trusted, except that of meeting alone. And so the two came together.

The woman arrived first, and as she waited, she ran her fingers over the weathered marble of her idol, knowing every angle and curve of the structure. She touched it lovingly, as tenderly as if it were flesh.

In time, her protégé arrived. She was not pleased with the tardiness of his arrival, and of course, he was aware of that fact when he saw the way she gazed at him. Once, he would have felt a sense of shame, that he had served badly, and a sense of fear as well.

But in the days past, he had tasted his own power. And he knew that she was just a servant of the master, no greater than himself.

Except that . . . well, she would be greater.

“You should fall to your knees in the presence of the Master!” she said angrily.

He knew how to pay homage, and did not need her tell him how. He kissed cold marble, and felt a trembling in the coldness of the stone, and a surge of strength and vigor within himself.

“You didn't need to summon me,” he said coldly. “I know my business, and I have been about it well.”

“Not well enough,” she said sharply. “You have obtained much of what we need . . . but you know that there is more. You can delay no longer. What is necessary must be acquired now. We have but days left. And at the proper moment, the chalices must be full.”

“I told you, I know what I'm about,” he said. “You!” He pointed a finger at her. “You see to it that all is in readiness when the moment arrives. There can be no one there who lacks faith in His power, no one who will falter. The number must be complete.”

“I have known what I'm about for a very long time,” she said quietly. “You mustn't hesitate any longer. You must move. Not soon—now.”

He nodded curtly to the woman; as he had surely told her quite plainly, he knew the business he was about, knew his responsibility. He acknowledged the idol again, lips hot against stone, and closed his eyes and savored the strength and power that seemed to rip and tear into his center and his limbs, like bolts of lightning, electric and shattering.

Without another word, he turned and left.

Below the moonlight, she watched him leave, and she closed her own eyes, envisioning the majesty of what was to come. She stretched her hand before her, beneath the deep blue cast of the night sky, and smiled. She stared at her arms, and dreamed of what would be. The differences that would change the world,
her
world.

She had planned so carefully. For so very long.

The Time of Darkness was coming.

Coming so soon.

Above her, blue clouds roiled, and she luxuriated in the feel of the misty ground fog that was slowly spiraling as if kissed by a strange wind, rising . . . soon to encompass the night.

And create a new day.

 

 

They were two sets into the night, and everything was still going wonderfully when Megan had the run-in with the man at the bar.

Like usual, Morwenna and Joseph were there, clapping enthusiastically after every number, supporting them completely. Darren Menteith had come, minus Lizzie, and with a number of friends from the college.

Megan hadn't felt so good since they had arrived in New England. But tonight . . . Finn, again, looked incredible, clad in another outfit from Morwenna's shop. She liked her own outfit as well, with the delicate, slit silk sleeves, tight bodice, and flowing skirt. Finn had really seemed to be getting along with Joseph. He hadn't hedged his conversation, as if afraid that every word would somehow relate to witchcraft. They had talked soccer and beer. She and Morwenna had laughed about incidents during their childhood. They had talked about friends from school.

She wished that Mike Smith would have approached them. Finn would have been as easy with her old friend, she was certain. But if Mike was there—which he very well could be—he was in costume, and not about to let himself be known.

Well, Finn had acted like an ass.

“Hey, honey, let me buy you a drink.”

She turned. The man in question was medium tall, in a brown cape, with brown makeup. He had on prosthetic makeup as well, giving him an enlarged forehead and a huge nose. If she were to run into him again on the street, she'd surely never recognize him again. Except for maybe his voice. It had a high, whining quality to it.

Of course, that might be due to the amount of alcohol he had already consumed. Or he might have even been putting on the voice.

“Thanks,” she said lightly. “But I'm just drinking water with lemon, and I have a new one here. Right in front of me.”

He edged closer.

“One drink won't kill you, honey. It could be
wicked
good for you.”

She felt Finn come up behind her. “Hey, I think the lady said that she was fine. Thanks for the offer, but no thanks.”

He spoke pleasantly enough, just an edge of warning in his voice.

“Think you're a big shot, huh, buddy, just because you're up on that stage with her.”

Finn still held his temper. “I think that the lady is with me, because she's my wife.”

For a moment, it looked as if the man was going to challenge Finn anyway. Then he shrugged and backed off. Finn took the seat next to her, grinning. “Was I okay? Assertive, but not aggressive, firm, but not impolite?”

She laughed, setting a hand on his arm.

“You were quite perfect. Although, you know, I can defend myself against a drunk.”

“Probably true,” he said philosophically. “But did you really want to have to deck the asshole?”

“You've a point. Might have ruined the costume.”

“His, or yours?”

“Mine, of course. It's borrowed finery.”

Finn sat back, frowning. Megan's attention was drawn down the bar. The drunk was now hitting on another woman. It was the pretty young woman who worked at Mike's new museum, manning the ticket booth. She had introduced herself as Gayle Sawyer.

She wasn't wearing a costume—at least, Megan didn't
think
it was a costume. She was in a black knit dress that hugged her compact but well-shaped body. Tonight, there were a number of studs and rings in her ears, a silver stud above her left eyebrow, and a tiny diamond in her nose. She was nursing an amber-colored cocktail, and had been talking with another girl, very slim and blond, also in black, at her side.

The drunk had come between them. Gayle was obviously his target.

“Swallow it down, and I'll buy you another,” the man encouraged her.

“I'm good with this,” Gayle said, impatient that her conversation had been interrupted.

“I'm really good-looking beneath this makeup. And rich,” the drunk said.

“Look! Fuck off—I don't want another drink!” Gayle told him, completely irritated then.

The drunk gripped her by the arm, dragging her off the bar stool. She fell against him, and struggled to straighten herself. The drunk slipped his arm around her, holding her close.

“So you wanna dance!” he laughed gleefully.

“Let me go!”

The man wasn't listening. He started to pull her out onto the floor.

“Hey!”

Finn stepped forward at that, striding toward the pair. He set his arm on the drunk's shoulder. “Buddy, she wants to be left alone.”

The man looked around—his putty nose starting to descend a bit. “Hey, what are you, the dating police?” he growled to Finn.

“You need to go home,” Finn said.

“This ain't your wife, your girl, or your concern,” the man said angrily.

“Common courtesy. She doesn't want to be with you. Let her alone.”

At that, the drunk dropped hold of Gayle Sawyer. He'd been holding her so tightly that she staggered back. Finn went to support her, and the drunk swung violently at Finn.

Finn ducked the blow with a second to spare. When he straightened, the drunk swung again. Finn blocked the blow, but lost patience and control. He swung back, catching the fellow dead square on the jaw, and the drunk fell like an axed oak.

“Oh, man, thank you!” Gayle Sawyer gushed out, flinging herself at Finn, hugging him tightly around the neck.

“Hey, it's all right,” Finn murmured awkwardly, trying to disentangle himself and get down on the floor to check on the offender. By then, Sam Tartan was heading through the crowd. He didn't look so thankful. He stared at Finn as if he had hired a pariah to play at his club.

“What the hell?” he demanded crossly.

“Your ‘guest' was attacking the young woman,” Megan said sharply, before Finn could even begin to move his lips. She'd spoken with such a contemptuous air, that even Tartan stood dead silent for a minute.

“We employ people to handle this kind of problem!” he stuttered out after a moment.

“Well, your employees were apparently not available and I was practically being raped on the dance floor!” Gayle Sawyer said, looking crossly at Sam Tartan, and then adoringly at Finn.

“I hope you haven't broken his jaw,” Tartan said.

“I hope he has!” Gayle muttered.

Someone else—in a two-foot blond wig and velvet Victorian costume had come through the crowd and stooped down by the drunk.