The Awakening (30 page)

He reached for the sponge. She realized she had been scrubbing herself in a circular motion, low, very low, well below the belly. He took it from her.

“Here, let me do that for you.”

He did. Nylon . . . slightly scratchy, erotically abrasive . . . bath gel, slick, oily, foamy . . . moved against her intimately. She clung to Finn's shoulders, pressed against him, his touch, the movement of his hands . . .

She stroked her fingers down the length of his spine, curved them over the muscles of his buttocks, brushed around his hips, gliding the friction of her soapy fingers over the fullness of his erection. The touch of his fingers jerked against her, pressing against an erogenous zone so intently that she gasped out loud, suddenly certain that she was going to fall in the shower.

“Sh!” he whispered, catching her lips in an openmouthed, hungry kiss, then pulling her against him more tightly. “We don't want to wake Martha!”

Dizzy, aching, barely able to stand, Megan returned, “Hey, she left us the chocolate.”

“We don't want to give the old bird erotic dreams, eh?” Finn whispered against her earlobe.

“Maybe she'd like a few.”

“She's not sharing ours!” Finn said firmly, lifting her against him. It wasn't quite so easy to hold her, keeping her flush with his body, while turning off the shower spray and stepping from the shower stall. Megan had to keep from laughing as he made the stalwart attempt, somehow managing to accomplish what he had set out to do. He carried her from the bath, ready to drop her to the bed. Megan laughed and told him, “Wait!” She reached down to wrench up the bedcover and comforter while he groaned, straining to hold her in the awkward position. But then the covers were stripped and Megan was down and he fell on top of her, then rose slightly, drawing her hands over her head, kissing her again, deeply, with a slow and then frenzied passion, then sliding the length of himself against her, his body creating an absurdly erotic friction, the brush of his lips intent and intimate, over her nipples, the delicate sides of her breasts, sloping over her ribs, caressing her navel, falling below, bringing liquid fire to the flesh laid so vulnerable by his every stroke in the cascade of the shower. She surged up, drew him to her, wrapped herself around him, and lost all sense of anything but the depth of her hunger and passion for him, ultimately him, Finn, the feel of the man, so unique, unique to her, with all the things she loved. The length of his fingers, the scent, so subtle, yet so there, underlying everything. She was aware, incredibly aware, of every movement, every stroke of friction, making her rise to a greater fever, a frenzy, desperate, yearning. Aware . . . and not aware, because she had felt quite so much as if she flew, entered a realm not of the earth, soaring, wanting, hungering, reaching . . . a passion so great . . . a love so strong . . .

She escalated to a climax so volatile that she thought the house, the ground, the granite of New England shook. She clung to him, soaked, hair glued to her face, limbs trembling, heart racing. He held her in return.

Her heart finally slowed. New England became granite once again.

He smoothed the damp hair from her forehead, cradling her against him. Comfort settled in. Security. The sense of being loved, and cherished.

And then . . .

The fear.

She was too blissful. Too glad to be where she was, far too ready to feel that she was his wife, that everything she had felt, fear . . . no,
terror
... had been imagined. Power of suggestion. This was Finn, the man she had fallen head over heels in love with the moment she had met him, with whom she had lived, loved with a fever so many times, fought with, made up with . . . adored. Her husband. Her life.

And yet . . .

Those feelings could far too easily change. Had changed . . . there had been this morning, the feel of his fingers around her throat, holding her, the look in his eyes...

Don't fall asleep!
she thought.
Please, God, don't let him fall asleep, don't ruin this!

Finn rose. “I've got to get back to Huntington House,” he said. He strode across the room, naked and lithe, shutting himself into the bathroom for a quick rinse-off shower.

Just as he had known to follow before, she knew not to follow now.

A moment later he was out and dressing quickly by the light of the fire, taut, bronzed, muscled flesh and lean sinew quickly covered.

He stopped back by the bed, smoothing her hair, kissing her forehead. “I love you,” he said.

And then he was gone.

A moment later, Megan followed, hearing his car as he revved it, then sliding the bolt to make sure that the house was securely locked.

 

 

Andy Markharm woke in a cold sweat. One more night.

Then it would be All Hallow's Eve.

His small apartment was in a rooming house right in town. He seldom used the old Ford pickup that was so far gone was almost an antique, just like him. But in the last few days, he had begun to feel a greater fever than ever.

There was no traffic in the night. In a matter of minutes, he had come to the cemetery. He parked the old pickup. He'd brought a lantern, but that night, he didn't need it. The moon appeared almost as full as it would in two night's time. Despite the heavy green canopy of the trees, there was illumination.

The ground was more heavily trodden now than it had been just a few days before. He could see it, as he could see the remnants of candles, recently lit.

There were no cars where he had parked, yet as he pulled his pickax from the back of the old Ford, he felt a chill. There were sounds on the air, of course. Leaves rustling in the breeze that swept through such a copse. Just leaves, whispering . . .

He made his way through high grasses, over the broken stones set by the families of even those who had gone to unhallowed graves. The leaves seemed to be sighing, whispering, and then . . . it was as if there was music. Something that touched the air.

Like the blue fog.

Low, swirling, following him, there, wherever he walked, wherever he turned.

The rustle of the trees seemed to call his name.

With greater determination, he moved on.

As he walked, he felt his sense of purpose become a sense of power. Yes, he knew, and by his knowledge, he would be the one to rise!

He fell to his knees before the broken marble statue.

The sound rose . . .

He staggered to his feet, raising his ax, aware, suddenly, of the movement behind him.

He turned, roaring out. He looked into the sea of the night, and all that moved within it.

He raised the pickax . . .

And again, his cry rose in the night, but the chanting of leaves and breeze rose with the sound, and in time, all was silent.

 

 

It was late when Finn returned to Huntington House, nearly four in the morning. In the time he'd spent at Martha's, he'd forgotten his vow to the children. Understandably.

He hadn't felt so good since . . .

Before they'd come
here
, that was definite.

But as he slipped quietly through the front door, he cursed himself for his negligence, despite his deep sense of euphoria and satiation.

He hadn't needed to return earlier.

He was worried about more than checking out what the kids had seen.

Fallon was a scary man. Certainly not in the physical sense. He just seemed somewhat like a lurking crow. And if he did think that he was cooking up some kind of spells, then he wasn't all there. Then there was Susanna—the Wicked Witch of the West. She had just reminded Finn of an old-fashioned and very dour old maid.

She could not be accused of being overly pleasant.

The house seemed totally quiet when Finn came in and closed and locked the main door behind him. He stood still for a minute, listening, but the house was silent. After a moment, he walked through the foyer, into the dining area, and then to the parlor, or sitting room, beyond. The place was nothing more than a ghost town, empty and eerie in the silence and shadows caused by the numerous little night-lights.

He walked through to the kitchen, but it, too, was empty, with no sign of any manner of activity going on. Copper pots and utensils hung from the walls. The gleaming stainless steel sink and counter area—a concession to the modern day—shone in the dim night light. The great hearth, a fixture of the original seventeenth-century house, held a low burning fire, nothing but ash and embers and a bit of glowing red here and there.

Within the next few hours, the fire would be stoked, because apparently, a fire burning in the kitchen—where guests seldom dared wander—was supposed to be part of the hospitality of Huntington House.

Soon, Susanna would be up, getting breakfast ready for her early risers.

Finn walked on through to the side of the house with his lone guest room. He let himself in with his key, closed and locked his own door behind him, and held still for a moment, wondering what was wrong. Then he saw that one of the fragile curtains drifted slightly and he walked over to the balcony area, pulling the curtain away. The doors here were wide open.

A chill of unease shot through him. He stood there for a long moment, remembering that he had closed and locked the balcony entrance. No great mystery. The day maid had certainly come in and opened the doors to air out the room. She had forgotten to close them. Careless on her part, but since it hadn't appeared that anything had been stolen, certainly no big deal. He hesitated, then closed and locked the doors, and, just to be certain, began a complete search of the bedroom and bath. All was empty, even though he grit his teeth with a mixture of dread and anticipation as he wrenched back the shower curtain. Nothing.

He walked back out and assured himself that the balcony doors were secured, then dropped the borrowed cape he was wearing and sat to pull off his boots. He dropped his socks as well, and had started on the buttons to his shirt when he was suddenly certain that he heard a noise from the main house. He hesitated, then rose, barefoot and silent.

He crept back through the house, glancing at his watch as he did so. Four-thirty. Too early for Susanna to be up.

But as he traveled back to the main area of the house, he again heard noise. A soft sound, like a cabinet being carefully closed.

He padded through the dining room, and held still there for several seconds, just listening.

There were voices coming from the kitchen. So soft they might have been imagined—except that they weren't.

He steeled himself, gritted his teeth, and walked toward the kitchen. The heavy old wooden door between the kitchen and dining room—which had stood fully open before, was closed now. Finn set his hand on the antique knob and twisted quietly. To his great relief, though old, it was oiled, and did not screech as he slowly turned it to fully open, and pressed carefully upon the door, bringing it just slightly ajar so that he could observe what went on within.

The great hearth had been stoked back to life; the dark embers were fiery red, and laps of flame were reaching up to touch the huge kettle that was set on a cast iron swing bar.

Susanna was not present.

But old Fallon was certainly there.

He was on his scrawny knees before the huge kettle and burning fire, chanting to himself as he cast powders or herbs into the kettle from a carved wooden casket in his hands. His words were low, very low, but he cast some of the casket's contents into the kettle as he moved his lips, then spoke the same words louder, casting some of the powder onto the fire.

Flames leaped and embers scattered. Fallon kept chanting.

Finn felt his jaw lock so tightly he was afraid he'd soon snap bone. He pushed open the door fully and stepped into the kitchen, angry, and also uneasy, and more irritated with both himself and Fallon that he could be made uneasy by such a display of ridiculousness.

“What the hell are you doing?” Finn demanded.

Startled, Fallon cried out, dropped the casket, and jumped to his feet, staring at Finn with alarm.

Then his look of fear turned to one of anger and resentment.

“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded huffily of Finn. He pointed a bony finger at him. “Ruining everything you fool! Ruining everything.”

“Mr. Fallon, it's obvious you're concocting some kind of evil spell—”

“Don't be ridiculous, you young fool!” Fallon said with such energy that Finn was almost taken aback.

“You're not concocting some kind of spell?” Finn said accusingly.

“Of course, I am. I'm a Wiccan, young man, which is none of your business. And if you listened to anything said, you'd know that Wiccans do no evil—they can't. Evil comes back threefold on a Wiccan, and therefore, true Wiccans would never do evil!”

Finn was amazed to see how sincere and passionately earnest Fallon seemed to be.

“Mind if I ask just what you are doing then?” Finn said.

“Yes, I mind, it's none of your business,” Fallon said. But he stared at Finn and shook his head. “A spell, yes. For protection.”

“Protection?”

“From the dead, and those not of this earth,” Fallon said. Turning away, he hunched back to his knees. He cast something else—green in color, an herb of some sort—into the cauldron. And as he chanted this time, Finn heard the words.

Finn wasn't sure if he imagined it or not, but it seemed that sparks rose from the simmering cauldron, or from the fire beneath. Fallon kept his head down as if he remained in humble prayer. Then he stood, staring fiercely at Finn.

“If you had a whit of sense in your head, young man, you'd be on your knees.”

“Mr. Fallon, I'm not a Wiccan.”

“Not a Wiccan, eh? And that would keep you from prayer? I'd thought at first that maybe you had something extra, something special about you. That you were strong, strong enough to keep evil from rising. But you're a fool. Not a Wiccan! So get yourself into one of the churches, or temples. There are but two powers in this world, and you may call the great and the good by the name of a supreme being, a god of all gods, or you may look for peace and kindness in a slew of gentle entities. Evil is the master of the other side, and by what name you call evil, it matters not, it's all the same. Can't you feel it coming, boy? Haven't you seen the fog? Don't mock me, just be glad that I create potions and prayer, and keep this house from evil!”

The old man had to be really crazy. He believed so fully in what he was saying.

Except that . . .

Finn had seen the fog.
Fog
. A weather phenomena. It came and went so strangely.
This was New England, if you don't like the weather, wait a few hours, it will change.

No, even in New England, fog did not come and go so quickly.

He was suddenly tempted to ask Fallon if he'd heard about a demon called Bac-Dal.

He held his tongue. Here was old Fallon, grumpy, Ichabod-like, stern and straight, like the Pilgrims of old, casting herbs into a cauldron.

He didn't dare trust Fallon.

“Certainly, Mr. Fallon. If your intent is to keep the property safe, then, well, more power to you, sir.”

Fallon pointed a long bony finger at Finn. “Don't mock any of it, boy. Like I said, if you've got any sense at all, get yourself into a house of prayer. Whatever kind.” He shook his head. “I'll not be seeing you after All Hallow's Eve. And that's a fact.”

“You're right. We're taking off first thing the following morning.”

“Aye-uh, boy. One way or the other. You'll be gone. Now, leave me be. I run this place. And it's not for the guests to be nosy and invading the kitchen late at night. So . . .”

“Good night, Mr. Fallon,” Finn said.

He turned and left the kitchen, walking back through the silent house to his wing, and his room. Once there, he very carefully ascertained that he was locked in.

Fallon's actions disturbed him.

Oddly enough, it was because he believed Fallon. The old man's chants and spells seemed entirely benign, as if he did feel the need to protect the house.

He also wanted to talk to the fellow, question him.

No matter how sincere he had seemed, and how innocent the words of his chant, Fallon wasn't to be trusted. No one here could be trusted.

He was exhausted; it was ridiculously late—or early—whichever way you looked at it. He desperately wanted to sleep; he was afraid to sleep. Megan had left him, but in all good sense, he had to be glad.

Because he didn't know what he did in the dead of the night.

He punched his pillow, determined on getting some sleep.

 

 

Megan should have slept well. She was happy when Finn left, as if she remained enwrapped with his warmth. He seemed to understand everything. He loved her.

But she tossed and turned for a long while, and when at last she slept, the dreams plagued her again.

It began with the sound of her name. Soft, echoed in her mind, whispered compellingly, erotically. Like a siren's call, that whisper-breeze of her name could not be ignored. She felt as if she drifted in response, following.

She returned to the forest, and the unhallowed cemetery.

Old Andy wasn't there to tell her tales this time.

The trees created a dark green canopy, and the place smelled richly of vegetation and the earth. She felt the pads of her feet touch down on damp ground and tufts of grass. She knew she was walking to the strange marble statue she had assumed to be an angel, but of course, there, in the unhallowed graveyard, was a demon instead.

She walked through the fog, hearing her name being called. There were whispers all around her. She was afraid to go forward, and yet compelled to do so.

She knew she was being drawn to the statue. There were little markers in the ground, for others who had lived long ago. Spirits seemed to rise like wraiths, or a part of the fog, as she moved. They whispered, sang . . . or chanted. Wisps of the fog, or the spirits, swept around her, and like the voices, urged her on.

She thought she saw faces, and she should know them, but she couldn't see clearly.

“So perfect,” someone whispered.

“The voice of a nightingale.”

Not that perfect!
she wanted to cry. She wanted to tell them that they didn't want her, that the demon Bac-Dal didn't want her.

“In death, so there is life,” someone else whispered.

“The time has yet to come,” came another murmur.

“But He would touch, He would see, He would know!”

A figure stood before her. She wanted to turn and run, and she managed to stop walking. Megan argued with herself that she was a creature of free will, that she could fight the force that seemed to be carrying her forward. And so she could.

She looked back.

Yet . . . it seemed as if she still looked forward.

A figure, like the first, was behind her. Both wore capes with cowls, dark and swirling as if there were a great wind, but there couldn't be, because the fog didn't lift, it drifted and swirled around her feet.

She didn't know whether to run ahead, or escape, and run in the other direction. She heard her name being called again. Softly, tauntingly. She didn't realize she had begun to move again, but her steps were bringing her closer to the entity before her. Through the blue fog, she saw a blaze of red. Pinpoints . . . eyes. She couldn't really see, but she had a sense of something fetid, rotting, dead. Instinct warned her that she must get away. She was not being held, and yet, it was as if there were arms about her, luring her ever forward. Ivory fingers seemed to dance in the blue light, beckoning.

Then . . .

The creature. The creature she had seen at the museum. The face of a man, but with horns at the temples, a sharp, jutting chin, evil, burning eyes.

With a smile, he whispered her name, intimately, as if it were a caress.

She turned at last, running; there was the figure behind her. She must reach it, because help had to come from behind . . .

She ran and ran and ran, and came to a dead stop.

And there he was once again. The figure that had seemed to be behind her . . . but was not. It was the horned creature, who had been before her.

She screamed, seeing him stretch open the great wings of the cloak he wore, ready to entrap her within the folds.

She screamed, breaking free.

“No . . . I ran away, away. I ran away. To the other!”

The creature began to laugh and laugh. And again the voice came, like an evil caress.

She awoke with a violent start.

Daylight flooded the room. She could hear birds chirping.

She was drenched in sweat. She swung her legs off the bed, eager to reach the bathroom and douse her face in cold water. The room was chilly and she fumbled around with her toes to find her slippers.

She looked down.

Little pieces of dirt dusted the carpet. She frowned, then lifted her feet. The soles were encrusted with earth and bits of grass.

Impossible . . .

She pressed her face between her hands, swallowing back a scream. She leaped up and headed immediately into the shower, furiously scrubbing her feet, because, once the dirt was gone, the impossible image was gone as well. She swore, for the water, whirling into the drain, carried a touch of streaky red . . .

Blood.

She'd scratched the bottom of her foot. She couldn't recall the pain, or the blood on the sole when she had seen the dirt, but then . . . her feet had been dirty. Now, they were bleeding as well, so it seemed.

Had she walked outside in her sleep? Lord, these nightmares were truly getting to be too much. So real . . .

She should have called Martha—told her about the dream, and her feet.

Martha! She wanted to see Martha right away, and feel her practical sense of sanity and reason!

Megan finished her shower, dressed quickly, and raced out of the room. “Aunt Martha!”

There was no answer, just a note on the kitchen counter. “Out shopping, dear—make yourself at home!”

So, she'd have to wait, but she would talk to Aunt Martha, and there would be sense made of it. Maybe she had taken a few steps out when Finn had left last night . . . maybe they had dragged the dirt when they had come in, and she had picked it up from the carpet onto her bare feet then. Certainly, that was the logical explanation.

Finn.

She wished he was with her. She should tell him . . .

Maybe not. He'd been insisting it was her, that she had dreamed things, that he had not. But that wasn't true. He was having dreams as well. Behaving far too strangely.

Better to talk to Martha. To someone with a little distance. She couldn't tell Finn about this, and she certainly couldn't tell Morwenna, who would read far too much into it.

She tried to tell herself again that they must have tracked dirt in onto the carpet.

Ridiculous, and she knew it.

There had been too much dirt for such a simple explanation! Whether she wanted to believe it or not, that was the truth!

But then again—she hadn't been walking in the woods in the wee hours of the morning, that was for certain!

Maybe, she forced herself to admit, she had been sleepwalking, and actually had gone outside, and then walked back in and crawled into bed. She couldn't have wandered all around town, and made it out to the cemetery!

And yet . . .

The vivid memory of the dream was uncannily real.

 

 

Despite the late hour he went to sleep, Finn was up and in the dining room by ten. Susanna gave him something of an evil glare, since he had made it just in the nick of time for her to cook, according to the hours listed on the Huntington House brochure. He was pleased to see that though there were no adults remaining in the room, Joshua and Ellie were still at the table, apparently waiting for their parents to go back to their rooms for their coats.

When Susanna was out of the room, he leaned forward and whispered to the children. “Mr. Fallon is a Wiccan. He told me that he was preparing a protection potion for the house.”

Ellie sat back in her chair, gaping.

Joshua shook his head doubtfully. “Do you think he was telling you the truth?”

“Well, I heard him chanting one of his spells, and it sounded like a good one to me.”

“How come he looks so creepy, then?” Ellie asked.

“I don't know, I guess he's just a creepy-looking guy,” Finn said.

“I still think we should keep an eye on him,” Joshua said.

“Well, we can do that. And hey, you two, you stick with your folks around here, no matter what. People can be weird, you know. Most people are great, but you know, there are those who would hurt others. And Halloween can be fun, or a little kooky, too, right?”