The Awakening (37 page)

“Do what?”

She sighed with impatience and dipped her own forefinger into the holy water and quickly drew a cross on his forehead.

He staggered back, stunned by the burst of pain that threatened to split his skull. Megan was unaware. She was already walking down the aisle to the pews directly before the altar. Finn stumbled forward, catching hold of the backrest of the nearest pew, trying to steady himself. Black waved before him. He had to grasp each pew to move forward, to reach Megan.

Finally, he came to the pew directly behind the one where she knelt. He nearly fell into it, then down to his knees. He didn't bow his head so much in prayer as he did because he could no longer hold it upright.

“Are you all right?”

Startled, Finn looked up. He hadn't heard the priest arrive. The man was probably about forty, well groomed, his priestly attire immaculate. He had concern on his face.

“Halloween,” the priest said wryly. “It gets crazy out there. Um. We create our demons, huh?”

“Yes.”

“There are services here tonight and tomorrow and the next day—All Saints' Day, you know.”

Megan turned. “Father, could you bless us both?” “No,” Finn heard himself mutter.

The priest was studying him strangely. Almost as if he wished that he could back away, but would not do so.

“Father?” Megan said.

“Are you Catholic?” he asked her.

“Yes.”

“And you?” he said to Finn.

The pain was pressing horribly into his temples again.
I'm whatever she wants me to be!
he wanted to say.
Catholic? Am I anything? Have I ever really believed in anything?

“Please, Father,” Megan said.

He kept staring at Finn, then at last turned to Megan. “It would be best if you came to the service tonight.”

“We can't. We're working.”

“Ah. Tomorrow, then.”

“Please. Before tomorrow.”

“Come to the altar, then.”

They both knelt before him. He set his hands upon their heads, and said the words of blessing.

Finn bowed his head, gritting his teeth, fighting the explosion of pain that erupted within his head.

The priest drew his hand back quickly when he was done, and seemed to favor it, as if his palm had been burned. He spoke to Megan. “Go with God, child.”

Finn, desperate now to reach the cool air outside, was already hurrying down the aisle. He was vaguely aware that the priest told Megan, “I'm Father Mario Brindisi. Please, if you can, come to Mass tomorrow. And . . . if you need me, call me.”

Finn burst out onto the street.

As he did so, the pain cleared from his head. Megan joined him. “What was the matter with you in there? You were so rude!”

“Head . . . headache,” he said.

“We'll buy some aspirin, then!” she said angrily.

He gripped the rail going down the concrete steps back to the street, and paused. “No . . . no, it's all right now. We've got to get moving, if we're going to make work on time tonight.”

Megan was still staring at him. He forced a smile and grabbed her hand, and hurried down the walk. The staggering pain was gone, but . . .

He could still feel a burning. In the shape of a cross, right on his forehead.
Tell her, tell Megan!
he thought.

No, he couldn't have her running from him. Not now. Not when he was convinced that she was in so much danger.

Again, he forced the smile, winding his fingers more tightly around hers. “Happier?” he asked her.

“Yes,” she said simply.

Smiling as well, she kept pace with him and they hurried back to the car.

He looked around, certain that they were still being followed. But he didn't see the stranger who had been watching him.

He was still certain that the man was near.

 

 

Lucian spent the late afternoon roaming the streets of Salem as any tourist might. With little time left, he stopped by the newest museum.

He stared at the building a long time, then walked toward the ticket counter. The woman on duty was dark haired. He could see the many piercings in her ears and face, devoid now of jewelry.

Gayle Sawyer.

As he reached the counter, she opened her mouth to speak, then fell silent, staring at him. He smiled.

“One, please.”

She nodded.

He looked at her a very long time before entering the museum.

Prowling the halls, he came up a seventeenth-century oil. It was titled,
Signing the Devil's Book.

In the painting, three women clad in nothing but transparent strips of a gauzy, floating material cavorted about a fire in the woods, surrounded by horned, tailed creatures. In the background an imp or satyr stood, holding a plume and an open book. A plaque by the side of the painting described the belief that witches made pacts with the devil, and that he or his minions would seal the bargain with carnal activities, often in the woods at midnight.

He moved down the halls. The museum was well done. Fact was presented well, and the viewer could be transported back to somewhat comprehend a different mindset. One large plaque stated that there were cases in which—though there may have been no devil summoned, no soul sold—the apprehended man or woman might have been guilty according to the laws of the day. The very practice of witchcraft in any form was a capital crime, and therefore, sticking pins in dolls, burning herbs while cursing, or any such other such activity was clearly illegal.

He moved on. There were scenes of mass burnings in Europe, and a diorama of the events that had occurred at Salem.

As he stood studying the tableaus, he listened as a man gave a lecture to a group of tourists, recounting the possible causes of the hysteria. The man giving the lecture was dressed somewhat casually in dockers, a tailored denim shirt, and a tie. He wore a name tag that identified as Mike Smith, Curator.

Lucian fell in with the crowd. As the man continued to speak, his eyes fell upon Lucian. He drew them away, but found himself looking at him again.

And again.

Once, he lost his train of thought, and had to be prompted by one of the children on the tour.

Still, he was an excellent historian, and his speech was good, drawing a round of applause when he had finished. Several people stopped to talk to him, many with questions about details regarding the events.

Lucian waited patiently.

At last, they stood alone in the room. The man at last shook his head and smiled ruefully. “Do I know you?”

“No,” Lucian said, stepping forward and offering the fellow a handshake, which was absently accepted. “I don't think we've ever met. My name is Lucian DeVeau. Thanks for an excellent education on the witch trials.”

“You're welcome. Glad you enjoyed it.” He was still frowning, as if he
should
recognize Lucian.

“Actually, I think we have mutual friends,” Lucian said.

“Oh?”

“Finn and Megan Douglas. I'm from New Orleans.”

“No Southern accent,” Mike Smith commented.

“I've lived all over.”

“I see.”

“Well, thanks again. Great speech.”

“Sure. Thank you.” He stared at Lucian, then seemed to recover himself. “You should come again. We've got other exhibits.” He shrugged. “Halloween week, all anyone wants to do is rehash the witch thing, but our maritime exhibits are great, too. We've halls on early settlements, and many other areas that are well worth a look.”

“I'm sure. I'd love to come back, since it seems to be closing time now.”

“Yes, I'm afraid it is.”

“Thanks again,” Lucian said, turning to leave.

“Hey!” Mike called after him.

Lucian turned back.

“I take it you'll be going to watch Finn and Megan play tonight?”

“Probably. I won't be around the entire night, but if you're going, I'll see you there.”

“Great.”

Smith sounded anything but enthused. Lucian exited the museum. The girl, Gayle Sawyer, was still at the counter. She stared at him as he passed. Her mouth worked, but no sound came.

Smiling, he waved and walked on.

Megan absently answered her cell phone, holding it to ear as she buttoned her blouse.

“Hello?”

“Megan. It's Mike.”

“Mike, hey, how are you?”

“Good, good, thanks.”

“Guess what? I did get to see Andy. My Aunt Martha was there, and she was friends with the nurse, and we got in for a moment.”

“How's the old codger doing?”

Megan hesitated, then decided that she just wasn't saying anything more about her belief that Andy had spoken, not even to Mike.

“Holding his own,” she said.

“Good, good,” Mike told her. Apparently, he was preoccupied. “Megan, are you alone?”

“Kind of,” she said, glancing toward the closed door to her room. “Finn is in the parlor, talking to Aunt Martha. Why?”

“Well, I don't think that your husband likes me very much, that's all. And I don't want him to think that I'm interfering. I don't understand this myself—I just felt that I had to call you.”

“Why? What is it?”

“Um, listen, this is going to sound really strange, but . . . I just met someone who said that he was a friend of yours from back home, and . . . I don't know. I don't even know how to say this. You know me—I don't believe in any kind of weird crap—but . . . the guy gave me the creeps.”

“Lucian,” she murmured. “You must have met Lucian.”

“Megan, like I said, this is just the strangest thing, but I had to call you. I don't mean to offend you, or insult you or anyone who really is a good friend, but . . . well, especially in your current state of mind. Watch out for this guy. There's something that's not quite right about him. I sound like an idiot, huh? Anyway, I'm just calling because I'm your friend.”

“Thanks, Mike. He is—” she hesitated briefly. “He is a friend. But thanks for the warning. And I'm watching out all the way around, okay?”

“Sure. I'll be there tonight. I'm going to watch out for you, too.”

“Great. Thanks.

 

 

Darkness fell early in the fall in New England. Despite the nearly full moon and the illumination pouring from street lamps and shops, it seemed as if it had deeply penetrated Salem that night.

When Lucian returned to the bookshop that night, Eddie was behind the counter with a gaggle of customers waiting to pay for their purchases. Despite that, he was yawning. He was probably tired as all hell, Lucian figured, considering the fact that during the week preceding Halloween, the shop opened early, closed late, and was probably busy throughout the hours.

Eddie, however, saw him, grinned, and inclined his head toward the back.

Lucian found Jade still pouring over volumes and journals.

She lifted her head as he entered, grimaced, and stretched. She, too, yawned.

“I don't think that I can read anymore,” she told him.

“Come across anything you need me for?” he asked.

She gazed at him dryly. “No—everything was in English. Kind of English, anyway. It's just that the few people who were writing just didn't comprehend the proper use of pronouns. And they used different pronouns. I found another reference to a Douglas, though. And there are several references to a Merrill—which was Megan's maiden name, right? Merrill is easy to pinpoint. She had an ancestor who was an outspoken opponent to the proceedings, but one who was so involved with the church at the time that he apparently escaped persecution, despite his opinions. Heck, that could have been witchcraft right there, the way accusations were flying around here back then. It's easy to presume that this same man, Jacob Merrill, was with the group who went out that long ago Halloween night and took part with the mob that killed Caleb Thorne. So, if there is a cult now attempting to bring back Bac-Dal once again, Megan would certainly make what they consider to be a perfect offering or sacrifice for their demon. She really is in danger.”

“Maybe they should leave,” Lucian commented. “And maybe you should go with them.”

“Someone is going to die on Halloween night, if nothing is done,” Jade said softly.

He shook his head. “I'll stay.”

She lifted her chin. “You're dealing with something new here yourself, and you know it.”

He shrugged. Taking a seat on the corner of the desk he told her, “What bothers me is the passage about bringing Bac-Dal back. The three things needed—the hair, the personal possession, and the blood. Why would those be needed before the rite—if the rite was just to be a sacrifice?”