The Awakening (6 page)

“I'll need your palm,” she told him.

“Oh. Sure.” He extended his palm.

“Intriguing lifeline,” she said immediately. He felt a featherlight touch as she ran her forefinger down the length of what must have been his “life” line. He was surely supposed to ask if he could expect a nice long life, but stubbornly, he refused to rise to any such bait.

“Very strange.”

“Really? Does that mean long or short?”

“Disrupted,” she said distractedly.

“That means I'm dying and coming back?” he queried skeptically.

“Not necessarily. It just means . . . that the regular tenor of what we call life may be disrupted.”

“Sorry, I'm not really up on any of this. Now, I'm alive. One day, I'll be dead. There is no in between.”

For a moment, she glanced up at him. The strange blue lamplight seemed to put an unearthly glow in her eyes.

“Really?” she said simply.

She shook her head, bending to study his palm again. “There's a strange jag . . . and then lesser lines. Looks like children . . . but the lines are faded, as if they might just be dreams. There's . . . violence ahead for you. Danger.”

“I'm in danger?”

“Maybe . . . or maybe you're the cause of the danger.”

It was her words, the blue light, the darkness of the tiny space surrounding them, but he suddenly felt as if the temperature dropped by thirty degrees. He was icy cold. And the hand holding his . . . felt like nothing but a skeletal icicle. He was about to speak when Sara suddenly pushed back from the table. Her eyes rolled back, white orbs against her face, then white orbs washed with the uncanny blue light of the lamp.

“You'll hurt her . . . You'll hurt her. You're dangerous. . . Megan . . . Stay away from Megan. You'll hurt your wife. There's evil. It touches you. You are the evil . . .”

At first, he couldn't move. He just sat there, frozen and paralyzed, as the seer went into her weird, trancelike oracle.

Then he tried to move, and couldn't. He just kept hearing her, like a broken record,

“You . . . evil . . . you'll hurt her . . . I see blood . . . smell blood . . . evil . . . Finn Douglas . . . you're the evil . . . it's your touch . . . she'll die . . . evil, evil, evil, evil, evil . . .”

The words seemed to have a grip on him as powerful as the trance that seemed to have taken over the seer. He felt nothing but cold, and a seeping sense of raw terror.

He fought it.

And anger kicked in.

With a rush of fury and determination, he wrenched his hand free and stood.

The woman immediately seemed to snap out of it—maybe because he almost knocked the table over. She jumped up as well. Staring at him, her eyes rolled back into a normal position, she looked as if she was terrified herself.

“That's bullshit!” he swore.

“What?” Sara gave a good impression of being out of it.

“Look, I don't know what you've heard, or what you think, but I love my wife, and I'd shoot myself in the head before I hurt her.”

“I said that you'd hurt your wife?” She sounded truly baffled.

He fought to control his temper. They weren't going to get the best of him.

“You know what you said.”

“I don't, but . . . hey, whatever. Yes . . . of course, whatever I said . . . it's just a tale, a story, what might be . . . bullshit!” she said herself. She shook her head strenuously, looking from where he stood to the two inches to the door, as if she wished desperately that he weren't there, blocking it. “Morwenna should give you a reading, not me . . . not me. I'm sorry. I suck, really, I'm new . . . I . . . Let's go out, shall we?”

He turned, nearly slamming open the door.

The scent of incense wafted over him again. There was an Enya CD playing. There was light, pouring in then from the work area.

The cold fell from his shoulders like a discarded cloak. He felt like a fool. He had been scared in that room, really scared. He was an adult male in his prime, in pretty damned good shape, and he'd been scared by the silly words of a little five-foot-two woman in a blue-lit closet.

He turned to her. “Sorry—but you shouldn't do that to clients. No matter what you might have been told.”

She gazed at him, then carefully stepped a distance past him. “You know, I'm new here. I don't know anything about you, or Megan, except that she and Morwenna are cousins. I told you, I'm sorry. I'm not . . . never mind. You should go to someone else.”

She was irritatingly believable, and he was appearing like a royal idiot. He gritted his teeth, determined to calm down, or else he'd have her thinking the whole Shakespearean thing—
Methinks thou doth protest too much.

“I don't believe in readings,” he said flatly.

“Well, that's good. Good for you.”

The door opposite from them opened then. Megan stepped out, laughing at something her cousin had said.

“Perfect timing!” Morwenna said. She smiled deeply. “So how was it, Finn?”

“Great. Just great,” Finn said. “And thanks, thanks so much. We can see how busy you are, so we'll get out of your way for now. Please, come tonight, we'll get to spend some time together during the breaks. Meg, you ready? I'm starving, too, you know. My palm has had too much of a workout.”

“Absolutely. Morwenna, thanks, and we'll see you all later,” Megan agreed. She looked relieved, her eyes thankful as they met Finn's. Great. He'd earned his wife's approval—for being told that he was evil and going to hurt her.

Kill her . . .

He'd die first. It was bullshit. All bullshit.

He caught Megan's hand, lifted his free one in a good-bye salute, and made his way through the milling customers in the shop to the door.

All the way, despite the warmth of his wife's hand, he felt as if he were touched by a blade of ice. And he knew...

The palm reader was watching him. Watching him all the way out of the store.

And beyond.

Finn held her hand comfortably at her side, and whistled.

“What's wrong?” she asked him.

He glanced down at her as if he were surprised by the question. “Wrong? Nothing.”

She shook her head. “You're too cheerful, you know.”

“Not at all.” He had one of the world's best smiles. Devastating.

“The reading went badly?”

“Megan, you know I don't believe in any of this stuff.”

“Well, not many people do believe completely in a reading of any kind. They're just fun.”

“I had fun. Barrels of it,” Finn said.

He was walking quickly. He was tall and long-legged. She wasn't short herself, but keeping up with him wasn't easy.

“Are we in a hurry?”

“What?”

“You're running.”

“I'm just walking . . . Hey, well, we're not here that long, and there's a lot to see, right?”

“We don't have to see it all,” she said.

He was silent. She had the feeling he was thinking he should see it all now—because he wasn't coming back.

“What's the pirate museum?”

“A cute place. There's some great maritime history. It only takes a few minutes and it is fun.”

“Let's do it.”

The pirate museum took about twenty minutes, and it was fun. A figure that appeared to be that of a mannequin jumped out from behind a barrel, startling Megan into a little yelp, and bringing gales of laughter from a number of the children around them. Megan held on to him, laughing, while they went through the rest of the museum, stopped in the gift shop, and took off back onto the street.

It was still just after noon, but the sky was growing suddenly dark with a cast that hinted of the oncoming winter.

“Want to go by and see the new place where Mike is the curator?” Megan asked Finn.

He hesitated. “Let's save that for tomorrow.”

“Sure.”

“Hungry yet?” Finn asked.

“Getting there,” she said agreeably. He had changed again since they had done the pirate museum. He was more like his usual self. He wasn't holding her hand, his arm was draped warmly around her shoulders.

“Want to see the memorial and the Old Burial Point, and then head down by the water for lunch?” she suggested.

“Sure. Nothing like a graveyard on a dark autumn afternoon.”

“Hey, I love old graveyards; you know that. There are great sayings on the tombstones.”

“True. Let's head that way.”

They did, stopping first at the memorial to those caught up in the hysteria of 1692; walking around the small area, they read the names of those who had been hanged as witches, and then found the stone for Giles Corey, the old man who had been pressed to death. The memorial, dedicated in 1992, the four-hundred-year anniversary of the events, was a peaceful place. Trees shaded the stones, set in their space adjacent to the Old Burial Point.

Then they entered into the graveyard. There would always be something a little eerie about a graveyard that was so old. The trees, casting off their autumn colors, cast down branches that appeared like skeletal fingers. The sky was gray; the breeze was chilly and seemed to encompass the visitor. The day was dark.

Fascinating. Megan loved it.

Finn seemed distant again, despite the fact that he was talking, joking, staying with her . . . touching her with his usual affection. But he seemed to be distracted, as if he were making a deliberate point of behaving normally, curling his fingers around hers, or casting his arm about her shoulders.

“It's really a great old place,” she said softly.

“Absolutely,” he agreed.

“Come on—I'll show you the hot spots,” she teased. She knew the graveyard well, and didn't need to refer to a guide to find the stone for the man who had been a Pilgrim on the Mayflower, or the Hathorne grave—she showed Finn the spelling, telling him that Nathaniel Hawthorne had changed the spelling of his name, probably for a bit of disassociation. There were other intriguing graves, that of a man with a number of his wives buried nearby, and sad stones with skeletons and old funerary art that indicated the graves of babes. They read sayings to one another, and at one point, Megan laughed, and lay down before a stone with a very peculiar design in it, tossing up a handful of autumn leaves. Finn seemed uneasy then, his features taut, as he came to her, pulling her to her feet.

“Megan, you shouldn't lie there like that.”

“Why?” she asked, startled, laughing as she shook fallen leaves from her hair. “What—do you think that I'm going to get sucked into a grave, or something?”

He shook his head. It was exactly what he'd been feeling, even if he hadn't given the thought full form. He wasn't going to laugh and tell her that of course he wouldn't be thinking anything so ridiculous.

“Sky is getting really dark,” he told her. “Does it snow this early here?”

She shrugged. “It can snow. I don't think it will. The darkness too much for you?” she teased.

He glanced at her, a curious look in his eyes. “Scared? This is hallowed ground, right? No suicides or hanged criminals in here, I'm willing to bet.”

She angled her head, studying him. “None that I know about.”

He nodded kind of absently, running his fingers through his dark hair. “Hey, should we head into either of the museums on this street?”

“I don't know about you, but I'm starving now.”

“Lunch, um. Yep, sounds good to me.”

His arm around her, they left the cemetery, heading down to the waterfront. There was a new place just opened and Morwenna had given it a good recommendation. She didn't mention to Finn that her cousin had suggested it.

She was relieved to see that the restaurant had been decorated in a way that emphasized Salem's maritime history. There was charming, shiny wood everywhere. Ships bells and trophy fish adorned the walls. The curtains were beige with soft blue crustaceans abounding upon them. There was enough light in the place to read the menus, and they had been led to a pleasant table with a window that looked out on the water.

“Terrific so far,” Finn said. He leaned closer to her. “Now, if only the food is good!”

“Clam chowder and scrod,” she said.

“Scrod.”

“With butter and bread crumbs. Delicious. You'll love it. It isn't as good anywhere in the world as it is in Salem.”

“You know, New Orleans does offer some darned good seafood.”

“Not scrod the way you can get it in New England.”

He closed his menu. “Scrod it is!”

Their waitress came to the table and took their order. Megan saw that Finn's eyes fell upon the pentagram the young woman was wearing.

He noted Megan watching him and smiled.

“You're sorry you took this gig, aren't you?” she said softly.

He shook his head.

“I wish I believed you.”

He shook his head again, reaching out across the table, curling his fingers over hers. “In all seriousness, I think that Salem is wonderful. The first museum was really well done—it made the history concise, and touched upon the incredible sadness of what happened. The memorial is exceptionally well done, too. It's a great town.”

“Then . . . ?”

She was hoping that he would somehow convince her that nothing was really wrong at all. But he hesitated. “It isn't Salem, honestly. Or New England. I think it's beautiful. Even with autumn passing us by a bit—the colors are still fantastic. I love the old buildings and the shops.”

“And you think Wiccans are silly.”

He sighed. “Megan, you know that I'm not a big believer in organized religion. I believe in God . . . and mostly, being decent to your fellow man. So . . . Wiccans don't do any evil. They believe in an earth goddess—or whatever, I don't have any of it down exactly. There's just something . . . personal going on here that makes me a little uncomfortable. All right—I don't think your folks are happy that we're back together.”

“Of course they are! Mom told me that all young couples have problems, but if they believe in marriage, they work them out. My father told me once that I'd only ever be happy with another musician, because it's a language of its own, and someone who loves music the way I do can only be happy with someone else who speaks the language.”

“Your father really thinks that we both need nine to five jobs.”

She laughed at the wry twist of his lips.

“Fathers the world over tend to worry about the future for their offspring. Honestly, Dad likes you.”

“Except that now, he'll really think that I beat you, or that I'm an abuser.”

He didn't sound angry. Or as though he thought it was her fault. It was as if he had really gotten past the dream. But he was bothered by something.

“What went on in your reading?”

“Ah, the reading.”

She'd hit pay dirt. She could tell by the pulse ticking in the vein at his throat.

“Well,” he said with a shrug. “Seems that Sara thinks I'm really bad for you.”

“Sara doesn't know either of us.”

“Yes, but she's a seer, right?”

He had ordered a draft beer. It arrived as he spoke offhandedly, lifting it to her.

Megan stirred her iced tea, staring down at it. Morwenna's reading had been disturbing as well. She didn't intend to tell Finn about it.

“Finn, I'm really sorry. I guess they can't help but be concerned.”

“Sure. Your family.” He managed another rueful smile. “So . . . just how many people here are you related to?”

She sat back, laughing at the sound of his voice. He was managing to joke. “Well, there's Aunt Martha. I think I've told you about her.”

“The old lady?”

“You'll love her. She's totally straightlaced. Thinks Morwenna is an idiot—or a commercial opportunist. She couldn't come to the wedding because she was ill, remember I told you at the time? But I sent her a copy of the pictures, so she'll feel as if she knows you already.”

“But she's not really your aunt?”

“She was my grandmother's half cousin, or something like that. There's a blood tie, but not a strong one.”

“But she means a lot to you, right?”

“Oh, yes, she's a sweetheart.”

“We'll stop by quickly this afternoon, right before heading for the hotel and the hall to set up.”

“We should do that by six.”

“I don't think we need to start so early,” Finn said. “This is Salem, Halloween week. They're not opening the doors until nine.”

Megan studied her tea glass, a slow smile curling into her lips. He was really trying to make her happy. “Fine. We'll set up by seven, then. How's that?”

“Seven is plenty of time. Thank God for electronic music, huh?”

“Um. Are you sure that's time enough to set up?”

“Sure. The hotel has their own guys on duty to help, should we need some manual labor. But I'm accustomed to carting stuff around. It's not a problem.”

He was trying so hard. Megan was grateful for his effort—and yet worried that being here was such an effort for him. Actually, it had all been going well enough— until last night. Then this morning, he had been determined. And he was still determined, just different since they had left Morwenna's shop.

Thank God he hadn't asked about her Tarot reading, she thought uncomfortably. Morwenna had been seriously shaken by something she had seen. Deeply concerned. And—incredibly hesitantly—she had suggested that Megan shouldn't be with Finn. At least, not here, not now, with Halloween at the end of the week.

The scrod arrived. Finn bit into his and praised it lavishly. “You're right. The best scrod in the entire world.”

She grinned ruefully. “You'd say that no matter what.”

“It's good. Really good.”

She thought she smiled, but she must have looked perplexed because he stared at her, fork in midair, and asked, “What's wrong?”

“With me? Nothing. Nothing at all. I just wish . . . well, I wish that you honestly liked this place.”

He set his fork down, his eyes not wavering from hers. “Megan, I swear to you, I do like this place. Salem is beautiful. People—tourists and locals—are as nice as can be. I think the whole witchcraft thing—at least the way you've explained it to me—is great. A respect for nature. Spells that can only do good. And the pumpkins and decorations are charming. The respect for the tragedies of the past that is shown is tremendous.”

“But . . .?” she prompted.

“But?”

“There's just something more. As if you think that some kind of evil lingers on here.”

“Absolutely not,” he said firmly. “I don't believe that a place can be evil. I do believe that people can be evil. Living ones.”

She frowned. “And you think that I know evil people here?”

“Of course not,” he denied.

She didn't believe him. A little surge of resentment sprang forth in her soul.
Morwenna and Joseph.
He did think that her cousin and Joseph were evil.

Her scrod was suddenly tasteless. She smoothed the paper place mat beneath her plate. “The Wicca that Morwenna practices is based on ancient Celtic paganism. And the celebration of Halloween has nothing to do with evil. Originally, it marked the end of one year, or the death of that year, and the beginning of a new one. It was ‘Samhain,' as the Celts called it. The people believed it was a time of the year when the spirits could visit their loved ones, walk the earth for one last time. They honored their dead; they didn't fear them. Especially in early Ireland, I know, the people believed that the worlds of the living and the dead were separated by something like a veil, and the veil became thin, and could disappear on Halloween night.”