The Awakening (8 page)

“It's really all right,” Finn said impatiently. “I didn't mean to make a big deal out of it. Meg and I have to get going.”

“Finn, you need a bandage or something!” Megan protested.

Joseph had a hand on Finn's shoulder and was leading him toward the back. “Absolutely, a bandage at the least. I hadn't realized there was anything so sharp on that piece. It's dangerous, and I'm getting it off the display.”

“Look, it's no big deal,” Finn repeated.

“Hey, it could have been a huge deal. Thank God you're family. You won't try to sue us. At least, I don't think you'll try to sue us.”

Finn was growing impatient. “It's a scratch, Joseph. No big deal.”

They'd reached the back. Sara was already at the business desk, the first-aid kit out, a bottle of peroxide in her hand.

Aware that for some reason Finn seemed to have a real aversion to Sara, Megan smiled and reached out to Sara, taking the first aid supplies from her.

She poured peroxide onto a cotton swab and dabbed at Finn's hand. He had gotten a real gouge, right in the palm. Her brow knitted with concern. Finn balled the cotton swab into his hand, his eyes meeting hers. “Meg, it's all right.”

She nodded. “Just let me bandage it.”

She did so. The bloody cotton swab lay on the desk. She reached for it, but Sara was already picking things up.

“You're sure you're all right? You going to be able to play tonight?”

“Oh, yeah. Nothing would stop me,” Finn said.

Megan noticed Sara walking away with the kit and the garbage.

“I'll get that dragon right off the shelf.”

“At least I didn't break it,” Finn joked.

Joseph shrugged, returning a rueful smile. “I may go break the damn thing myself. That could have been a kid. Not that you're not just as important. I don't mean that, but . . .”

“Like I said, no big deal,” Finn insisted. “Meg, we do have to start to make tracks now.”

“Right,” she agreed. She took his good hand, suddenly, within the shop, feeling the need to be as close to him as possible.

“We'll be there tonight!” Morwenna called encouragingly.

“Thanks!” Finn called back.

When they returned to the street, darkness had fallen completely. Only the lights from the shops still open poured out with their false illumination.

“That's so deep,” Megan said with dismay.

“It's all right,” Finn said. But though they had already walked half a block away, he turned back, studying Morwenna's shop with a dark and brooding expression.

“Finn . . . ?”

He turned back to her. He smiled. And yet his look was as a false as the illumination that fell upon the streets.

“It's all right,” he said firmly.

He took her hand, forgetting the wound, and wincing when he squeezed right at the point of his wound. “Sorry,” he said lightly.

“Oh, Finn!”

“Can we just forget it, please!” he said sharply.

But he still had her hand.

And she could feel where his blood was soaking through the bandage.

The hotel was new, and on the outskirts of town. It did, however, have aesthetic appeal, having been built in a colonial style popular in New England. To compete with the many bed and breakfast places in and around town that oozed history, charm, and ghost tales, it offered its own brand of enticing atmosphere. Gardens adorned the surrounding lawns, balconies and porches circled around the structure. The room where they were playing was customarily a supper club, and the setup hadn't been changed much—except to add seasonal enhancement. The room abounded with nylon spiderwebs and little plastic arachnids. A kettle that emitted fog had been set up in one corner, with an attendant who wielded a huge dipper—ready to pour out the spiked and seasonal punch—two bucks a shot. Creatures swung from the ceiling, both grotesque and comical, and all in all, it had been decorated for one great Halloween party.

Meals were served until eleven; snacks and drinks after that hour. They were to begin their first set at nine each night, and play until one, with breaks in between. Finn had been surprised at the thousand a night they had been offered to play, and when setting up the equipment with the help of Adam Spade, the muscle-bound bouncer, he wondered if they'd actually make it back to the establishment.

Spade had a clean-shaven head, and though a few inches shorter than Finn, he had the huge bulk of a body builder. He looked as if he had been born to be a bouncer, but he was a decent enough guy, even if he grunted more than actually talked. He wasn't from the area; he had worked for the hotel chain at another location. To him, Halloween meant money and good business, nothing more.

Sam Tartan, the man who had hired Finn long distance, was Spade's exact opposite—skinny in a suit, lanky as Ichabod Crane. He had a nervous way about him when he greeted Finn and Megan, telling them it was a supper club, but a hotel, and now and then, a late night guest could be young. The lyrics had to be clean.

Finn told him not to worry.

But by the end of their first set—a mixture of their own music and pop covers—he was elated to see that the place was packed. Sam Tartan's pinched face had somewhat broadened with a smile.

Strange crowd.

A number of the local Wiccans—those with a touch of humor, willing to accept the fact that other citizens would arrive in costume—chose to dance the night away in what might be called seasonal dress, but was, however, the same attire they might wear out on any evening.

Black.

It was definitely the color of the night here.

Those who weren't Wiccan and weren't in costume were often in black anyway. Black suits, black cocktail gowns, black flowing gowns, black jeans and sweaters . . . black.

Then there were those who were in full tilt with the commercial fun of dressing up. A Frankenstein monster arrived with his bride—exceptional costumes. Finn personally thought they deserved the prize given out each night for best dress-up attire. Another group that deserved special notice were the four collegians who had come as the members of the rock group Kiss. Great makeup—though he feared that one of the young men just might break an ankle trying to balance on the boots all night.

Some young women had come as the Pink Ladies, straight out of
Grease.

There were three Elvis Presleys.

Some people wore complete face masks, many as horned demons, some as creatures from horror movies. As he played a cover song by rote, Finn found himself thinking that they could be anyone, anyone at all. But then again, that was half the fun of dress up. It was a way to be someone else. You could ask anyone to dance, listen in on any conversation, do all kinds of things and be completely unknown.

He chimed in on the harmony for the old Fleetwood Mac song they were doing, and found himself listening to Megan. She didn't just have a good voice; she had a beautiful voice. An ungodly range, and a quality of sound that was totally beguiling. Nothing was ever forced; elegance and ease simply seemed to pour from her lips. He could carry a tune well enough himself, but his talents were more in arrangements, and he did have a way with a number of instruments, and a true gift for synchronization. In fact, Megan had no concept of just how good she was. In her mind, she was an extension of his creations. He wasn't a fool, nor so egotistical that he would ever purposely allow her such an illusion, but when it came to work, she always respected his opinions.

Her voice faded on a perfect, enticing trail; he played the last bars of the song, and was then glad to close his eyes and take a moment to find pleasure and relief in the sounds of applause that greeted him. Megan, in front of him on the stage area, turned around with a pleased smile as well, then made a motion with her hand to her lips, showing him that she was going for something to drink. He nodded, and when she arched a brow, a clear query that she was asking if he wanted something as well, he nodded. She stepped out into the crowd where people immediately began to come up to her. He lowered his head, smiling to himself, and went over to change a string on his acoustic guitar.

As he sat on the edge of the stage to work, he too, found himself barraged—mostly with monsters. Partyers in full face masks or bizarre makeup. A nice crowd, all telling him how they were enjoying the music, a few asking for more slow numbers, others asking for disco, and some wondering if they knew anything at all from the Big Band era. He assured them all that they'd try to oblige them.

Megan hadn't gotten very far. He glanced through the crowd and noticed that she was stopped beneath one of the oversize decorations—some kind of a gargoyle-type monster with huge, branch-like fingers dipping down as if they were about to attack.

And actually, they had attacked. He could see that Megan had walked too close and the fingers had tangled into her hair, almost as if they were real. He started to rise to come to her assistance as she grimaced and tried to untangle herself.

He didn't need to rush to her rescue; a tall fellow—or a short fellow in a tall costume—stopped. He was almost as grotesque as the creature holding her. He wore a brown robe with a cowl, and beneath, a blood red demon mask with crimson horns, huge hooked nose, and obscenely large lips. He had nimble enough fingers—despite the bloodred and crimson latex gloves he was wearing. He spoke to Megan, who laughed as he disentangled her.

Despite the fact that Megan needed no knight in armor, he was almost compelled to rush forward. A strange sense of jealousy washed over him as if he had been doused with buckets of anger. He clenched his teeth and realized that the guitar string he held had almost gouged through his finger, his grip had gotten so tight. He gave his head a shake, wondering what had possessed him. Megan had walked beneath a prop; she had been entangled. A passerby had politely paused to come to her assistance. And yet . . .

Something was racing through his bloodstream. Anger. Jealousy. But more. The two had been speared by a sudden and ridiculous flash of stark, cold—
fear
. A tremendous unease.

He gave himself a firm mental shake, demanding that he get a grip on himself.

First, he'd been jealous because a fellow Megan had gone to school with had stopped to talk to her. Now, a casual passerby, helping her out of a predicament, was making his temper soar and his libido take over. Ridiculously.

“Finn? Finn Douglas?”

He turned. An older woman with bright blue eyes and a cherubic face was smiling at him. She wasn't in costume, or in a Wiccan's cape. She wasn't even wearing black, but rather a lovely sparkling silver dress and shawl.

“Yes?”

“I'm Martha. Martha Scott. Aunt Martha, to you, young man.”

“Well, hello!” Finn said. “How are you, and what a pleasure to meet you. I know how much you mean to Megan. We were coming by today, but—”

“Yes, I heard. Poor Meg, losing that bracelet. She's not a material girl at all, but she loved that piece when her dad gave it to her. He was great for telling her all the old Irish stories, and it meant a great deal to her. Oh, well, it may turn up! Anyway, I wanted to say a quick hello. I'm afraid this night life is a little too much for an old lady like me. I saw the first set—lovely. Absolutely lovely. But I'm on my way out, so give me a quick kiss on the cheek and we'll get to know one another later.”

Finn stepped forward, delighted by the woman. She was quick spoken, matter-of-fact, and charming with her twinkling blue eyes. She made him forget his discomfort.

He kissed her on the cheek. “We will be by to see you tomorrow.”

“Indeed, you will, young man. You've married our little songbird. You will have to abide the family, and actually, I'm a marvelous storyteller—and an excellent cook. I'll see you for lunch, and that's that.”

“Absolutely. We run a little late here.”

“Two o'clock will be lovely.”

“We'll be there.”

Martha turned and walked away. She was a small woman, trim and compact for her age, and walked as she spoke with a quick, no-nonsense strut.

“Finn!”

He turned. Joseph was calling him from the other direction. He hadn't changed for the party. He was dressed as he had been earlier, long black cape over black trousers and black shirt. He grinned, ready to compliment Finn on the music. “You two are great together—I've got to hand you that. Morwenna always said that Megan was a little nightingale, and that's true, but I've never seen her better. You do something special for one another.”

“Thanks, thanks a lot,” Finn said. Had he misjudged Joseph? Or was he simply so ready to have his ego stroked that he didn't realize he was being nose-butted, tasted, by some kind of a shark?

“I saw that you met Aunt Martha.”

“Yes. Lovely woman.”

Joseph shrugged. “Opinionated as all hell—and not at all averse to expressing those opinions, I guarantee you. But that's okay. I think she means well—but she's hell on me, and Morwenna. We love her anyway.”

“Well, I'm forewarned. I'm going to have lunch with her and be the best I can be—Megan loves her a lot.”

“That's true. Hey, need any help?”

“What? No, I, sorry—all set. I was just replacing a string when I met Martha. We do a couple of things without the sound boxes. Guitar and voice, that's it. Had a bad string. It's all set now.”

“How long do you break?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Why don't you come to our table? Get something to eat.”

“We're already down to about thirteen minutes left, no time, but thanks.”

“Come over to the table, order for Megan and yourself, and your food will be there for your next break.”

Finn hesitated. Joseph's invitation made sense. Meeting Martha had made him feel more comfortable. But now that she was gone, he felt the touch of a lingering sense of unease. He wanted Megan away from all these people.

Stupid. People were being great. They were playing terrifically. It wasn't even an old place, it was brand new. No ghosts. Just ribs, fries, steaks, drinks, dancing, laughing, a good old time. They were making great money. It's what he had wanted. The college student working the register, Corey Vale, wearing a black cape over his white tailored shirt and jacket—the former looking like a garment required for his position at night during the Halloween season—had stopped by to tell him that he'd already sold a number of
boxes
of their CDs. He couldn't have asked for better. Finn thanked him, and told him he was more than welcome to one himself.

He wished to hell he wasn't here.

“Finn, you okay?”

“Yeah, Joseph, I'm fine, just thinking. Sure, I guess your invitation is a great one. Just don't let them put our meals on your check—dinner for the two of us is part of the gig.”

“Don't worry. Morwenna has a talent for barely glancing at a dinner bill as if she couldn't possibly conceive of a server making a mistake. But trust me—she reads it like a hawk in the two seconds she glances it over.”

“Terrific,” Finn murmured. He stood, then hesitated again and tried to sound casual. “Who else is with you two tonight?”

“No one. Just Morwenna and I. We left the place with others tonight. They're closing down and trying to set the shop to rights after so many people have been going through it handling everything. And hey—how's the hand?”

The hand hurt. Like hell. But Finn shrugged. “It'll heal.”

“You playing okay with it? Dumb question—you sound great.”

“It's just the palm. It's all right.”

“I'll buy you a beer—unless alcohol is part of the gig?”

Finn shrugged with a rueful grin. “Nope. You can buy me a beer.”

“We're right over there.”

“Megan's on her way back here with something liquid at the moment. I'll come as soon as she returns.”

“She can't miss us—we're on the way back to the stage.”

“All right, then I'll join you now.”

Finn set down his guitar. He followed Joseph toward the table, then found himself suddenly pulled back as if a giant hand had reached down to grasp him by the hair at the top of his head. He winced, pulling back, then swore softly as he saw that he had been accosted by the same stupid prop that had snagged Megan.

Joseph must have heard his quick, startled curse. He turned back. “Dumb thing—I've seen people caught up by that monster all night. Here, I'll give you a hand.”

Finn didn't want a hand. He was feeling irate again, unreasonably so, and less than gracious. “It's all right, I got it,” he said, curbing his temper, and stupidly ripping out a good handful of hair in his haste to prove that he was free from the thing.