The Pagan Stone (4 page)

“I only want you safe.”

“You want me dead. If not dead, at least gone. I’m not going anywhere, and you’re not my mother. So take off the dress, asshole.”

“Mommy’s going to have to spank you for that.” With a wave of its hand the demon blasted the air. The force knocked Gage off his feet. Even as he gained them, it was changing.

Its eyes went red, and shed bloody tears as it howled with laughter. “Bad boy! I’m going to punish you the most of all the bad boys. Flay your skin, drink your blood, gnaw your bones.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” In a show of indifference, Gage hooked his thumbs in his front pockets.

The face of his mother melted away into something hideous, something inhuman. The body bunched, the back humping, the hands and feet curling into claws, then sharpening into hooves. Then the mass of it twisted into a writhing formless black that choked the air with the stink of death.

The wind blew the stench into Gage’s face, but he planted his feet and stood. He had no weapon, and after a quick calculation, decided to play the odds. He bunched his hand into a fist and punched it into the fetid black.

The burn was amazing. He wrenched his hand free, jabbed again. Pain stole his breath, so he sucked more of it and struck out a third time. It screamed. Fury, Gage thought. He recognized pure fury even when he was flying over his mother’s gravestone and slamming hard to the ground.

It stood over him now, stood atop the gravestone in the form of the young boy it so often selected. “You’ll beg for death,” it told him. “Long after I’ve torn the others to bits, you’ll beg. I will dine on you for years.”

Gage swiped blood from his mouth, smiled, though a wave of nausea rolled over him. “Wanna bet?”

The thing that looked like a boy dug its hands into its own chest, ripped it open. On a mad roll of laughter, it vanished.

“Fucking crazy. The son of a bitch is fucking crazy.” He sat a moment, catching his breath, studying his hand. It was raw and red with blisters, pus seeping from them and the shallow punctures he thought came from fangs. He could feel it healing as the pain was awesome. Cradling his arm, he got to his feet and swayed as dizziness rocked the ground under him.

He had to sit again, his back braced on the gravestone of his mother and sister, until the sickness passed, until the world steadied. In the pretty May sunshine, with only the dead for company, he breathed his way through the pain, focused his mind on the healing. As the burning eased, his system settled again.

Rising, he took one last look at the grave, then turned and walked away.

HE STOPPED BY THE FLOWER POT AND BOUGHT A splashy spring arrangement that had Amy, who worked the counter, speculating on who the lucky lady might be. He left her speculating. It was too hard to explain—and none of Amy’s damn business—that he had flowers and mothers on the brain.

That was one of the problems—and in his mind they were legion—with small towns. Everybody wanted to know everything about everyone else, or pretend they did. When they didn’t know enough, they were just as likely to make it up and call it God’s truth.

There were plenty in the Hollow who’d whispered and muttered about him. Poor kid, bad boy, troublemaker, bad news, good riddance. Maybe it had stung off and on, and maybe that sting had gone deep when he’d been younger. But he’d had what he supposed he could call a balm. He’d had Cal and Fox. He’d had family.

His mother was gone, and had been for a very long time. That, he thought as he drove out of town, had certainly come home to him today. So he’d make a gesture long overdue.

Of course, she might not be home. Frannie Hawkins didn’t hold a job outside the home—exactly. Her work
was
her home, and the various committees she chaired or participated in. If there was a committee, society, or organization in the Hollow, it was likely Cal’s mother had a hand in it.

He pulled up behind the clean and tidy car he recognized as hers in the drive of the tidy house where the Hawkinses had lived as long as Gage remembered. And the tidy woman who ran the house knelt on a square of bright pink foam as she planted—maybe they were petunias—at the edges of her already impressive front-yard garden.

Her hair was a glossy blond under a wide-brimmed straw hat, and her hands were covered with sturdy brown gloves. He imagined she thought of her navy pants and pink T-shirt as work clothes. She turned her head at the sound of the car, then her pretty face lit with a smile when she saw Gage.

That was, always had been, a small wonder to him. That she smiled, and meant it, when she saw him. She tugged off her gloves as she rose. “What a nice surprise. And look at those flowers! They’re almost as gorgeous as you are.”

“Coals to Newcastle.”

She touched his cheek, then took the offered flowers. “I can never have too many flowers. Let’s go in so I can put them in water.”

“I interrupted you.”

“Gardening is a constant work in progress. I can’t stop fiddling.”

The house was the same for her, he knew. She upholstered, sewed, painted, made crafty little arrangements. And still the house was always warm, always welcoming, never set and stiff.

She led him back through the kitchen and into the laundry room where, being Frannie Hawkins, she had a sink for the specific purpose of flower arranging. “I’m just going to put these in a holding vase, then get us something cold to drink.”

“I don’t want to hold you up.”

“Gage.” She waved off his protest as she got down a holding vase, filled it. “Go, sit out back on the patio. It’s too pretty to be inside. I’ll bring us out some iced tea.”

He did as she asked, mostly because he needed to figure out exactly what he’d come here to say to her, and how he wanted to say it. She’d been busy in the back garden as well, and with her container pots. All the color, the shapes, the textures seemed somehow magically perfect and completely natural. He knew, because he’d seen her, that she routinely sketched out her plans for her beds, her pots every year.

Unlike Fox’s mother, Frannie Hawkins absolutely never allowed other hands to weed. She trusted no one to tug out bindweed instead of petunias, or whatever. But he’d hauled his share of mulch for her over the years, his share of rocks. He supposed, in some way, that made her magazine-cover gardens his, in a very limited sense.

She stepped out. There was iced tea with sprigs of mint in a fat green glass pitcher, the tall coordinating glasses, and a plate of cookies. They sat at her shaded table, looking out over trim grass and flowing flowers.

“I always remember this backyard,” he told her. “Fox’s farm was like Adventure World, and this was . . .”

She laughed. “What? Cal’s mom’s obsession?”

“No. Somewhere between fairyland and sanctuary.”

Her smile faded into quiet warmth. “What a lovely thing to say.”

He knew what he wanted to say, Gage realized. “You always let me in. I was thinking about things today. You and Fox’s mother, you always let me in. You never once turned me away.”

“Why in the world would I?”

He looked at her then, into her pretty blue eyes. “My father was a drunk, and I was a troublemaker.”

“Gage.”

“If Cal or Fox had trouble, I probably started it.”

“I think they started plenty of their own and dragged you into that.”

“You and Jim, you made sure I had a roof over my head—and you made it clear I could have this one, I could have yours whenever I needed it. You kept my father on at the center, even when you should’ve let him go, and you did that for me. But you never made me feel like it was charity. You and Fox’s parents, you made sure I had clothes, shoes, work so I had spending money. And you never made me feel it was because you felt sorry for that poor Turner kid.”

“I never thought of you, and I don’t imagine Jo Barry ever thought of you, as ‘that poor Turner kid.’ You were, and are, the son of my friend. Your mother was my friend, Gage.”

“I know. Still, you could’ve discouraged Cal from hanging out with me. A lot of people would have. I’m the one who had the idea of going into the woods that night.”

The look she gave him was pure
mother
. “And neither one of them had anything to do with it?”

“Sure, but it was my idea, and you probably figured that out twenty years ago. You still kept the door open for me.”

“None of that was your fault. I don’t know a lot of what you’re doing now, the six of you, what you’ve discovered, what you plan to do. Cal keeps a lot of it from me. I guess I let him. But I know enough to be certain what happened at the Pagan Stone when the three of you were boys wasn’t your fault. And I know without the three of you, and all you’ve done, all you’ve risked, I wouldn’t be sitting here on my patio on this pretty day in May. There’d be no Hawkins Hollow without you, Gage. Without you, Cal, and Fox, this town would be dead.”

She laid a hand over his, squeezed. “I’m so proud of you.”

With her, maybe particularly with her, he couldn’t be less than honest. “I’m not here for the town.”

“I know. For some odd reason, it only makes me prouder that you’re here. You’re a good man, Gage. You are,” she said, with some heat when she saw the denial on his face. “You’ll never convince me otherwise. You’ve been the best of friends to my son. You’ve been the best of brothers. My door isn’t just open to you. This is your home, whenever you need it.”

He needed a moment to settle himself. “I love you.” He looked back into her eyes. “I guess that’s what I came here to say. I can’t remember my mother very well, but I remember you and Jo Barry. I guess that’s made the difference.”

“Oh. That’s done it.” So she cried a little as she got up to wrap her arms around him.

To make it two for two, Gage hit the nursery just outside of town. Figuring Joanne Barry would appreciate a plant even more than flowers, he found a flowering orchid that fit his bill. He drove out to the farm, and when he found no one at home, left the orchid on the big front porch with a note under the pot.

The gestures, the talk with Frannie had smoothed out the rough edges from his visit to the cemetery. He considered heading home and doing some solo research, but reminded himself—for better or worse—he was part of a team. His first choice was Fox, but when he drove by the office, Fox’s truck was no longer parked out front. In court, Gage assumed, or off meeting a client. With Cal at the bowling center, and the old man working there, that avenue simply wasn’t an option.

Gage swung around and made the turn toward the rental house. It appeared it would be ladies’ day for him.

Both Cybil’s and Quinn’s cars were out front. He walked into the house as he had that morning, without knocking. With coffee on his mind, he started back to the kitchen as Cybil appeared at the top of the steps.

“Twice in one day,” she said. “Don’t tell me you’re becoming sociable.”

“I want coffee. Are you and Quinn in the office up there?”

“We are, just a couple of busy demon-researching worker bees.”

“I’ll be up in a minute.”

He caught the sexy arch of her eyebrow before he continued back. Armed with a mug of coffee, he backtracked and headed up the stairs. Quinn sat at the keyboard, her quick fingers tapping. They continued to tap even as she glanced up and sent him her big, bright smile. “Hi. Have a seat.”

“That’s okay.” Instead he wandered over to the town map tacked to the wall, studied all the colored pins ranged over it that represented incidents involving paranormal activity.

The graveyard wasn’t a favorite, he noted, but it got some play. He moved on to the charts and graphs Layla had generated. There, too, he noted the graveyard wasn’t a usual
haunt
, for lack of a better term. Maybe it was too clichéd to meet the Big Evil Bastard’s standards.

Behind him, Cybil sat studying her own laptop screen. “I’ve found a source that claims the bloodstone was originally part of the great Alpha—or Life Stone. It’s interesting.”

“Does it tell us how to use it to kill the fucker?”

Cybil glanced up briefly, spoke to Gage’s back. “No. It does, however, speak of wars between the dark and the light—the Alpha and the Omega, the gods and the demons—depending on which version of the mythology I’ve found. And during these wars, the great stone exploded into many fragments, infused with the blood and the power of the gods. And these fragments were given to the guardians.”

“Hey now.” Quinn stopped typing, swiveled to face Cybil. “That’s hitting close to home. If so, the bloodstone was passed down to Dent as a guardian. And he, in turn, passed it to our guys here in three equal fragments.”

“I’ve got other sources that cite the bloodstone’s use in magickal rituals, its ability to stimulate physical strength and healing.”

“Another bingo,” Quinn said.

“It’s also reputed to aid in regulating the female menstrual cycle.”

Gage turned at that. “Do you mind?”

“Not a bit,” Cybil said easily. “But more to our purposes, the bloodstone is, by all accounts, a healing stone.”

“We already knew that. Cal and Fox and I did our homework on the stone years ago.”

“All of this comes to blood,” Cybil went on. “We know that, too. Blood sacrifice, blood ties, bloodstone. And also fire. Fire’s played a role in many of the incidents, and was a major factor the night Dent and Twisse tangled, and the night you and Cal and Fox first camped at the Pagan Stone. Certainly on the night the six of us fused the stone back into one whole. So think about this—what do you get when you strike stones together? A spark, and sparks lead to fire. The creation of fire was, arguably, the first magickal act of man. Bloodstone—fire and blood. Fire not only burns, it purifies. Maybe it’s fire that will kill it.”

“What, you want to stand around banging stones together and hope a magic spark lands on Twisse?”

“Aren’t you in a cheery mood?”