The Pagan Stone (6 page)

“We can’t stop living because . . . Whoa.” Cybil held up a hand, and waited for her morning-fuzzy brain to clear. “In my journalism classes, that’s what we called burying the lead. Big time.”

“Is it crazy?”

“Of course, you never bury the lead.” Since it was there, Cybil reached over and took a slice of bacon. “And yes, of course, marriage is insane—that’s why it’s human.”

“I don’t mean marriage, I mean asking him. It’s so unlike me.”

“I would hope so. I’d hate to think you go around proposing to men all willy-nilly.”

“I always thought when everything was in place, when the time was right, that I’d wait for the man I loved to set the scene, buy the ring, and ask.” Sighing, Layla went back to breaking eggs in the bowl. “
That’s
like me—or was. But I don’t care about everything being in place, and how the hell can anybody know, especially us, if the time’s right? And I don’t want to wait.”

“Go get him, sister.”

“Would you—I mean under the circumstances?”

“You’re damn right I would.”

“I feel . . . Here he comes,” Layla whispered. “Don’t say anything.”

“Damn, I was planning to blurt it all out, then toss a few handfuls of confetti.”

“Morning.” Fox sent Cybil a sleepy smile, then turned a dazzling one on Layla. “You’re cooking.”

“My boss gave me the morning off, so I’ve got time to spare.”

“Your boss should always give you whatever you need.” He reached in the fridge for his usual Coke. And, popping the top, looked from one woman to the other. “What? What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” And thinking of his ability to read thoughts and feelings, Layla pointed her whisk at him. “And no peeking. We were just talking about the boutique, paint chips, that sort of thing. How many eggs do you want?”

“A couple. Three.”

Layla sent Cybil a satisfied smile when Fox leaned in to nuzzle her and cop some bacon behind her back.

 

THE BUILDING THAT WOULD HOUSE LAYLA’S BOUTIQUE had an airy feel to it, good light, good location. Important pluses, to Cybil’s mind. Layla had years of experience in fashion retail, as well as an excellent eye for style—other major advantages. Added to them was her shared ability with Fox to sense thoughts, and that sense of what a customer really wanted would be an enormous advantage.

She wandered the space. She liked the old wood floors, the warm tones of it and the wide trim. “Charming or slick?” Cybil asked.

“Charming, with slick around the edges.” Standing at the front window with Quinn, Layla held one of the paint chips up in the natural light. “I want to respect the space, and jazz it up with little touches. Female, comfortable, but not cozy. Accessible, but not altogether expected.”

“No pinks, roses, mauves.”

“None,” Layla said decisively.

“A couple of good chairs for customers to sit in,” Quinn suggested, “to try on shoes, or wait for a friend in the changing area, but no floral fabrics, no chintz.”

“If this were a gallery, we’d say your stock would be your art.”

“Exactly.” Layla beamed over at Cybil. “That’s why I’m thinking neutral tones for the walls. Warm neutrals, because of the wood. And I’m thinking instead of a counter”—she waved the flat of her hand waist-high—“I might find a nice antique desk or pretty table for the checkout area. And over here—” She pushed the chips into Quinn’s hand, crossed the bare floor. “I’d have clear floating shelves in a random pattern, to display shoes, smaller bags. And then here . . .”

Cybil followed as Layla moved from section to section, outlining her plans for the layout. The image formed clearly—open racks, shelves, pretty glass-fronted curios for accessories.

“I need Fox’s father to build in a couple of dressing rooms back here.”

“Three,” Cybil said. “Three’s more practical, is more interesting to the eye and it’s a magickal number.”

“Three then, with good, flattering lighting, and the tortuous triple mirror.”

“I hate those bastards,” Quinn muttered.

“We all do, but they’re a necessary evil. And see, the little kitchen back here.” With a come-ahead gesture, Layla led the way. “They kept that, through its various retail incarnations. I thought I could do quirky little vignettes every month or so. Like, ah, candles and wine on the table, some flowers—and a negligee or a cocktail dress tossed over the back of the chair. Or a box of cereal on the counter, some breakfast dishes in the sink—and a messenger- or briefcase-style handbag on the table, a pair of pumps under it. You know what I mean?”

“Fun. Clever. Yes, I know what you mean. Let me see those chips.” Cybil snatched them from Quinn, then headed back to the front window.

“I’ve got more,” Layla told them. “I’ve sort of whittled it down to those.”

“And have your favorite,” Quinn finished.

“Yeah, I do, but I want opinions. Serious opinions, because I’m as scared as I am excited about this, and I don’t want to screw it up by—”

“This. Champagne Bubbles. Just the palest gold, really just the impression of color. Subtle, neutral, but with that punch, that fun factor. And any color you put against this will pop.”

Lips pursed, Quinn studied the chip over Cybil’s shoulder. “She’s right. It’s great. Female, sophisticated, warm.”

“That was my pick.” Layla closed her eyes. “I swear, that was my pick.”

“Proving the three of us have excellent taste,” Cybil concluded. “You’re going in to apply for the business loan this week?”

“Yeah.” Layla blew out a breath that fluttered her bangs. “Fox says it’s a slam dunk. I have references from him, Jim Hawkins, my former boss from the boutique in New York. My finances are—hah—modest, but in good order. And the town wants and needs businesses. Keep revenue local instead of sending it out to the mall and so on.”

“It’s a good investment. You’ve got prime location here—Main Street only steps from the Square. You were raised in the business, as your parents owned a dress shop. Work experience, a canny sense of style. A very good investment. I’d like a piece of it.”

Layla blinked at Cybil. “Sorry?”

“My finances are healthy—not bank-loan healthy, but healthy enough to invest in a smart enterprise. What have you projected as your start-up costs?”

“Well . . .” Layla named a figure, and Cybil nodded and wandered. “I could manage a third of that. Quinn?”

“Yeah, I could swing a third.”

“Are you kidding?” was all Layla could say. “Are you
kidding
?”

“Which would leave you to come up with the final third out of your modest finances or the bank loan. I’d go with the loan, not only to give yourself breathing room, but for tax purposes.” Cybil brushed back her hair. “Unless you don’t want investors.”

“I want investors if they’re you. Oh God, this is—wait. You should think about it awhile. Seriously. You need to take some time, think about it. I don’t want you to—”

“We have been thinking about it.”

“And talking about it,” Quinn added. “Since you decided to go for it. Christ, Layla, look what we’ve already invested in each other, and in this town. This is only money—and as Gage would probably say, we want to ante up.”

“I’ll make it work. I will.” Layla brushed away a tear. “I will. I know what we are to each other, but if you do this, I want it all legal and right. Fox will . . . He’ll fix it, he’ll take care of that part. I know I can make it work. Now, especially, I know I can.”

She threw her arms around Quinn, then opened up to pull Cybil into the hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“Not necessary. Remember what else Gage might say,” Cybil reminded her.

“What?”

“We could all be dead before August.” With a laugh, Cybil gave Layla a pat on the butt, then stepped back. “Have you thought of any possible names for the place yet?”

“Again, are you kidding? This is me, here. I have a list. In fact I have three lists, and a folder. But I’m tossing them because I just thought of the perfect name.” Layla held her hands out to the sides, palms up. “Welcome to Sisters.”

 

THEY SEPARATED, LAYLA TO THE OFFICE, QUINN to have lunch with Cal’s mother to discuss wedding plans, Cybil back home. She wanted to pursue the bloodstone-as-weapon angle, and push deeper into the idea of it being a fragment of a larger mystical power source.

She liked the quiet and the solitude. It was good for thinking, reshuffling thoughts, for moving them around like puzzle pieces until she found a better fit. Because she wanted a change of venue, she brought her laptop and the file of notes she’d printed out that dealt specifically with the bloodstone down to the kitchen. With the back door and windows open to the spring air, she made iced tea, fixed a small bowl of salad. Over lunch, she reviewed her notes.

July 7, 1652. Giles Dent (the Guardian) wore the bloodstone amulet on the night Lazarus Twisse (the Demon) led the mob it had infected to the Pagan Stone in Hawkins Wood, where Giles had a small cabin. Prior to that night, Dent had spoken of the stone, and shown it to Ann Hawkins, his lover and the mother of his triplet sons (who would be born on 7/7/1652). Ann wrote of it, briefly and cryptically, in the journals she kept after Dent sent her away (to what would become the O’Dell farm) in order to birth their sons in safety.

When next documented, the stone had been divided into three equal parts, and was clutched in Cal Hawkins’s, Fox O’Dell’s, and Gage Turner’s fists, after they had performed their blood brother ritual, at the Pagan Stone at midnight on their shared tenth birthday (7/7/1987). The ritual—blood ritual—freed the demon for a period of seven days, every seven years, during which time it infected certain people in Hawkins Hollow, said infection causing them to perform acts of violence, even murder.

However, as the demon was freed, the three boys gained specific powers of self-healing and psychic gifts.
Weapons
.

Cybil nodded at the word she’d underscored. “Yeah, these are weapons, these are tools that kept them alive, kept them in the fight. And those weapons sprang from, or are certainly connected to, the bloodstone.”

She reviewed her notes on Ann Hawkins’s journal entry about bringing three back to one, and her conversations—such as they’d been—with Cal, with Layla. One into three, three into one, Cybil mused and found herself mildly annoyed Ann hadn’t elected to appear to her.

She thought she’d like to interview a ghost.

She began to type her thoughts, using the stream-of-consciousness method that served her best, and could and would be refined later. From time to time she paused to make a quick handwritten note to herself on her pad, on some point she wanted to dig into later, or a reference area that needed a closer look.

When she heard the front door open, she kept working—thought fleetingly: Quinn’s back early. Even when the door slammed, sharp as a shot moments later, she didn’t stop the work. Wedding tension, she supposed.

But when the door behind her slammed, and the thumb bolt on the lock snicked, it got her attention. She saved the work—it was second nature to save the work, and her mind barely registered the automatic gesture. Over the sink, the window slid down, the slow movement somehow more threatening than the slammed door.

She could hurt it, she reminded herself, as she rose to sidestep to the knife block on the counter. They’d hurt it before. It felt pain. Drawing the chef’s knife out of the block, she promised herself if it was in the house with her, she would damn well cause it some pain. Still, her instincts told her she’d do better outside than locked in. She reached for the thumb bolt.

The shock ripped up her arm, had her loosing a breathless scream as she stumbled back. On a sudden, thunderous burst, the kitchen faucet gushed blood. She stepped toward the phone—help, should she need it, was only two minutes away. But when she reached for the phone, a second, more violent shock jolted her.

Scare tactics, she told herself as she began to edge out of the kitchen. Trap the lone woman in the house. Make a lot of noise, she added when the booming shook the walls, the floor, the ceiling.

She saw the boy through the living room window. Its face was pressed against it. It grinned.

I can’t get out, but it can’t get in, she thought. Isn’t that interesting? But as she watched, it crawled up the glass, across it, down, like some hideous bug.

And the glass bled until it was covered with red, and with the buzzing black flies that came to drink.

They smothered the light until the room, the house, was dark as pitch. Like being blind, she thought as her heart began to buck and kick. That’s what it wanted her to feel. It wanted to claw through her to that old, deep-seated fear. Through the booming, the buzzing, she braced a hand on the wall to guide her. She felt the warm wet run over her hand, and knew the walls bled.

She would get out, she told herself. Into the light. She’d take the shock, she’d handle it, and she
would
get out. Wall gave way to stair banister, and she shuddered with relief. Nearly there.

Something flew out of the dark, knocking her off her feet. The knife clattered uselessly across the floor. So she crawled, hands and knees. When the door flew open, the light all but blinded her. She came up like a runner off the mark.

She plowed straight into Gage. Later, he’d think she would have gone straight through him if she could’ve managed it. He caught her, fully expecting to have a clawing, kicking, hysterical female in his hands. Instead, she looked into his eyes with her own fierce and cold.

“Do you see it?” she demanded.

“Yeah. Your neighbor out sweeping her front walk doesn’t. She’s waving.”

Cybil kept a viselike grip on Gage’s arm with one hand, turned, and waved with the other. On the front window, the boy scrabbled like a spider. “Keep it up.” Cybil spaced her words evenly. “Waste all the energy you like on today’s matinee.” Deliberately she released Gage and sat on the front steps. “So,” she said to Gage, “out for a drive?”