The Sign of Seven Trilogy (100 page)

“She will. It's another positive.”

“He can go back and forth with her, work with his father some. Between them, Cal and his father, we'll have eyes and ears on the town. There's no reason for Quinn—or you for that matter—to go back into the Hollow until this is over.”

“Maybe not.” A reasonable compromise, she mused. Surprise.

“My old man's been having dreams,” Gage said, and told her.

“Feeding on fears, pain, weaknesses.” Cybil closed her hand over his a moment. “It's good that he told you. That's another positive, Gage, however you feel about him. You can feel it in town now, can't you? It's like raw nerves on the air.”

“It'll get worse. People coming into the Hollow for business or whatever else will suddenly change their minds. Others who planned to drive through on their way to somewhere else will decide to take a detour. Some of the locals will pack up and go away for a couple weeks. Some of those who stay will hunker down like people do to ride out a hurricane.”

He scanned the roads as he drove, braced for any sign. A black dog, a boy. “People who decide they want out after July seventh, well, they won't be able to find their way out of town. They'll drive around in circles, scared, confused. If they try to call for help, mostly the calls won't go through.”

He turned onto Cal's lane. “There's a burning in the air, even before the fires start. Once they do, nobody's safe.”

“They will be this time. Some will be safe out at Fox's family's farm. And when we end it, the air won't burn, Gage. And the fires will go out.”

He shoved open the door of the truck, then looked back at her. “We'll get this stuff inside. Then—” He grabbed her hand, jerked her back as she opened her own door. “Stay in the truck.”

“What? What is it? Oh my God.”

She followed his direction and saw what slithered and writhed over Cal's front deck.

“Copperheads,” Gage told her. “Maybe a dozen or so.”

“Poisonous. And that many? Yes, the truck's an excellent place to be.” She drew her .22 out of her purse, but shook her head. “I don't suppose we can shoot them from here, especially with this.”

He reached under the seat, took out his Luger. “This would do the job, but not from here. And shit, Cal will burn my ass if I put bullet holes in his house. I've got a better idea. Stay in the truck. I get bit, it'll piss me off. You get bit, you'll be out of commission—at the least.”

“Good point. What's the better idea?”

“First, trade.” He handed her the Luger, took the pistol. “Any other surprises, use it.”

She tested the weight and feel of the gun in her hand as he stepped out of the truck. Since she had no choice but to trust him, she watched the snakes, and tried to remember what she knew about this specific species.

Poisonous, yes, but the bite was rarely fatal. Still, a few dozen bites might prove to be. They preferred rocky hill-sides, and weren't especially aggressive. Of course, they weren't usually driven mad by a demon either.

These would attack. She had no doubt of that.

On cue, several of the snakes lifted their triangular heads as Gage came around the house with a shovel.

A shovel? Cybil thought. The man had a gun but decided to use a damn shovel against a nest of crazed snakes. She started to lower the window, call out her opinion of his strategy, but he was striding up the steps, and straight into the slithering nest.

It was ugly. She'd always considered herself in possession of a strong stomach, but it rolled now as he smashed and beat and sliced. She couldn't count the number of times they struck at him, and knew despite his healing gift there was pain as fang pierced flesh.

When it was over, she swallowed hard and got out of the truck. He looked down at her, his face glistening with sweat. “That's it. I'll clean this up and bury them.”

“I'll give you a hand.”

“I've got it. You look a little green.”

She passed a hand over her brow. “I'm embarrassed to admit I feel a little green. That was . . . Are you okay?”

“Got me a few times, but that's no big.”

“Thank God we got here before Layla. I can help. I'll get another shovel.”

“Cybil. I could really use some coffee.”

She struggled a moment, then accepted the out he offered. “All right.”

She didn't suppose there was any shame in averting her eyes from the mess of it as she went into the house. Why look if she didn't have to? In the kitchen she drank cold water, splashed a little on her face until her system re-settled. When the coffee was brewed, she carried it out to him where he dug a hole just inside the edge of the woods.

“This is turning into a kind of twisted pet cemetery,” she commented. “Crazy Roscoe, and now a battalion of snakes. Take a break. I can dig. Really.”

He traded her the shovel for the coffee. “More of a practical joke.”

“What?”

“This. Not a big show. More of an elbow in the ribs.”

“I'm still laughing. But yes, I see what you mean. You're right. Just a casual little psyche-out.”

“Snakes come out during the Seven. People find them in their houses, the basement, closets. Even in their cars if they're stupid enough not to close the windows when they park. Rats, too.”

“Lovely. Yes, I've got the notes.” The summer heat and exertion dewed her skin. “Is this deep enough?”

“Yeah, it'll do. Go on back in the house.”

She glanced toward the two drywall compound buckets, and thought about what he'd had to put inside them. “I'm going to see worse than this. No pandering to the delicate female.”

“Your choice.”

When he dumped the contents in—and her gorge rose—she could only think she hoped she didn't see much worse. “I'll wash these out.” She picked up the empty buckets. “And clean off the deck while you finish here.”

“Cybil,” he said as she walked away. “Delicate's not how I think of you.”

Strong, he thought as he dumped the first shovelful of dirt. Steady. The kind of woman a man could trust to stick, through better or worse.

When he'd finished, he walked around the house, and stopped short when he saw her on her hands and knees, scrubbing the deck. “Okay, here's another way I haven't thought of you.”

She blew hair out of her eyes, looked over. “As?”

“A woman with a scrub brush in her hand.”

“While I may prefer to pay someone else to do it, I've scrubbed floors before. Though I can say this is the first time I've ever scrubbed off snake guts. It's not a pleasant, housewifely task.”

He climbed up, leaned on the rail out of range of the soap and water. “What would be a pleasant, housewifely task?”

“Cooking a pretty meal when the mood strikes, arranging flowers, setting an artistic table. I'm running out, that's the short list.” With sweat sliding down her back, she sat back on her heels. “Oh, and making reservations.”

“For dinner?”

“For anything.” Rising, she started to lift the bucket, but he put his hand over hers. “I need to dump this out, then hose this off.”

“I'll take care of it.”

With a smile, she tipped her head. “A not-altogether-unpleasant manly task?”

“You could say.”

“Then have at it. I'll clean up and we can start unloading the truck.”

They worked quickly, and in tandem. That was another thing, he thought. He couldn't remember ever working in tandem with a woman. He couldn't think of a single sane reason cleaning up with her after dealing with the mangled bodies of snakes should start up those messy thoughts and feelings.

“What do you want when this is over?” he asked as he washed up at the sink.

“What do I want when this is over?” She repeated it thoughtfully as she poured him another cup of coffee. “About twelve hours' sleep in a wonderful bed with 450 thread count sheets, followed by a pitcher of mimosas along with breakfast in bed.”

“All good choices, but I meant what do you want?”

“Ah, the more philosophical and encompassing want.” She poured grapefruit juice and ginger ale over ice, rattled it, then took a long drink. “A break initially. From the work, the stress, this town—not that I have anything against it. Just a celebratory break from all of it. Then I want to come back and help Quinn and Layla plan their weddings, and now help Q plan for her baby. I want to see Hawkins Hollow again. I want the satisfaction of seeing it when there's no threat hanging over it, and knowing I had a part in that. I want to go back to New York for a while, then back to work, wherever that takes me. I want to see you again. Does that surprise you?”

Everything about her surprised him, he realized. “I was thinking we might catch that twelve hours' sleep and breakfast in bed together. Somewhere that's not here.”

“Is that an offer?”

“It sounds like it.”

“I'll take it.”

“Just like that?”

“Life's short or it's long, Gage. Who the hell knows. So, yes, just like that.”

He reached out, touched her cheek. “Where do you want to go?”

“Surprise me.” She lifted her hand to cover his.

“What if I said—” He broke off when they heard the front door open. “Never mind,” he said. “I'll surprise you.”

Sixteen

LAYLA CAME INTO THE DINING ROOM, WHICH WAS currently in the process of morphing into their main research area. Laptops, stacks of files, charts, maps covered the table. The dry-erase board stood wedged in a corner, and Cal crouched on the floor hooking up a printer.

“Fox says he grabbed dinner at the farm, and we should probably start without him—Gage and Cybil should start without him, that is. He might be a couple hours yet. I didn't tell him the news.” She beamed at Quinn. “I had to saw my tongue off a couple times, but I thought you and Cal would want to tell him in person about the baby.”

“I think I still need somebody to tell me again, a few times.”

“How about if I just call you Daddy?” Quinn suggested.

He let out the breathless laugh of a man caught between the thrill and the terror. “Wow.” Then shifted to where Quinn sorted the files. “Wow.” When he took Quinn's hand, and the two of them just stared at each other, Layla eased out of the room.

“They're basking,” she told Gage and Cybil in the kitchen.

“They're entitled.” Cybil closed a cupboard door, put her hands on her hips, and did a survey of the room. “I think this'll have to do. All the perishables from our place are stowed, and we'll have to live with the spill-over in dry goods.”

“I'll get what makes sense out of Fox's apartment tomorrow,” Layla said. “Is there anything else I can do?”

“Flip for the guest room.” Gage took a quarter out of his pocket. “Loser takes the pullout in the office.”

“Oh.” Layla frowned at the coin. “I want to be gracious and say you're already in there, but I've slept on that pullout. Heads. No . . . tails.”

“Pick one, sweetheart.”

She fisted her hands on either side of her head, wiggled her hips, squeezed her eyes tight. Gage had seen people invent stranger rituals for luck.

“Tails.”

Gage flipped it, snagged it, slapped it on the back of his hand. “Should've gone with your first instinct.”

She sighed over the eagle. “Oh well. Fox is going to be a while, so . . .”

“We'll try the link as soon as the dining room's set up.” Cybil glanced out the window. “I guess we stick inside. It's starting to rain.”

“Plus, snakes. Well, enough basking for them.” Layla walked back in the dining room to help organize.

 

“YOU'RE TAKING A LOT ON.” FOX STOOD BY HIS FATHER on the back porch of the farmhouse, staring out through the steady, soaking rain.

“I was at Woodstock, kid of mine. We'll be fine.”

In the distant field a handful of tents stood already pitched. He and his father, along with his brother, Ridge, and Bill Turner, had put together a wooden platform, hung a canopy over it on poles to serve as a kind of cook tent.

That wasn't so weird, Fox thought, but the line of bright blue Porta Potties along the back edge of the field? That was a strange sight.

His parents would take it in stride, Fox knew. That's what they did.

“Bill's going to hook up a few shower areas,” Brian went on, adjusting the bill of his ball cap as he stood in his old work boots and ancient Levi's. “He's a handy guy.”

“Yeah.”

“They'll be pretty rude and crude, but it'll serve for a week or two, and supplement the schedule your mom and Sparrow are going to make up for people to use the house.”

“Don't just let people have the run of the place.” Fox looked into his father's calm eyes. “Come on, Dad, I
know
you guys. Not everybody's honest and trustworthy.”

“You mean there are dishonest people in the world who aren't in politics?” Brian lifted his eyebrows high. “Next thing you're going to tell me there's no Easter Bunny.”

“Just lock up at night for a change. Just for now.”

Brian made a noncommittal sound. “Jim expects some people to start heading over within the next couple of days.”

Fox surrendered. His parents would do what they would do. “Could he give you any idea how many?”

“A couple hundred. People listen to Jim. More if he can manage it.”

“I'll help as much as I can.”