The Sign of Seven Trilogy (74 page)

“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?”

“If fire could kill it, it would already be dead. I've seen it ride on flames like they were a damn surfboard.”

“
Its
fire, not ours,” Cybil pointed out. “Fire created from the Alpha Stone, from the fragment of that stone passed to you, through Dent, by the gods. Fusing it that night made one hell of a blaze.”

“How do you propose to light a magic fire with a single stone?”

“I'm working on it. How about you?” Cybil countered. “Any better ideas?”

This wasn't why he was here, Gage reminded himself. He hadn't come to debate magic stones and conjuring the fire of gods. He wasn't even sure why he was baiting her. She'd come through, he reminded himself, all the way through in fusing the three parts of the stone into one.

“I had a visit today, from our resident demon.”

“Why didn't you say so?” All business, Quinn reached for her tape recorder. “Where, when, how?”

“In the cemetery, shortly after I left here this morning.”

“What time was that?” Quinn looked at Cybil. “Around ten, right? So between ten and ten thirty?” she asked Gage.

“Close enough. I didn't check my watch.”

“What form did it take?”

“My mother's.”

Immediately, Quinn went from brisk to sympathetic. “Oh, Gage, I'm sorry.”

“Has it ever done that before?” Cybil asked. “Appeared in a form of someone you know?”

“New trick. That's why it had me conned for a minute. Anyway, it looked like her, like I remember her. Or, actually, I don't remember her that well. It looked like pictures I've seen of her.”

The picture, he thought, his father had kept on the table beside his bed.

“She—it—was young,” he continued. “Younger than me, and wearing one of those summer dresses.”

He sat now, drinking his cooling coffee as he related the event, and the conversation nearly word for word.

“You
punched
it?” Quinn demanded.

“Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Saying nothing, Cybil rose, crossed to him, held out her hand for his. She examined his, back, palm, fingers. “Healed. I'd wondered about that. If you'd heal completely if it was able to wound you directly.”

“I didn't say it wounded me.”

“Of course it did. You punched your fist into the belly of the beast, literally. What kinds of wounds were there?”

“Burns, punctures. Fucker bit me. Fights like a girl.”

She cocked her head, appreciating his grin. “I'm a girl, and I don't bite . . . in a fight. How long did it take to heal?”

“A while. Maybe an hour altogether.”

“Longer, considerably, than if you'd sustained burns from a natural source. Any side effects?”

He started to shrug that off, then reminded himself every detail mattered. “A little nausea, a little dizziness. But it hurt like a mother, so you'll have that.”

She cocked her head, sent him a speculative look. “What did you do afterward? There's a couple of hours between then and now.”

“I had some things I needed to do. We punching time clocks now?”

“Just curious. We'll write it up, log it in. I'm going to make some tea. Do you want any, Quinn?”

“I want a root beer float, but . . .” Quinn held up her bottle of water. “I'll stick with this.”

When Cybil walked out, Gage drummed his fingers on his thigh a moment, then pushed to his feet. “I'm going to top off my coffee.”

“You do that.” Quinn held her own speculative look until he'd left. Rocks weren't the only things that shot off sparks when they slapped together, she mused.

Cybil put the kettle on, set out the pot, measured her tea. When Gage stepped in, she plucked an apple from the bowl, cut it neatly in quarters, then offered him one.

“So here we are again.” After getting a plate, she quartered a second apple, added a few sprigs of grapes. “When Quinn starts talking root beer floats, she needs a snack. If you're looking for something more substantial, there're sandwich makings or cold pasta salad.”

“I'm good.” He watched her as she added a few crackers, a handful of cubed cheese to the snack plate. “There's no need to get pissy.”

She cocked that brow at him. “Why would I be pissy?”

“Exactly.”

Taking one of the apple slices, she leaned back against the counter, and took a tiny bite. “You're misreading me. I came down because I wanted tea, not because I was annoyed with you. Annoyance wasn't what I felt. You probably won't like what I was feeling, what I do feel.”

“What's that?”

“Sorry that it used your personal grief against you.”

“I don't have any personal grief.”

“Oh, shut up.” She took another, and this time angry, bite out of the apple. “That
is
annoying. You were in the cemetery. As I sincerely doubt you go there for nature walks, I have to conclude you went to visit your mother's grave. And Twisse defiled—or tried to—your memory of her. Don't tell me you don't have grief for the loss of your mother. I lost my father years ago, too. And he chose to leave me, chose to put a bullet in his brain, and still I have grief. You didn't want to talk about it, so I gave you your privacy, then you follow me down here and tell me I'm pissy.”