End of Day

by Mae Clair

  “He’ll be okay.” He opened his car door, then hesitated. “What about you? You don’t have Blizzard for a buffer.”

  He’d asked her to leave the husky at home, something she rarely did. Dante had said he needed all her empathy and psychic energy open to him while he tried to focus on the folk memory he believed lingered at Wickham.

  She’d never liked the place. Was that why? Because the part of her that was tuned to emotions had zoned in on something that occurred here ages ago?

  She fingered her glasses. “I’ll be okay. Just tell me what you need me to do.”

  “Come on.” He led her around the back of the building where oaks and sycamores clustered several hundred yards to the rear from the lot. Ducking beneath the branches, he wove his way deeper into the pocket of trees.

  Surprised, Jillian tugged the collar of her pea coat closer to her throat and followed on his heels. He’d taken about thirty paces when he stopped suddenly and stood motionless. Sunlight mottled the ground in piebald patches and filtered through branches that had shed most of their leaves. The air was redolent with the odor of loam and fungi.

  “Dante?”

  Ignoring her, he pressed one long-fingered hand to the trunk of a towering birch. The breeze scattered the black hair from his face. His eyes were narrowed, focused on something she couldn’t see.

  A memory?

  He trailed his hand down the bark, stepped around the tree, then squatted to examine the ground. Seconds passed in silence. Finally, he stood and faced her.

  In that quicksilver moment, when their eyes met, she felt what he did. The impressions he latched onto blindsided her.

  A young man in Colonial garb, his clothing torn and muddy…several men ringed in a circle…torches…dogs…another man, tall and thin, his face contorted with hate.

  The bristling force of the man’s hostility made her stagger backward. For a second, she thought he was Yancy, but his coloring was all wrong. Dark instead of fair. Yet the features were the same. High brow, sharp cheekbones.

  Atticus Crowe.

  The name mushroomed in her head. Atticus was a man she’d always thought worthy of respect. Seeing him now, he harbored nothing but hate.

  Fear and desperation slammed into her, sharp as lightning, but the emotion was not from Atticus. She choked and nearly stumbled.

  The young man!

  Crowe hefted a knife.

  No! It couldn’t be!

  But she knew, even as the tears fell from her eyes.

  The young man being restrained by the others was Gabriel Vane.

  * * * *

  Dante shoved her iced tea closer. “Drink. You’ll feel better.”

  Jillian twined her hands around the glass but didn’t raise it to her lips. “I’ll be all right. I just need a moment.” Far more than a moment. It had been over a half hour since they’d left Wickham. Dante took them to a downtown hole-in-the-wall eatery named The Knot. Located on Fourth Street among a strip of other cafes and bars, it fell within the district locals called Pub Place—the area designated for Saturday night’s Masquerade Pub Crawl.

  On a Saturday night, The Knot would be pulsing with music, wall-to-wall with a crowd who favored mingling and craft beers. On a Sunday afternoon, it was a quiet haven for friends to chat over flavored teas and vegetarian dishes. She’d ordered a shaved cauliflower salad to Dante’s asparagus and goat cheese sandwich, but her appetite was lacking. The experience at Wickham had left her eyes dilated far longer than usual.

  She took a sip of the tea, then removed her eyeglasses. The subdued lighting of The Knot slowly eased the edge from her nerves. The place was long and narrow like an alley, with faux-brick walls, a hardwood floor, and mounted lanterns that resembled teardrops.

  “Sorry.” She poked at her salad. “It’s one thing absorbing emotions, but to actually see something that happened…” She met his gaze, appreciating his gift in a whole new light. “Do…do you think Gabriel died there?”

  “I don’t know. You told me he died of a plague.” He took a bite of his sandwich. She was used to guys who favored burgers and fries, not asparagus and goat cheese.

  “I always thought he did. That was the belief in my family, but the memory you tapped into makes it seem like he was killed by Atticus.”

  “If that’s the case, how did Gabriel end up as the guardian of Hickory Chapel Cemetery? Atticus doesn’t seem like a praying man to me.”

  “No.” She recalled the prayer circle she’d believed in. How the men of the village had gathered around Gabriel’s grave and beseeched God to make his spirit the protector of those buried after him. A stray thought surfaced—chilling and unthinkable. Centuries ago, villagers had buried a dog alive to ensure protection for their departed. If Gabriel hadn’t died at Wickham…

  She shoved the idea aside. No one, not even Atticus, could be that heinous. And yet, the cemetery had attracted creatures far more monstrous than the normal cessation of life should draw. And Gabriel’s grave was so deep, segregated from the rest.

  So very, very deep.

  “At least now I understand why Wickham carries a malevolent taint.” Dante’s voice intruded on her thoughts.

  She flicked him a surprised glance. “You’ve felt that, too?”

  “Always.” He slumped back against his chair, his expression sobering. “I told you my father died when I was fifteen. What I didn’t tell you was that he died in an accident while employed at Wickham.”

  Her lips parted. “I had no idea.”

  “You mean you’ve never heard I’m a bohemian who lives off a settlement from the accident?” He snorted sour amusement. “I thought that was common gossip.”

  “Dante, I never—”

  He waved her protest aside. “Ignore me. Every now and then I get bitter.” Gaze lowered, he rested his wrist on the edge of the table and idly turned a glass of water in his hand. “The truth is I no longer think what happened at Wickham was accidental, but I think my father brought his death on himself. I’m positive the place corrupted him.” Sitting forward, he shoved the glass away. “At least, that’s what I have to believe if I want to remember him in a good light.”

  Jillian was tempted to prod further, but Dante looked around for their waitress.

  “Ready?”

  She nodded. Her stomach was still too unsettled to eat more.

  Dante flagged the server over and asked for the check. Once she left, promising to return, he dug for his wallet. “Are you willing to take this thing one step further?”

  Confused, Jillian cocked her head. “What do you mean?”

  “Do you want to find out the truth about what happened to Gabriel?”

  Of course she did. “How?”

  His grin was sharp, more barbed than cordial. “Ask him.”

  She grew very still. “You’re talking about a séance.”

  “It’s what I do. And with Halloween around the corner, it’s the perfect time.”

  “Okay.” She took a deep breath. “Count me in.”

  * * * *

  Late Monday morning, Jillian drove to Rest Haven, staying for several hours with Madison. Her sister seemed to have more color to her face and a higher level of alertness in her eyes but remained silent throughout the visit. Jillian chatted about trivial matters—the weather, colorful Halloween decorations she’d noticed on the drive over, Blizzard’s newest chew toy—then read aloud from The Great Gatsby, one of Madison’s favorite novels, just so her sister would hear her voice. Finally, she told Madison about the séance.

  “I’m nervous, but I think it’s something I have to do.” Jillian sat in her usual spot, a chair drawn close to the window, Madison across from her. A few feet away, Blizzard lay with his head on his paws, content at the foot of the bed. But for the occasional footsteps of someone passing in the hallway, the room was quiet. Jillian turn
ed her gaze out the window where clouds hung heavy with rain.

  “Nervous is too tame a word. I’m scared, Maddy. We’ve tended Gabriel’s grave for so long, but to summon his spirit seems wrong.” The dismal gray sky matched her mood. She struggled not to let her bleakness show. “I trust Dante. In the short time I’ve known him, we’ve become close. I know he’d never do anything to put me at risk.”

  He’d told her for the séance to be successful, there should be at least four sitters in the summoning circle, but that six would be better, and each person should have a personal connection to her. He’d agreed to ask Tessa, and she said she’d ask Maya. Her neighbor was not only a friend but had hosted a séance last June. Unfortunately, Maya was going to be out of town on Friday, the night Dante had chosen to hold the séance—Halloween Eve.

  Shifting, she crossed her legs and relaxed against the back of her chair. “I’m going to have to ask Sherre.” The detective was already invested to a degree, even if she didn’t buy into what Jillian had told her about the rash of odd deaths in Hode’s Hill.

  Madison lowered her gaze and plucked at a stray thread on her slacks. Her fingers were thin, her nails bare and clipped short. There’d been a time when she’d paid for biweekly gel manicures, but the days of having French-tipped nails or berry-red polish were a thing of the past. Selfishly, Jillian wanted that person back. The sister who dropped by unannounced, forgot to return the shoes she’d borrowed, and who phoned at all hours of the day and night just to chat.

  Despite her natural empathy, Madison had never sealed herself in a cocoon the way Jillian had. Maybe because Madison didn’t have the additional burden of fringe psychic abilities, or maybe she’d just been better at managing empathy. Whatever the knack, Jillian had admired her ability to detach. That habit had allowed her to experience more of life—right up until the moment Boyd died and the skill failed.

  Suppressing a surge of melancholy, Jillian stood and paced a short distance away. Alerted by her mood, Blizzard raised his head.

  “It’s okay, boy. I’m just going to make a phone call.” Locating her purse on a table by the door, she fished inside for her cell. With her back to Madison, she pushed the button to dial Sherre’s number.

  “Lorquet.” She’d caught the detective at work.

  “Hi, Sherre. It’s Jillian.”

  A moment of silence. “If you’re calling about Gabriel Vane, or anything connected to him, now isn’t a good time.”

  Jillian read between the lines. “I’m not calling about the deaths.” She wanted to ask if Sherre had followed through and investigated but understood the message—don’t ask. “I’m with Madison.”

  “How is she?”

  “Since she spoke last?” Jillian had phoned Sherre on Saturday to give her the news. “Still no change, but I’m hopeful. Her color is better today, and she seems more alert, even if she isn’t talking.”

  “That’s good. I know her doctors said it could take time. If you’re looking for leads on her case, now that she’s improving, I don’t have anything new.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “If she does recover, you realize she’ll be able to ID Boyd’s killers.”

  Jillian chose not to dwell on Sherre’s use of if instead of when. She hadn’t thought about what Madison’s ability to speak would do for the detective’s cold case. “She’ll need time to adjust. I want Boyd’s killers found as much as you do, but right now my focus is on getting her whole.”

  “She’s on the right path. You’ve waited this long.”

  “I know.” A rustling traveled through the line as if Sherre rearranged papers on her desk. “Are you working Friday night?”

  “Saturday. They’ve got me on for the Masquerade Pub Crawl.”

  With everything else going on, Jillian had forgotten she’d promised to go with Dante and Tessa. If she couldn’t scare up a costume, she’d at least have to find a mask. “That’s good, because I have a strange request.”

  The shuffling stopped. “Strange? From you?” Sherre laughed. “Nah.”

  At least the detective maintained a sense of humor. “Stranger than usual. I’m hosting a séance Friday night and was hoping you’d attend.”

  Dead silence.

  “Sherre?”

  “Séance, as in ghosts? Spirits of dead people? That kind of thing?”

  “Yes.”

  A pffing noise. “I didn’t realize you were into Halloween.”

  “It’s not about Halloween.”

  “Then why are you holding a séance?”

  “To contact Gabriel.”

  Sherre muttered something she didn’t catch.

  “Sherre, it’s important. If I’m right about Gabriel and the reason people are dying, Madison and I are targets, too. I can take care of myself, but Madison doesn’t have the same luxury.”

  “She’s not going to get hurt in a care facility.”

  “Anything can happen.”

  Several seconds of silence. “Why ask me?”

  “Because Dante said the people who attend should be connected to me, and you’re invested whether you want to admit it or not. You have been from the moment you responded to the call on Mill Street.”

  “Maybe.” Sherre didn’t deny the connection or its inception. “Are we talking about Dante DeLuca?”

  “Yes. He’s conducting the séance.”

  “The same Dante DeLuca who was a royal pain in the ass about Pin Oaks?” There was no disguising the incredulity in Sherre’s voice.

  “You’re forgetting he’s also the one who got my sister to talk when no one else could. Will you come?”

  “It sounds like amateur hocus-pocus to me. I hope DeLuca isn’t charging you.”

  “He’s a friend who’s trying to help. I’m asking another friend to do the same.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  Jillian forced herself to stay silent. Sometimes the only way to accomplish a goal was through a low blow.

  Sherre exhaled. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Sherre—”

  “It’s the best I can do. I’ll call you later.” The line clicked in her ear.

  Swearing under her breath, Jillian switched off her phone. She turned back to the window. Madison was no longer in her chair but sitting cross-legged on the floor beside Blizzard.

  “Pretty dog.” Her sister smiled broadly and stroked the husky’s fur.

  Chapter 13

  October 21, 1799

  They were coming.

  Men with dogs and guns. Men he’d once called friends and neighbors.

  Gabriel stumbled as he zigzagged between the trees. He hadn’t put as much distance between him and his pursuers as he’d hoped. The fever was spiking, slowing him down, dripping sweat into his eyes with each step. At this pace, he’d never outrun them, and he’d surely never reach Vernon Hode.

  He shook his head.

  What the hell was wrong with him?

  His death might be a foregone conclusion, but that didn’t mean he had to yield to violence. Let the fever take him as it had others. He’d be damned if he’d allow himself to be a sacrifice.

  He stopped to draw a breath and glanced down at the emerald in his hand. Filtered moonlight splattered the ground around him and defined the rough edges of the stone. Atticus would claim it if he was caught, and if he tossed it, he risked the chance of someone stumbling over it—whether minutes, days, months, or even years from now. For Dinah’s trust, he must ensure that never happened.

  His lips were dry, his mouth parched, but the gem wasn’t that large. If he forced it, he might be able to work it past his throat.

  Behind him, the chorus of baying grew louder. Closer. The wind carried the faint sound of men calling to one another. He didn’t have the luxury of debate. Whatever happened to him, he would ensure his promise to Dina
h remained unbroken.

  Closing his eyes, Gabriel tossed the emerald to the back of his throat. He swallowed with effort, forcing the stone deeper into his gullet. Soft tissue tore, shredded by the gem’s jagged edges, and his gag reflex kicked in. He fought the urge to retch, bending double, sweat popping like beads of dew on his forehead. A taste like hot metal flooded his mouth. He spat blood and stumbled forward, attempting to vault an overturned tree. In the darkness, he misjudged the step, and his ankle twisted. The pungent tang of decayed leaves clogged his head as he sprawled to his knees.

  Get up!

  He forced himself to move, slipped on the leaf-strewn ground, and hobbled to his feet. The air reverberated with the clamor of his death sentence—footfalls and baying so close he was certain he wouldn’t live to see the dawn.

  * * * *

  Present Day

  A rollercoaster.

  There was no better word to describe the peaks and valleys of Jillian’s emotions. Discovering her sister petting Blizzard had catapulted her into the stratosphere. The endearment “pretty dog” had never sounded so sweet, Madison’s smile equivalent to a sunburst at the zenith of a pitch-black night. No further words had followed, but the flattery she’d offered Blizzard convinced Madison’s doctors she continued to separate from the darkness that imprisoned her.

  Jillian had celebrated by going to dinner with Dante, Tessa, and Elliott. Tuesday found Madison uncommunicative again, content to sit by the window and stare into space. Blizzard might not have existed for all the attention—or lack of attention—she bestowed. Elation spun into a mundane waiting game, the plodding hours made bearable by renewed splinters of hope. Jillian reminded herself to be patient. Every step, no matter how minor or infrequent, was improvement.

  Tuesday evening, she’d just finished drying dinner dishes and was talking to Dante on her cell when another call came through.

  “It’s Rest Haven.” Anticipation made her voice catch. “I’ve got to take this.”

  “I’ll hold.” Dante sounded every bit as anxious as she did. “If it’s news about Madison, I’d like to know.”