by Mae Clair
Slowly, Atticus turned to face his son. Enoch stood toe-to-toe with him, his expression grim. “I have stood by your side from the beginning, Father, but no more. From this day forth, you will share no part of my life. The thing you have done tonight cannot be forgiven, even by blood.”
Atticus’s mouth twisted. The boy was talking madness. “You are not thinking clearly. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I have never thought as clearly as I do now. I have been tending Gabriel’s farm and plan to purchase the land. I will care for it as he did, in his memory. And I will ask Nellie Renault to be my wife.”
Atticus felt a small piece of his life crumble. “Do not be foolish.”
“I will also make certain Fern knows of your hand in this foul deed.” Enoch ignored the admonishment. “When my sister learns of what you have done, she will want nothing to do with you, either. You will be alone.” His son had never spoken so coldly, his eyes hardened to chips of ice, his expression marked by contempt. “To grow old and die in isolation. When the time comes, you will be buried in Gabriel’s cemetery. For make no mistake, it is his now. If ever his bones are removed, I pray the protection you sought from him is renounced twofold, and the monsters you fear are released to wreak havoc on you and the descendants of all those who stand here tonight.”
“Imbecile!” Atticus wasn’t sure if his anger came from hostility or fear. “That includes your own line.”
“Yes.” Enoch smiled grimly. “You have brought me to that end, Father. When the demons come hunting, I pray you remember who is at fault for unleashing them.”
* * * *
Present Day
Jillian slipped inside The Knot with Tessa and Dante. She’d hadn’t taken the time to purchase a costume for the masquerade but had found a white eye mask beaded with faux pearls at a boutique shop in Palmer Point. White netting and an ostrich plume were bunched in a showy cluster near her temple. Making do with what she had, she’d paired the mask with a long black skirt, black boots, and a white silk blouse. The ensemble wasn’t much of a costume, but given the variety of outfits and near-costumes she saw, she didn’t feel out of place.
“Wow, it’s loud!” Tessa laughed and leaned close, pitching her voice to be heard above the pulsing beat of music and a rowdy din of voices. After paying at the door, they’d been given orange wristbands to wear, their ticket into the venues participating in the event. Several local music groups were scheduled to appear at various restaurants, and light hors d’oeuvres were included in the cover charge. A few October brews had special pricing, but everything else was at cost.
Maybe The Knot wasn’t the best place to start the night. At a little after eight, people were already spilling in the door, jostling elbow to elbow. Dante had dropped them off, then vanished to find a parking place. Costumes ranged from guys in ratty jeans with “Fiend” masks to others decked out in full Halloween regalia. Zombies and witches seemed to be popular—Tessa had chosen the latter for her costume—but others favored steampunk garb or elaborate Venetian Carnivale attire. Everyone wore a mask of some sort, though some of the men had already pushed theirs up on their heads. The mashup of masquerade and Halloween seemed to have attracted double the crowd one event alone would have drawn.
“Hey, I made it!” Dante squeezed in beside them. “I had to park four blocks down, but I found a spot.” He smoothed back the crown of his hair, the long strands secured in a ponytail at the base of his neck. “The wind is really picking up. It’s crazy out there.” Stepping aside to let a guy in a clown outfit past, he straightened his bowtie. “How do I look?”
“Extremely dapper.”
Jillian had to agree with Tessa’s assessment. Dante wore a tailored burgundy coat with black pants, a white shirt, and a tightly fitted black vest. For accent, he’d added gold gloves and a gold mask with a black top hat and walking stick. He could have passed for a ringmaster on loan from the big top.
“With two gorgeous women on my arms”—he offered them each an elbow—“how could I appear anything but?”
Tessa grinned. “You’d get higher marks if you found us a table and drinks.”
“Drinks I can handle. A table’s iffy.” He led them through the crowd. “Hopefully, Maya’s already here.”
They found her seated with another woman at the bar. Jillian recognized Ivy McDowell from the library where Maya worked as a reference librarian.
“Hey, you made it!” Maya waved them over. Dressed in a Carnivale gown of dark blue embroidered with lace trim, she wore a matching tricorn hat. An enormous ostrich plume and peacock feathers sprouted from the brim, accented by a cluster of teardrop crystals. Her face mask—complete with gold-rimmed eyes, rouged cheeks, and powder-pink lips—was perched at the top of an acrylic stick. “We tried to save you stools, but the place is packed. I wish Collin could have made it. This is going to be the talk of the town for days.”
“I’m already in love with the pumpkin ale.” Ivy sipped a dark draft from a tall pilsner glass, then slid from her stool. “Why don’t one of you sit down? We’ve been here for a while, and I need to use the ladies’ room.”
Jillian motioned for Tessa to take the seat. She was too jittery with nerves, trying to downplay the scintillating energy of the crowd. Every table was taken, servers scurrying between the aisles with platters of food and drinks hefted high overhead. Most wore cadaver makeup with a thick noose knotted loosely about their necks. Macabre, but the place was called The Knot and Halloween sometimes pushed the envelope of taste.
Dante touched her arm. “What can I get you to drink?”
“Chardonnay, thanks. I’m not much for beer.”
“Tessa?” Dante glanced at his cousin.
“I’ll try the pumpkin ale.”
Behind them, a new group of partygoers spilled into the pub. “Damn! I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore, Toto.” A man dressed as a vampire shook out his cape. “That wind is freaky.”
His companions laughed, and several others turned to look out the windows. It was too dark to see anything beyond the glass, but Jillian imagined she heard blustery gusts above the whine of electric guitars. Whatever the weather outside, it didn’t mute the high energy level in the bar.
A few minutes later, Ivy returned from the ladies’ room. “I’m going to grab a plate of hors d’oeuvres. Any requests?”
“Food.” Dante passed Jillian her wine.
“I guess that means you get potluck.”
Maya laughed. “I’ll come with you and grab a plate, too. I’m sure he’ll eat whatever we come back with.”
Jillian watched the two weave through the crowd.
Dante motioned for her to take the vacant bar stool. “Hungry?”
“A little.” She hadn’t eaten since breakfast but needed her nerves to settle first. Without her tinted lenses, surrounded by the boisterous crowd, she felt vulnerable. At least the mask concealed her to a degree.
He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Sometime I’d like to take you out. Just the two of us.”
It was clearly her night for being discombobulated. “We’ve been out before.” Her heartbeat quickened as she gazed up at him. “Several times.”
“To talk about curses, Gabriel Vane, or ghosts. It would be nice not to have to share you with a dead guy.” He slipped off his mask. “How about it? I know you’ve got a lot on your plate with Madison, but if you get an evening free next week, I’d like to take you to a nice restaurant. Maybe Italian.”
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been on a date. Sometime pre–Mill Street. Feeling a flush on her cheeks, Jillian lowered her head. “Italian sounds good.” She was thankful her mask would hide most of her color. “I’ll leave Blizzard at home.”
“Deal breaker.” His voice was deadpan.
Jillian glanced up sharply. “What?”
“Kidding.” Grinning,
he extended his hand. “Would you like to dance?”
Before she could answer, Tessa took her glass. “I’ll hold your drink for you.” She must have overhead part of their conversation. Jillian hoped not all of it.
Dante kept her on the floor for two dances before they joined the others at the bar. By that time, Maya and Ivy had returned with hors d’oeuvres, and they all spent a few minutes munching and talking. Ivy got chatty with the guy seated beside her—a square-jawed type with steampunk goggles and a military-style black coat. After a while, she left with him, saying they were going to check out some of the other places on the crawl. Dante took Tessa for a spin on the dance floor, then Maya. Jillian danced with Tessa and found herself relaxing. By the time the next song kicked in, the entire group stayed on the floor.
“I think I need a real meal.” Tessa pressed a hand to her forehead when the final notes of “Play That Funky Music” drew to a close. “What if we try Sharks? I heard they’ve got their club sandwiches on special.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Dante steered the three women from the dance floor. “We just need to brave the wind.”
Outside, chill gusts blew partygoers up and down the sidewalks, but most people seemed to take the weather in stride, loitering under overhangs where music and lights spilled onto the street. The whole area was brightened by neon bar signs, streetlamps, and the headlights of passing cars.
At Sharks, they managed to snag a table as another group was leaving and stayed until almost eleven. Maya made her goodbye a short time later, and Jillian began to think of doing the same. She could always call a cab. As designated driver, Dante had switched to soda a while ago, but she could tell he was enjoying the band Sharks had booked and probably wasn’t ready to leave. She should have grabbed a ride with Maya.
“We can’t call it a night yet.” Tessa seemed to sense where her thoughts were headed. “I haven’t had a fun night out since…” She frowned as if giving the matter serious thought. “My divorce. How pathetic is that?”
“Pathetic.” They’d all removed their masks some time ago. In the hazy light of the pub, Dante’s hazel eyes were walnut brown. “As your only cousin, it’s my sworn duty to correct the oversight.”
“Oh, yeah? How?”
“Let’s check out April’s next door. They’ve got great craft beer.”
“I thought you were drinking soda?”
“I am, but you aren’t.” Grinning, he cast a glance at Jillian. “How about it?”
Not wanting to be the one to put a kibosh on the fun, she smiled agreement. At April’s, they crowded into a corner of the bar, each ordering a seasonal draft. The ale tasted of pine and citrus, but it was lighter than some of the others Jillian had sampled that night. After a while, Tessa left to use the restroom, and Dante fell into a discussion with the guy beside him about eighteenth-century painters.
Maybe it was because the man was wearing a black bodysuit with a glow-in-the-dark skeleton on the front and back, but Jillian suddenly felt uneasy. The time inched close to midnight, and she was beginning to drag. She’d enjoyed the evening but had reached her limit and wanted to go home and crawl into bed.
Her thoughts spun to Gabriel—a cold grave, his brutal death. If the monsters of Hickory Chapel Cemetery had been free to wreak havoc before, how much more likely were they to cause mayhem on Halloween, a night when the boundary between the living and the dead grew thin?
Shivering, she glanced about the bar. There hadn’t been a death in days. Maybe the curse had a limit and had run its course.
Her attention was snagged by two men at a table by the door. Both were big, the first with a buzz cut and hooked nose, the second with wavy brown hair and an angular jaw. The younger of the two had a Fiend mask at his elbow, both sans costumes in jeans and sweatshirts. From the slouched posture of the first man and his attachment to a long-necked bottle, he was on his way to a roaringly good drunk.
The second man looked moody, chin propped in hand as he studied the crowd. When their gazes locked, he swiftly averted his eyes, withdrawing like a turtle into a shell.
Tessa returned from the ladies’ room. “What did I miss?”
Jillian fought against a yawn. “Me. On the verge of turning into a pumpkin.”
“I think I’m right there with you.” Tessa retrieved her mask from the bar. “It’s going to be late Mass tomorrow for me and Elliott.” She batted Dante on the shoulder. “Hey, driver, are you ready to call it a night?”
“I could be persuaded.” He offered a shrug to the guy he’d been talking with. “Nice chatting with you, but I’ve got two impatient ladies ready to leave.”
“Be thankful, dude. I don’t even have one.”
Dante grinned. He shook the guy’s hand, then stood. “Okay, ladies, I’m ready if you are.”
Jillian gathered her purse and slid off the bar stool. As she turned back to the door, she realized the man with the Fiend mask had left, the table where he’d sat now vacant. In the crowded room, that flagrant spot of emptiness was glaringly noticeable—like a tomb no one would touch.
Jillian looked away from the sight and hurried toward the door.
* * * *
The beers Clive had quaffed didn’t settle well in his stomach. Warren had downed a mix of drinks all night—everything from ale and Jack to rum and vodka—but his brother had an iron gut. Always had. Clive had fun in the beginning of the night, but the later it got the bleaker his mood grew. He kept thinking about the man with the golden retriever yesterday. He’d wanted to pet the dog, but by the time he’d finished texting Kirk, the guy had left. Clive headed to the pound like he’d planned, but there were no pooches that resembled Bodine. All the dogs had looked at him with sad eyes, and he’d left alone, feeling depressed.
Like now.
Something bad was going to happen. The pretty lady at the bar had been an omen.
She’d reminded him of the woman on Mill Street—blond hair instead of red, but with features that looked the same. His stomach had rolled over when he saw her, memories of what Kirk had done pummeling him like blows from a hammer. He’d had to fight the urge to hurl, grateful when Warren said it was time to leave.
The cold air helped chase away the sweats. He pawed a hand over his face.
“How far away did you park?” Warren hunched his shoulders against the wind and fished in the pocket of his bomber jacket.
“Up across the street.” Clive started walking, but Warren hung back, cupping his hands to light a cigarette. The harsh smell wafted to Clive as his brother exhaled, churning the acid in his gut. Balling up his Fiend mask, he stuffed it in his coat, saddened that fun had given way to folly. The wind hurtled leaves against his feet. Chased bits of litter between parked cars and set utility wires into a mad dance overhead.
He just wanted to go home. Crawl into bed. Forget the woman at the bar.
Shit!
There she was again—walking on the opposite side of the street beside a guy in a burgundy jacket and a woman dressed as a witch. His steps lagged as he studied her.
What if she was the woman from Mill Street? Hewitt’s wife had ended up in a mental ward, but what if she’d recovered? Dyed her hair? He wet his lips as a white sedan sped past, cruising through a yellow light. He waited for the traffic signal to cycle to red.
Already several steps ahead, Warren glanced over his shoulder. “Get your ass in gear. It’s freaking cold. I want to get to the car.” He exhaled smoke through his nostrils. There were a few people around—pockets of partygoers still in costume.
“We should wait for the walk signal.” Wait until she’s a few blocks away.
Warren swayed slightly. “Screw the signal. Do you see any cars?” He jiggled a hand at the empty street.
Clive shook his head but stayed rooted to the sidewalk.
“The hell with you.” With a drunken backhand wave, Warren bl
undered into the crosswalk. “I’ll see you at the car.”
He’d only taken three steps when a loud boom jerked him to a halt. Pivoting, he cast his gaze skyward. A utility cable plunged from its mooring, ripped free by the wind. Sparks spurted from the end, a shower of blue-white death lighting up the night.
Warren stumbled. Dove to the side, but was too inebriated to avoid the spitting, writhing snake. The wire lashed about his waist, ripping a scream from his throat. His arms and legs locked in place as the sickening stench of burning clothes and flesh filled the air.
“Nooo!” Heart pounding, Clive raced toward his brother.
The cable skittered free, eel-slick, sin-black. Warren crumpled in a contorted heap, hunched over like a turtle. His eyes gaped wide and sightless, spittle pooling from his mouth onto the ground. All around him, the street plunged into darkness, pole lamps and pub lights extinguished in the wink of an eye.
“No, shit no!” Clive dropped beside him, deep sobs wrenched from his gut. A car screeched to a halt a few feet away, the white glare of headlights blinding him. He felt like a sideshow display in that garish circle, his brother’s bent form exhibited for all to see.
“It’s my fault, all my fault. The bell was meant for me.” Pulling Warren against his chest, Clive rocked the broken form, fat tears splattering on his brother’s singed clothing. The smell of char would have choked him if horror hadn’t wedged a lump in his throat. All around him people poured from pubs, their shouts like blackbird chatter. Some screamed, others cried. More than one yelled for an ambulance.
“All right, get back. Stay back. Police.” A man’s authoritative voice sliced into his misery. He heard the crackle of a radio, the clump of footsteps on asphalt. A siren wailed in the distance.
“My fault, my fault.” The ring of zombies and masked partygoers retreated.
A man squatted beside him. “You need to let me see.”
“He’s dead.” Clive sucked his bottom lip. Looked up into weathered features, hair silvered with frost at the temples.
“I’m Detective David Gregg.” The man placed a hand on his shoulder.