There was an emphatic acknowledgement from the group.
“Good. Well his nephews are buried here too, the first defendants to be convicted of accessory murder in the United States. They were both hanged right over there at what used to be the county jail . . . looks like they’ve turned it into luxury apartments.”
The crowd was losing its cohesion with individuals snapping photos and talking excitedly.
“Folks, we really got to shove off now,” the kid pleaded, “got to get to the next haunted stop.”
Like a frustrated border collie he tried to herd them back onto the bus.
She didn’t follow the group, but instead slowly approached Locan, a careless relaxed roll of her hips with each step. He had missed her, even more than he realized.
At last she stood in front of him, the breeze carrying her scent into his nostrils. He resisted the urge to lay her down on the tomb cap and screw her senseless.
“Have a seat, Mrs H won’t mind.”
She slid her behind onto the tomb cap, her dress moulding to the valley between her cheeks.
“Planning on becoming a tour guide when you retire?”
“I didn’t know you could retire from the Palatinae. Only they can say when your penance is up.”
“Hmm, that poor kid.”
“He’ll probably get laid tonight; he’ll get over it.”
“You think that solves all problems?”
“The only ones worth solving.”
“Locan . . . I missed you.”
“Missed you too, Rachel.”
“Racey.”
He grinned and pulled her towards him, kissed her, and deftly turned her onto her back.
“Here?” She asked, feigning wide-eyed surprise.
“Uhmmm.”
“It isn’t even dark yet.”
His hand slid up her thigh.
“Stop! We have a room.”
“Too far,” he said, and kissed her neck.
“I’ll shift.”
“Nooo, c’mon.”
“I mean it. Screw me on a nice soft bed, not a table of bumpy granite.”
“But I don’t know if I can walk,” he whined.
“I’ll help you; maybe we’ll get back before you get an ingrown erection. That would be a shame.”
“Ohhhh!”
Their walk back to the B&B was more like a pursuit as she fended off his hands and endured his pinches. They greeted Jeanie and almost fell up the stairs as the teenager blushed and giggled.
Once inside the room Rachel kicked off her shoes and tossed the hat. He lifted her dress to her shoulders and held it a moment. Her body was so pale.
“You don’t get out in the sun much, do you?” he said.
“I prefer moonlight. Complaining?”
“No, no, no . . . it’s just . . . a guy could go snow blind looking at you.” He lifted the dress over her head and let it fall. Her chestnut hair tumbled over her shoulders, veiling her unfettered breasts; she wore only a flower-print bikini panty. He began to back her towards the bed, but she sidestepped him and worked at his belt buckle, zipper, and took hold of his trousers at the hips. Then she had them off and his boxers with them.
He was on the bed, naked. She had lost the panties and had straddled him. It seemed she was about to forgo any preliminaries. But he wanted to kiss her, even more than fuck her. He reached up and pulled her onto his chest, lifting her so her lips could reach his.
She kissed him back, a long, lingering, lip-licking kiss.
He trailed more kisses and nibbles along her neck and over her shoulders, and let his hands roam down her back until he squeezed palmfuls of her round derrière. Still kissing, kissing every inch of her he could reach while on his back. His hands coursing over her cool skin, he couldn’t feel enough of this girl.
She clasped his cock in her hand, lifted herself and plunged herself onto him. Her cunt clenched him as her buttocks pounded his pelvis. Her eyes were closed, her wet lips parted in an “O”. A high, musical note was building into a wail. She was fucking him, taking what she wanted, impatient, rapacious.
A thousand blue fireflies cascaded down her arms.
She cried out in mid-thrust and plunged down, squeezing his thighs between her knees. His eyes rolled back and his fluid rocketed out of his cock. Every bit of tension drained from him. He went limp.
She refused to release his cock, even as it retreated, and began to swivel her hips, lazily swirling his cock inside her.
“God, that was good,” she said. Her eyes were half open, sleepy, and her mouth slanted into a sloppy smile. “C’mon, I’ll fuck you slow now.”
His cock was responding, but he thought it had a long way to go before making a useful recovery. He sighed, thinking how wonderful it was to be used and abused by her. He closed his eyes, a languid smile playing across his lips.
“Oh, my God, did I do that?”
“Huh?” he tried to sit up.
“Your pelvis is all bruised . . . wait a sec. Those bruises are . . . a few days old.” Her eyes lost that sleepy aspect and narrowed sharply.
“Bouncy,” he sighed.
“Bouncy? Sounds like one of your patented nicknames. Who is she?”
He sighed again. “A wonderful woman who granted me the privilege of pretending she was you.”
Her eyes softened again. “Oh . . . should I send her a thank-you note?”
“C’mere. I want to kiss you some more.”
She slid off his cock and snuggled into his shoulder, granting him her lips and kissing him deeply. When she broke their kiss she shook her head. “What is it about you, Locan, that girls just naturally want to be on top?”
“Hmmm, just easy, I guess. Or lazy.”
Later as she delicately played her fingers along his recovering cock and he swirled his hand across her ass, he asked, “Wasn’t there anyone else for you?”
“Sure . . . you can’t let an itch go unscratched for long. It was a girl, though.”
“That’s right; you had a thing for girls too.”
“I like girls . . . a lot. I like cock too.”
“And I’m glad you do.”
“She was a girl they partnered me up with. Her name was Daphne; she was nice. She’d had a run-in with a pooka . . .”
“Was she the girl with Dex O’Leary when—?”
“Yeah, she said that was her last partner. You know her?”
“Know about the pooka run-in she and old Dex had. It’s legend among the Palatinae.”
“Anyway, she was scared to death she’d run into another one. She used to sneak into my bed at night. We’d cuddle, and then we’d try other stuff. It was just girlfriend sleepover stuff, but it was nice to share a bed with someone.”
“How come they didn’t keep you together? Someone get wind of the ‘sleepover stuff’?”
“No . . . she saw me shift. We had a thing cornered in an old church. Jacoby told us it was an elemental – really dangerous. Turned out to be a fucking run-of-the-mill serial murderer, except he was a really hideous-looking dwarf. He got the drop on Daphne; only way I could get to him fast enough . . . anyway, it freaked her out a bit. She asked to be transferred. I couldn’t blame her.”
“How many times have you had to—?”
“Twice . . . there was just one other time.”
“Dealing with it?”
“Yeah, sure. I am what I am. Sometimes though . . .”
“What?”
“The sensations are so . . . incredible, so intoxicating . . . sometimes I’m afraid I won’t want to shift back.”
He held her head close to his chest. They dozed off.
They slept and screwed for the rest of the evening, not even bothering to have dinner. In the morning they awoke famished. The temperatures had fallen overnight. She slid into a pair of jeans, not bothering with panties, and pulled on a roomy sweatshirt. Locan watched her dress, then used his imagination to undress her again. No bra, no panties, just the ankle holster cradling a
Beretta. He liked her sense of fashion; he pulled on his own jeans and a hoodie bulky enough to disguise the Bulldog revolver tucked into the small of his back.
The breakfast room was small and accommodated only one other couple, who looked to be a long time retired. Jeanie again seemed to be on her own as she waited each table.
“My mom’s coming home next week,” the girl said and grinned.
“She’s been away?” Rachel asked.
“She had a tiny stroke a few months ago and she’s been in the rehab hospital. That’s why my dad hasn’t been around much. But she’ll be home right after Halloween.”
“Glad to hear it,” Locan offered.
“Yeah, I’ll be glad for my dad; he really misses her being around.”
She refilled their coffee cups and returned to the kitchen.
“Nice kid,” Locan said.
“Yeah, a really sweet personality. I was such a moody bitch when I was her age.”
“You were being fitted out for the convent. Hell, I’d be moody too.”
“So, what are we doing here?”
“They didn’t tell you?” Locan’s brow wrinkled.
“They were in too much of a hurry, I guess. Plucked me right out of Prague and put me on a plane.”
“Well,” Locan said, leaning his elbows on the table and forming a chapel arch with his hands. “I gather it’s a big panic over nothing. Silly really.”
“Rome doesn’t dispatch a pair of Paladins over something silly,” Rachel said, emphatically biting a bagel and smearing her upper lip with cream cheese.
“Oh?” Locan replied, shaking his head and making a face. “They do it all the time. But this time, I don’t know, it’s amazing what some people believe.”
“Well?”
“OK, ever read any horror fiction?”
“Stephen King.”
“Of course. Well, back in the day, pre-World War II, Stephen King was a guy named Lovecraft. He used to write some densely weird shit about ancient immortal monsters who every so often showed up and made some people’s lives a nightmare. Anyway, he concocted a whole mythos about these beings, and he very craftily let other writers expand on it, even to the point of citing allegedly genuine ancient texts as their source. You ever hear of the Necronomicon?”
“Yeah, during training, that’s one of the books Brother Theodosius told us to look out for. He said it was full of spells and was ‘extraordinarily evil’.” She mimicked the monk’s sonorous voice.
“Doesn’t exist. It’s bullshit, entirely concocted by Lovecraft and other writers.”
“But, why would they tell us about—”
“Lots of people believe it’s real because Lovecraft and his acolytes did such a good job of promoting it. The Vatican isn’t taking any chances, so here we are.”
“You mean they sent us after a book that doesn’t exist?”
“No, we’re after some nut job who believes it exists and who thinks he can summon these old monsters. About a year ago the Vatican began receiving odd emails. They read like Lovecraft stories, except the author isn’t calling them stories; he says they really happened and that he has the key to the whole mythos. Well, shit, there’s a general call to battle stations over this; it’s absolutely ludicrous.”
“So what are we supposed to do?”
Locan leaned over and wiped the cream cheese off her lip. “They know who sent the emails. It’s a little douche bag who’s calling himself Tovan. He’s here.”
“Why here?”
“Lovecraft set a lot of his stories in a group of fictional towns on Massachusetts’ North Shore. One town he called Arkham, but anyone with any knowledge of the area would know Arkham is a stand-in for Salem. They figure he’s going to summon these creatures forth at Halloween. We’re supposed to stop him.”
“How?”
He gazed at her a moment. “The guy’s a crackpot, but it doesn’t matter, they think he’s a threat to humanity and, by extension, the Church. Either way, he gets a one-way ticket to hell.”
“That . . . that’s not right. I mean, if he’s just a nut.”
“Maybe, just maybe there’s more to it, but that’s the basic story.”
Locan’s cell phone rang. Rachel shuddered. It rang for only one reason.
“Yeah?” Locan answered. “No shit? When? What the hell . . . ? Where? On our way.”
He snapped the phone shut. “We’re taking a walk to the police station.”
The heat had dissipated overnight and an autumn chill had settled in. Tourists filled the streets wearing jackets and sweaters, or bulky fleeces. It was an axiom of New England weather that held true: if you don’t like the conditions, wait a minute.
Locan proceeded to give Rachel the nickel tour as they made their way along Derby Street.
“That’s Derby Wharf over there, juts about a half-mile into the harbour. The guy who owned and developed it made a fortune in the Far East trade. He became America’s first millionaire. That’s the Custom House directly opposite where they used to tally up the cargo of every ship that came into port and levied an excise on it. It was the federal government’s sole source of revenue for a long time and Salem accounted for about half of it. See the corner office?”
“Yes.”
“Once occupied by Nathaniel Hawthorne. Had enough time on his hands to imagine The Scarlet Letter there. Lost his job when the administration changed. Used the prologue to get back at all the lifetime hacks who kept their jobs. Real catty stuff, ever read it?”
“No. Never read any Hawthorne, except what I had to in high school. Don’t really remember any of it.”
“Hmm, but you read Stephen King?”
“Sure.”
He pointed out a mansion that figured in a Lovecraft story as well as the Old Burying Point and the Witch Trials’ victims memorial.
“And that’s why all these people are here celebrating and wearing costumes and having a great time,” he said. “Because three hundred years ago a handful of people got their rights trampled over and paid for it with their lives. I wonder if three centuries from now some little town in Poland will have itself a little month-long festival like this, and folks’ll be walking the streets in striped pyajamas and having a gay old time.”
“Isn’t Halloween supposed to be fun?” Rachel said.
“Yeah . . . sure it is.”
They approached the police station, which was set kitty-corner beside railroad tracks. It looked like a redbrick Norman fortress. The lobby was bare; a pair of officers sat behind a counter separated from the lobby by bulletproof glass.
“Yes, sir, can I help you?” The officer was blonde, her hair tied back in a short ponytail.
“Sumner Osgood and wife to see Lieutenant DiLeo.”
He watched her eyes dart left to her male companion.
“He’s expecting us,” Locan added.
“Sir, would you and your wife please step through the metal detector.”
“That won’t be necessary, officer.” Mullens appeared out of nowhere.
The officer nodded and buzzed them into the inner sanctum of the station.
Mullens guided them to an office and hustled them through the door. A dozen eyes had watched every move they made.
The officer who stood behind the desk eyed them warily. Locan at once noticed the decoration on his lapel: The Order of St Peter. They didn’t give those out with a can of beans.
Mullens made the introductions: “Lieutenant DiLeo, Mr and Mrs Sumner Osgood.”
“Nice to meet you,” the lieutenant offered. “Now, let’s see some ID.”
Mullens nodded towards Locan and Rachel. They each proffered a leather hip wallet. The lieutenant took them and looked through Locan’s first.
“Garreth Locan and Rachel McDaniel . . . Palatinae . . . Paladins.
I’ve seen Interpol, Scotland Yard, even Moscow Militia. First time I ever saw one of these. They talk about you guys at cop conventions, you know, like you’re some kind of legend or may
be fairy tale. God’s cops, they call you.”
“Hardly,” Locan said.
“Agent Mullens wants you to see the rev. and his wife. There’s a lot of chatter going on about why the FBI is nosing around this thing. If anyone ever got wind that you two were here . . .”
“We’ll try to keep a low profile, Lieutenant DiLeo. What can you tell us about this couple?”
“As much as the local paper printed today. The minister was stopping kids as young as ten on the streets offering to pay them twenty bucks to hump his wife. Some parents tipped us; we got a warrant and ran their motel room. Found a couple of sixteen-year-olds with the missus. Busted them on a few dozen charges. You know, this guy’s known throughout the country as a conservative evangelical. He was in town to give a lecture at one of the churches. Can’t figure it out.”
“No bail?” Mullens asked.
“It looks like all that juice he used to have dried up real fast. Their own people in Iowa aren’t returning our calls. The pastor of the Enoch Baptist washed his hands of them. Right now, they don’t have a friend in the world, and Revd Wright didn’t have enough money on him to make bail for him and his wife. Spent every dime trying to get his wife laid.”
“Anyone ask them what they were up to?” Locan asked.
“They’re talking some ragtime about obliterating innocence at the behest of Cthulhu. Know who that is? Some half-assed god or something from one of Lovecraft’s stories.”
“Lieutenant, you’ve read Lovecraft?” Locan nodded towards Mullens and Rachel.
“Yeah, we had a crew of graffiti vandals a few years ago spray-painting Cthulhu all over town. Had to read up on it to get a handle on who they were.”
“What did you think?”
“I like Stephen King. Lovecraft was just too weird.”
“Hmm.”
“Another thing they kept saying is how they were guided by Tovan. We put the name out on the wire and that’s how we got the bureau hit.”
“Well, Lieutenant, can we speak to the reverend and his wife now? In fact, I’d like to interview Mrs Wright first.”
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