Booke of the Hidden

by Jeri Westerson

  He nodded. “We’ll discuss it when the tea is ready.” He watched me prepare it for a moment before he said quietly, “Looks to me as if you’ve been trying to catch my attention all evening.”

  I paused over the tin of China Yunnan, my scoop full of the rich herby leaves. “Well…yeah.” I worked on autopilot, preparing the teapot, filling the infuser, and watching the kettle. “Last night…um. Last night, something else happened.” I was facing the counter. I didn’t want to look him in the eye. I had a feeling I knew what he was going to say. “Something between Erasmus and me.”

  I heard the chair scrape back and felt the reassuring presence of Doc behind me. “Kylie,” he said softly. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  I spun around to face him. “Nothing happened! I mean…we kissed. But that was it.”

  His lips were parted and his gray eyes searched mine. “I don’t think I have to tell you what kind of fire you’re playing with.”

  “I know!” I moved around the room aimlessly, pinging from counter to counter. “And nothing will happen. He put the brakes on. He said…he said…”

  Hands on my arms finally stopped me. “Kylie. He’s right.”

  “I know.”

  Doc paused a moment before letting me go. He leaned back against the tiled counter. “I don’t pretend to really know about you; who you are and what your life was like before. We haven’t known each other long enough for that. But I do know something about self-destructive behavior. As a country doctor, people have confided all sorts of things in me, and I’ve had to keep up on psychology and all that. Your coming here to Maine, uprooting yourself. It must have been something mighty big to make you do that. Something that you keep hidden. But you know and I know that we can’t really run from the things that cause us pain. We confront them and then come to terms with them.”

  I gestured, trying to get the words out. “I wasn’t really…running…”

  “Whatever it is, you seem to be doing a fine job of building something new here. But we are creatures of habit. We fall into our old ways very easily. And if part of that was choosing a partner who wasn’t exactly the best for us…”

  I held up my hand. “You don’t have to say it. He’s a bad choice. The worst choice. I mean…a demon? My ex-boyfriend was a real winner. If I wasn’t so sure he was human I might put him in the demon category.” I saw the concern on his face and shook my head. “He wasn’t abusive. And I guess he wasn’t as bad as I paint him. But he did get to me in lots of ways. And then my mom passed away.” I breathed. “So I decided all new scenery was the ticket. I just wanted out of there. I don’t know if it means I was running away. I fell in love with this place the first time I saw it. I felt more like I was running to something. Know what I mean?”

  He nodded. A kind smile—his doctor smile, no doubt—gentled his face.

  “I think I can be happy here in Moody Bog. And…” I picked up a tea towel and absently wrung it in my hands. “I was attracted to Erasmus. He’s pretty good-looking. And that accent. But…I know he’s all wrong. And he was nice enough to end it before it began. But I just thought you should know. I wondered why he was attracted to me but… He’s been trapped in that Booke for so long that maybe anyone with a pulse would do.” I twisted the towel the other way. “As it happens, I’m having dinner with Sheriff Ed. That, too, is a different choice for me.”

  He jerked his head back in surprise. “By Godfrey! I’ll be darned. Right. I wish you all the best.”

  “He seems like a nice guy.”

  “He is. I’ve known him for a number of years. He’s a genuine person.”

  “That’s what I need,” I muttered, turning back to the whistling kettle. “A genuine person.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Kylie! Ky-lie!” My grandfather’s voice. I turned and there he was, waving at me from his vine-covered porch. I could almost smell the gooseberry pie cooling in the kitchen. My six-year-old self lifted freckled cheeks to the sunshine. To my left was a view far below of the vast Atlantic shimmering in the sunlight. To my right, a dense forest full of trails to discover and fallen trees to climb.

  I glanced toward my grandfather again and he was still waving, but he looked farther away than he had before.

  Suddenly my mother’s voice came from over my shoulder. “You go in and help your grandfather. Summer’s almost over and we’ll have to go home.”

  “But I don’t want to go home.”

  “You have to,” said my mother sternly. I tried to see her over my shoulder, but no matter which way I turned, she wasn’t visible.

  “We can’t stay in Maine in the fall. Grandpa said it’s too dangerous.”

  “Why?” I asked. “I want to stay.” When I looked back at my grandfather, his face had suddenly saddened. Clouds had gathered and darkened the yard and he was even farther away than before.

  “Grandpa!” I called, but he was shaking his head and retreating into the old clapboard house.

  I awoke, eyes wide.

  Memories flooded my mind. My grandfather. We had spent summers with my grandfather…in Maine. I remembered now. But where in Maine? I scrubbed at my face. I couldn’t believe I never remembered that before. I remembered that yard, the view of the ocean where the sun rose instead of set, the dark forest that sheltered, the gusts of wind, the lazy days in a quiet place. A place I had inexplicably forgotten.

  Where in Maine? There was no one left alive to ask. But I had my mother’s things in storage. Maybe there was a photo album. Maybe I could find out. Maybe the Stranges had come from Maine. Why had I forgotten? And then there was that mention of the Stranges in Ruth Russell’s family tree. Coincidence? Two branches of Stranges in Maine? Was that even possible? Another trip to the library to look in their archives was in my future.

  I lay back in the bed. A chill washed over me as those memories played in my head. Always the summer. Never the fall. What was so dangerous about the fall? Was that just the dream, or was it a real memory?

  I tried to sleep, rolling over and over, looking for that elusive comfortable spot. Finally I sat up and turned on the light on my nightstand. Pulling the blankets and quilt with me I propped up my legs and hugged my knees, laying my cheek on them.

  The dream was fading and the memories with them. I definitely needed those photo albums. But even as I wondered about those happy long-ago days with my mother and grandfather, my man troubles slid to the fore, pushing the old memories aside. Men! It was no good moping over men. Especially one whose address was situated in warmer climes. “A demon is not a suitable partner,” I said aloud. My voice sounded lonely at this hour, out of place with the darkness at the edge of the halo of light from the lamp. Now more than ever I wished my mom was here. I could tell her about Erasmus and she would say something silly like, “Follow your heart.”

  I could just make out the dark shapes of the stacks of library books on my corner desk. Sighing, I whipped off the blankets and I ran across the floor on bare feet. I was wearing a thin cami and short sleep pants, both much too skimpy for the deep cold of the room. But I managed to snag the books and run back to bed with them. I jumped under the comforter and secured it over my chest, propping up the pillows behind me before I spread the books around my legs. I hefted one I had not looked at earlier and cracked it open. “Succubus, succubus…” I muttered, looking down the table of contents. I opened the book to the proper page and read. Ancient Sumer, blah blah; attacks men in their sleep, yadda yadda; can suck the life force out of men and kill them, etcetera, etcetera. Same ole, same ole.

  I lowered the book to my lap and lay back against the pillow. These books all said the same thing, and not one of them had a suggestion for getting rid of the creatures.

  The Booke lay on the desk, too, without the others for companionship. I gathered the library books, set them in a pile on my nightstand, and couldn’t help but glare at that big old Booke of the Hidden, sitting patiently on its own.

  With a world-weary
sigh, I threw the covers back again and ran across the cold plank floor. Grabbing the monster Booke, I ran back to bed and hopped in. Under the covers once more I hefted the tome and laid it out on my legs. Its gold-leafed letters taunted, glinting in the light of my bedside lamp.

  “Booke of the Hidden,” I read aloud. “What else are you hiding? And why couldn’t you have stayed hidden?”

  My fingers touched the gold leafing, ran over the engraving of the letters in the leather. Hidden secrets. Hidden desires. Hidden dangers. I bet Mistress Howland felt trapped like this. Weighed down by the responsibility. How I wish I knew for sure. My cheeks warmed again at the thought of being caught by Ruth Russell, Constance Howland’s many times great grandniece. And my cousin as well, it seemed.

  Had it all, ultimately, proved too much for old Constance? How much would I feel at the end of all this? Maybe the Powers That Be didn’t want to destroy it, but I sure did. Maybe I could find a way. With the help of my Wiccans. I wanted to make sure there were no more Chosen Hosts to get trapped by circumstances or get tossed over cliffs or question their morality late into the night.

  And that vortex voice that haunted my waking hours kept playing in my head, too. It had called it a game. “The game is not for the weak of heart.” And “what has begun cannot now be stopped.” What game was it? And did Erasmus know the rules?

  Sliding down the Booke’s cover, my fingers lighted on the cold metal clasp. I lifted it with a soft click and opened it. The leaves of parchment lay before me, blank as a desert. There was a pen on my nightstand and I took it up. The Booke lay open on my legs and my hands smoothed over the buff parchment. Nothing marred it. No line, no indentation, no ink smudge. It was as if nothing had ever been written on it.

  I put the tip of my pen to the top left-hand corner of flat vellum and closed my eyes. Taking a deep breath, I let my hand go, allowing no thoughts to influence me, no outside intrusions. All of my senses were attuned to the Booke, and I absorbed it like leaves took in sunshine. When I opened my eyes, I began my first sentence:

  A succubus has escaped the pages of this Booke and it is my sacred duty to subdue and capture the beast in any way I can.

  I lifted the pen point from the page and simply stared at the letters in my own hand, scratched onto its even surface with heavy black ink. My heart swelled at this moment of triumph…but only for an instant. As I watched, this ink, too, began to sink into the plane of parchment and disappear. It was as if I had never touched it. No indentations from my pen remained. And I had been so sure, so sure it was going to stay!

  I set the pen aside and stretched my palms over the pages before me. “What is it you want? Why me?”

  No answer, of course. With a grunt of disappointment, I closed the cover. Because it was too big for my nightstand, I leaned over the side of the bed and set it on the floor.

  Outside, the wind was kicking up, rattling leaves and twigs. A scratching noise started softly, but was getting louder. A tree branch. I threw off the covers a third time, tiptoed over the cold wooden floor, and drew back the curtains. The moon was getting ready to set over the distant hills and there wasn’t much light left. But I could still make out the crackling foliage in my back garden, the silver-toned half-fence encircling the yard. A large oak tree near the house swayed from the wind, but its branches weren’t close enough to touch the clapboard wall. So what was making that noise?

  I looked down again into the yard. An old glider swing, an arbor with dead morning glory vines on it, a pile of firewood and more to be split. And something else. Something in the middle of the yard I didn’t recognize. I couldn’t quite make it out, and I was trying to figure out if it was some wayward bit of laundry blown off of a neighbor’s line…when the something uncoiled. At first, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It was as if something was being inflated like a balloon right in the middle of my backyard. It slowly rose, unfolding. And as it grew I started to make out first a torso, then shoulders, and then head. My mouth opened with a gasp and I pressed my hand against the cold windowpane to steady myself.

  The blob unfurled into the shape of a person. A willowy figure with long stringy hair whipping about with the wind. And there was the shadow of horns on its head. No—her head, because it was a distinctly female shape. She wore a light fabric that fluttered about her. At first, I thought it was also a long skirt, but realized with some horror that it was a tail! It did not move with the vagaries of the wind as her ragged dress seemed to, but it whipped slowly back and forth like an agitated cat’s tail.

  She turned her head and lifted her chin, searching, and found me. I could not see her face but with the merest glint from the disappearing moon I thought I saw fangs. And I did see eyes. Red, glowing eyes, staring right at me. She walked toward the house in a strange gait, as if unused to using her two limbs.

  I couldn’t move or scream, though I longed to do both. She reached the wall, still looking up at me, and ran her nails down the sides of the clapboards, and I could feel the sounds of those scratches vibrating through my bones.

  And then she climbed. She dug her nails, her talons, into the wood and pulled herself up. Her mouth gaped open, I could see it now. Her long tongue thrashed over her protruding fangs, flicking them, leaving them shiny and glistening. The hard scrabble of her talons against the clapboards shocked me into taking a step back.

  What was I going to do? I was in complete panic mode. I couldn’t even run. And where would I go?

  The skittering behind me made me jump and turn. The crossbow had armed itself and it rattled on the chair, itching to come to me. Breathless, I raised my shaking hand. That was enough, and it soared across the room and slapped into my grip. Its solidity gave me strength, calmed me down. “Okay, bitch,” said my quaking voice. “Let’s take care of this now.”

  I threw open the casement, put the crossbow into my shoulder, and aimed out the window.

  Nothing. She was no longer there.

  “What the—?”

  A dark shape flew up and slammed me backward. My head hit the floor hard. Something rolled into the room and my crossbow…my crossbow! It had been knocked out of my hand, and it was gone. Where the hell was it?

  The dark thing ricocheted around the room. The lamp arced overhead, crashed against the wall, and the light went out. I scrambled across the floor, feeling with my fingers in the dark for the crossbow. I lifted my hand for it, but I was knocked aside.

  A slash at my shoulder. Bright pain, like a hundred knives. I rolled, trying to get out of the thing’s way, trying to find safety. I was smothered with the smell of damp leaves and the sickly scent of death. I crawled away across the floor but something had grasped my ankle. I kicked wildly at it but it was far stronger. I was flipped over and then a ghastly weight took my breath away. It was on top of me, glaring down at me. Fangs, red eyes, breath full of decay. I gasped, inhaling to scream but all my breath suddenly reversed and was going the other way, sucking into her.

  I choked, tried to push her, kick her. Her taloned hands held my wrists and pressed them into the floor. I fought like an animal, wriggling, arching, kicking, but there was no breath. I couldn’t let it win. I had come so far, not just in miles but in every other way, too. I wanted this new life. It couldn’t be cut short.

  Her stinking breath was too close to me, but suddenly she made a gurgling sound and drew back. Those weird red eyes were staring at my chest. She pushed her way off of me, grinding my shoulder blades into the floor.

  Relief and oxygen flooded my lungs. Something had spooked her and I wanted to know what it was. I felt around on my chest. In my struggle, the amulet had worked its way loose from my cami. That had to have been it. I sat up on my elbows. She was still in the corner of my room, breathing hard, crouched as if to pounce, lit by the last vestiges of moonlight.

  I edged my hand out, hoping the crossbow would get the message and appear in my hand. A scraping sound along the floor, and I felt the cool metal and the smooth wood once again under
my fingers. Without moving from the floor, I slapped it quickly to my shoulder and fired.

  She jumped. Straight up to the ceiling. I heard the quarrel smack hard into the wall where she had been. Now what?

  Another shadow zoomed past, soaring up to the ceiling, and slammed against the creature. They tumbled, dark and light, making no sound but the swish of fabric and the slap of muscle colliding with the hard wall and floor. With one bounce she was out the window and Erasmus Dark paused on the sill, crouched unnaturally like a frog, coat trailing behind him like a long tail. He didn’t look human in that instance. He was all animal, on his haunches, ready to pounce.

  Panting, I stayed put on the floor, propped up on my elbows. The crossbow lay across my lap, bow unstrung and quarrel back in its slot. I looked up sharply and spied the hole in the wall it had left behind.

  “I almost had it,” I wheezed.

  He snapped his head toward me. He leapt from the window, took one step, knelt and scooped me up in his arms. The crossbow clattered to the floor. When he kissed me this time, I was all in. I clenched my arms around his neck, warming my mouth on his. He urged my mouth open with a heated tongue and my head fell back, surrendering.

  He kissed me for a long time, angling his head, and I loosened my hold on his neck to grab at his coat, gripping the lapels.

  When he finally drew back, his eyes dropped to mine. “She hurt you,” he breathed.

  I had almost forgotten the sting of my shoulder. He gently pushed me back to look at it. “Not deep,” he muttered, fingers grazing it. I hissed at the tenderness of the flesh. He dropped his hand away. “It will be slow to heal, but in time it will.”

  “She attacked me. I thought they wouldn’t attack a woman.”

  He gusted a long sigh, still holding me like some prince in a fairy tale—a very dark tale. “You are the Chosen Host. She knows that. She knows if you write her into the book she will be imprisoned.”

  “The Booke! I should write in the Booke!” I popped up from the floor out of his arms to leap over the bed, but his hand encircling my wrist held me back.