Tricks & Treats: A Romance Anthology

by Candace Osmond

  He takes a moment to reply. “I don’t need it.”

  My throat tightens. My shoulders tense. And then, without me even realizing why, they relax. I blow out the candle. “Okay. If we’re going, let’s go.” I think I hear him smile. Can a smile be heard? He finds my hand in the darkness and we venture forward.

  “A step up,” he whispers, just before the toe of my shoe hits rock. He wasn’t joking. He knows these tunnels. Again my pulse starts racing, along with my mind. Why does he know these tunnels, and know them so well? Does being an actor at the Citadel require this kind of knowledge? Are we even under the Citadel any longer? Likely not. Likely we’re under the city, the downtown core. Will we go even deeper?

  My brother told me once that the network of abandoned tunnels below the city was rumoured to go all the way under the harbour to Georges Island. But that was only a rumour, and construction in recent years would have blown any possibility of those tunnels existing to smithereens.

  We walk in near silence, only the sound of our breath and feet, and the distant rush of cars above breaking the intense nothingness. Time seems undefinable—has it been ten minutes, twenty, two? And distance—all at once it feels as if we’ve walked for miles and barely the length of a room. We move slowly, that much I know.

  “What’s—?” My voice catches. Ahead of us is something. Not light exactly. Not a shape. But less darkness. Less nothing. Benjamin squeezes my hand but stays silent as we continue on, the blackness becoming less and less black, and slowly, almost imperceptibly, a hint of yellow mingles with it. Light. Soft. Muted. But light.

  “Stop here.”

  He releases my hand. I barely see his figure step ahead of me, but I do see it, and then suddenly he’s above and arms reach down under mine. I’m lifted as if I hardly weigh a thing, as if I’m a child. He scoops me in his arms and keeps me there, pressed against his hard chest.

  “This part’s a little mucky.” Again, I hear the smile rather than see it. “Wouldn’t want those ballet flats to get ruined.”

  Neither would I, but shoes are the last thing on my mind. I’m not a big woman, but not small either—5’6” and often pushing 160 pounds. Curvy, I like to call myself. Solid, says my eldest brother, who is not my favourite person in the world. And I’ve been carried before. The men in my family work construction—or used to. They’re solid and strong, and yet never have I felt this light in a person’s arms. He’s not straining. His muscles, as I graze my hand across his triceps and down to his forearm, are relaxed.

  When he puts me down a wave of disappointment floats over me as the cold covers the spots warmed by him. But then I notice the glow has grown. It flickers, and I can actually see Benjamin’s smile, can hear strains of music. And voices. And laughter. Excitement pulses through me. Our pace quickens.

  The music grows. The light grows. The laughter grows. And then we’re there. The room is cavernous. I can’t see the ceiling, but candles adorn the walls and flicker on large candelabras throughout the space. Nearly a hundred people move throughout the room. All in costume. They vary, but the theme, clearly, is eighteenth century attire. The women in tight bodices and full or pleated skirts with low shoulders, high necklines, rich burgundies and greens and blues. The men, less noteworthy, but sharp. Many wear uniforms, much like Benjamin’s. Others wear trousers with stripes or checks, thick waistcoats, vests, large, flamboyant collars or ties, and more than half wear some kind of top or bowler hat.

  Some, both men and women, wearing sharper, tighter clothing than the rest, in black or rich reds, or dazzling whites, laugh with glistening fangs. One woman, pulling away from necking a man, wipes what looks like drops of blood from the corner of her lips with a hanky.

  My eyes widen. Benjamin smiles at me. “Looks authentic, no?”

  I gulp and nod. Looks amazing. Looks other worldly. As if I’ve stepped onto the set of Interview with the Vampire, with a little Oliver Twist and Crimson Peak thrown in. Although I’m showing less cleavage than some of these women, I suddenly feel extremely underdressed, and inappropriately dressed. As if reading my mind, Benjamin cups my elbow in his hand and pulls me close. “You’re fine.” His breath tickles my earlobe. “Every party needs a little variety. You’ll be welcomed.”

  Almost on cue, a woman calls out: “Benjamin, at last!” She glides toward us as heads turn. We step out of the shadows and into the light. Many nod. Others smile. Some wave a hand in greeting. Others’ eyes linger on me. Judging? Questioning? I shift even closer to Benjamin.

  The woman, who is before us now, reaches out with both arms and draws Benjamin to her. She kisses the air on either side of his cheek then holds him before her, a look of clear lust, if I’ve ever seen one, in her eyes. She pouts. “You took so long.” At last her gaze flits toward me. “Did you have to babysit?”

  Benjamin grasps the woman’s wrists and lowers them. Light glints off of her fangs as she offers a languorous smile.

  “I only see you every five years. And you’re late.” Her eyes widen and her lips pucker. “That isn’t very polite.”

  Benjamin smiles back, but the kind of smile you give someone you’re impatient with. “I’m here every year, Lucinda. That five-year interlude is your choice.”

  She huffs. “I’m in demand. Some people appreciate my company.” A subtler pout. “A dance?”

  He shrugs. “Maybe later.” His hand again on my elbow, he leads me past Lucinda and into the room. I swivel my head to catch another glimpse of the woman who stands, her arms crossed, just inside of the shadows. Every five years? She looks so young. My gaze turns to Benjamin. He looks so young. I guessed he was older than me. Twenty-five? Heck, maybe as old as thirty. But every five years? Every implies more than two, likely more than three.

  “A drink?” His voice catapults into my thoughts and I jump. He smiles. “A dance? Some tapas?”

  I stare wide-eyed, and imagine my mouth flaps like a cod in the hull of a boat. “Drinks.” I spurt. “Virgin?”

  “Virgin?” His eyebrow raises and those eyes—green, definitely green. A bluish green—dance with mirth. “We’ll see what we can do.”

  He leads me through the clusters of people chatting, laughing, dancing, and over to a long table at one end of the space. The table is covered with food. None of the typical fare of Halloween parties—gitchy appetizers made to look like ghosts or fingers or spiders—but nice stuff. Expensive stuff. Oysters and truffles and smoked salmon. The punch bowls are the only items that seem to have a Halloween theme. There are two. Red. Bright red. But not quite blood red. Sangria red. I don’t know why I said virgin. I drink. I’m fine with drinking. I just don’t want this guy to think he can get me drunk and have his way with me.

  Benjamin lifts a crystal ladle and pours it into a crystal cup. He barely fills a quarter of it, then passes it to me.

  “This one’s virgin?”

  He shrugs. “Wine. No liquor, and I’ve barely given you a taste. It wouldn’t affect a child.” He scans the room. “Not many are drivers, but I may be able to find some water somewhere, or you could wait for ice to melt.”

  I bring the cup to my lips and take a sip. It’s delicious. Like liquid happiness. Smooth, cool, and sweet with just the right amount of tang. “This should be fine.”

  He fills a cup for himself, from the other bowl. We drink staring at each other. The moment I’ve finished he whisks me onto the dance floor. The room spins and twirls. He can dance. Really dance. And this isn’t any Top 40 stuff. It’s ballroom, kind of, but not quite like any I’ve ever done. I’m slipped from hand to hand, man to man, but always I return to Benjamin.

  When the song draws to a close he pulls me toward him, his eyes still dancing.

  “More Sangria?” I question, feeling giddy. Feeling alive.

  “Or something better?”

  “Better?” Warning signals flash.

  “More exciting. More interesting.”

  I make a split-second decision. Trust. He leads me toward the shadows, but n
ot in the direction we came from. As we re-enter the darkness the music fades, but almost as quickly more music surrounds us. The light is dimmer here, where five or six couples sway on the floor or cluster in groups. Some sort of mist seems to float through the scented air—warm and thick.

  “Elixir?” Asks a man who could only be described as devilishly handsome.

  Benjamin cocks his chin. “Possibly.”

  The man extends an arm, as if welcoming us in, and we follow the gesture to a small round table. Three crystal decanters sit on it. One filled with a rich aquamarine, another burgundy, the third almost clear, but with a pulsing glow. All of them seem to swirl. Seem alive. Absorb and refract light throughout the room. “Elixir Adfectus, Elixir Vitae, Elixir Vita.”

  “Elixir Vitae?” I raise my gaze to Benjamin. “As in the Shelley story?” As I speak, I remember he wasn’t on the tour, but he nods anyway, a glint to his smile. Obviously this is not like in the story. Obviously it’s some kind of fun, the thrill of the unknown. But unknown what? How many drugs dissolve? Or are they simply various shots? “Is it dangerous?”

  His lips tighten. “For you? No.”

  The man is smiling. Everyone is smiling. Three couples have clustered around us—waiting to see my choice—the smiles are…unusual, but not threatening. Rather, they seem safe. Comforting. Excited.

  My gaze settles on the only couple who went for the vampire theme. “Those fangs,” my voice wavers, “very authentic.” They look at each other, the way only lovers do, and laugh.

  My attention is back on the decanters of liquid. Already I feel intoxicated. “Which is which?”

  Devilishly handsome man shrugs and shakes his head.

  “But which do I take?”

  “That’s for you to determine. And you to experience.”

  Benjamin’s voice is beside me. “You don’t have to take any. But if you do, let your heart decide.”

  “Will you?” I tilt my head toward him.

  “After you.”

  I’m not afraid. It scares me, not being afraid. It’s crazy, not being afraid. But I’m not. Rather, I feel as if every choice in my life has led to this moment. The decanter full of the aquamarine liquid seems to flash, brighten. I reach for it—the swirling, lively liquid—and as I raise the vessel from the table, a tantalizing chill runs through me. There are no glasses so I bring the rim to my lips. My first sip is slight.

  “Vitae,” says Benjamin. “Good choice.”

  Good? Marvelous. Incandescent. Inspiring. I tip the glass again, this time letting a long draught of the liquid pour down my throat. Bliss. Indescribable bliss. I move to drink again but Benjamin steals the decanter and takes a long drink himself.

  The vessel is returned to its spot on the table and I’m whisked away in his arms. Joy blurs into ecstasy. Is it him? The air? The drink? Everything? I swirl and laugh and dance and sing. Delight tingles and sparks through every pore.

  Brazen. Fearless. I draw him to me. Our lips meet. A brush. A touch. Rivulets of wonder course up and down my spine, dance through my chest and escape into the wonder that is life. I draw him close again, wanting more. But he shakes his head. Smiles. “Not tonight,” he whispers. “Not like this.”

  For a moment anger courses. The injustice! How dare he deny me that pleasure! But just as soon my outrage vanishes in a whirlwind of music and laughter and the sweetness of life. His fingers caress my cheek, smooth back my hair, and the beauty of heaven and earth falls upon us.

  Again, time seems untameable. Minutes? Hours? Years? Who can tell in this swirling wonder? Swirling joy.

  I close my eyes and pray for remembrance. Pray that this night will never end. I open them and my vision takes in so much that my brain can’t seem to comprehend it. “Rachel.” Did I tell him my name? “Rachel.” Lips on mine again. But open this time. Deeper. Like a gift. Like the purest, most exquisite gift. “I’ll find you.” Arms encircle me. Like out of the movies, out of the books, out of a dream, I swoon.

  “Rachel.”

  October 31st, 2009. 2:21 a.m. Deep within the Halifax Citadel National Historic Site. Nova Scotia.

  When I open my eyes once more blurred faces surround me, but not the ones from the cavern. These faces aren’t in top hats and long gowned dresses. None have fangs. Crane’s face is among them. Police are among them. Whitney, too. Her hands clasp my cheeks. “Rachel, where were you?”

  “What?”

  “We looked everywhere. We looked here. It’s been hours.”

  Not candles, but flashlights—large electrical torches—illuminate the space. A dark stain is visible on the wall across from me.

  Whitney’s fingers seem to explore me. They cross a spot on my head and I wince in pain. Pain. Who knew I could ever experience pain again?

  “You have a bump on your head? Did you fall? Did—?”

  I nod. I did fall. I remember that. Before Benjamin. Before the journey.

  “God, Rachel.” She’s crying. Or, almost crying. “You had us so scared.”

  Hands, not Whitney’s, help me to my feet. I’m unsteady, as if I’ve forgotten how to walk, how to live, how to breathe. Everything seems dark and cold and less. I open my mouth to speak, to tell them of the man, of the party, of the liquid life I can’t explain. Elixir Vitae.

  I close my mouth again. I fell. I hit my head. I’ve just come to. A dream. That is all. Of course. Just a dream. Yet a taste—sweet, tangy, incandescent—remains on my tongue.

  The End

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Charlene Carr is a lover of words. After travelling the globe for several years, attaining an array of degrees and life experiences, she decided the time had come to focus on her true love - novel writing. She's loving every minute of it ... well, almost every minute. Some days her characters fight to have the story their way. (And they're almost always right!)

  Charlene lives in St. John's, Newfoundland and loves exploring the amazing coastline of her harbour town.

  Her first series, A New Start, is Women's Fiction full of thought, heart, and hope, with a dash of romance too! To get the first two books in the series for free, visit the author’s website and sign up for her mailing list at: http://www.charlenecarr.com/freebooks/

  If you’d like to connect, try one of these methods!

  Website link: www.charlenecarr.com

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  Also by Charlene Carr

  Beneath the Silence: A Novel

  Secrets have consequences. If given the power, they will lead you into a life you never dreamed of or wanted.

  Brooke Lake is a girl caught in a town and a life she fears she’ll never escape.

  Molly Shirley is a woman without a past and no forseeable future.

  Only by exploring the parts of them they’d rather keep secret, can they be free from the pain that defines them.

  Before I Knew You: A Novella

  What would you do to fulfill the greatest desire of your heart?

  Joanna was brought up to believe life should follow a certain path. You meet a wonderful man, get married, have children—all in that order. Maybe, if you’re really ambitious, you have a career too. But a career isn’t what Joanna wants. She wants a family.

  When her dreams seem to crumble around her, Joanna must make a decision; will she have the strength to risk estranging herself from the family who raised her and, perhaps, the man she loves?

  Story Eight

  One Night Only by Katherine King

  Sale of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as “unsold or destroyed” and neither the author nor the publisher may have received payment for it.

  One Night Only is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are us
ed fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is of the author’s imagination.

  Copyright © 2015 Katherine King

  All rights reserved.

  www.katherineking2001.com

  For Rebecca Fowler, my daughter & greatest accomplishment,

  always my inspiration to accomplish my dreams.

  Cass

  The crowd goes wild in the warm California night as the band finishes, fireworks exploding up from the stage. From my vantage point beside the entrance to the Ferris wheel, I am able to see over the heads of the crowd gathered but unable to pick out anything about the band members facial features.

  Sighing, I brace myself for the onslaught of customers now that the concert is over. Given it is Halloween night, the park will be open until midnight to allow extra time for celebrations.

  "I am truly going to miss this place," I think to myself as I smile at the first person of many yet to come, approaching the entrance, taking their ticket.

  For the past five years of college, this place has been my social outlet and has helped pay my tuition. I had tried to keep this job part-time after starting my day job in September but the long days of learning the ropes of an advertising executive assistant is making it impossible to keep up this pace. I had mournfully decided that to excel in my new grown up job, I have to let go of my fun job.

  Giving my notice two weeks ago had been hard but I had consoled myself by making my last night Halloween. It was always great at the park on Halloween. Visitors dressed up, happy to pretend to be someone else for this one day a year plus there was always a concert in the evening that was followed by fireworks.