Chapter 2
October 31st
“Marissa! I know you’re in there!” Deanna’s voice boomed outside Marissa’s door.
“I’m not going!”
“Marissa, open up!” Deanna pounded on the door. “Your neighbors are going to call the cops soon!”
Sad but true. The neighbors were nosey as hell. Mrs. Warwick next door would soon be calling the police because of the pounding and yelling.
She released the door locks, and in came Deanna.
At least it kind of looked like Deanna.
Deanna had covered her red hair with a strawberry blonde wig, a wig that had one side melted off. The corresponding side of Deanna matched with burns and fake melted flesh, while the other side was perfectly fine, depicting her in a pink prom dress.
At a loss, Marissa asked, “What are you supposed to be? A run-over Barbie doll?”
“I’m going as the burned prom queen, a la Roseanne,” Deanna said, doing a pirouette. The costume was impressive, flowery and pretty on one side, a horror movie vision on the other.
Nodding, she vaguely remembered an episode of the sitcom Roseanne where Roseanne’s daughter had dressed similarly for Halloween. That was a lifetime ago, back when Halloween had been a fun holiday.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Why aren’t you in costume?”
“What?”
“Kristy and Dale’s party? Don’t tell me you forgot.”
“Are you on crack?” she asked, staring at her friend like she’d inhaled too much of that skin glue when she’d pasted on the scarred flesh. “You know I don’t go out on Halloween.”
“You used to. You used to be the life of the Halloween party. Shoot, I think you rivaled Roseanne’s TV show some years. Besides, you promised.”
“I did no such thing.” She hadn’t celebrated Halloween for the last three years; it was a mourning day for her.
She’d killed her family three years ago on Halloween.
Her penance was remembering them every Halloween. A bag of Three Musketeers candy— her mother’s favorite—and home movies. She didn’t celebrate anything on this day anymore, and never would again.
“You did, too. You said, and I quote, ‘I shall be there, I promise, with bells on.’”
Her brow went up, immediately seeing through her friend’s tale. “Um, one flaw with your logic. I never said that. And I don’t use that phrase.”
“What phrase?”
“‘With bells on,’ that’s what. You use that phrase.”
Deanna waved her hand in the air. “Give me a break. It’s been what, three years? It’s time for you to get out, to have some fun.”
“Deanna,” Marissa said, tears welling up in her eyes. “I don’t party on Halloween!” She should have known this year would be hard, since Halloween fell on a Saturday. The last few years, it hadn’t been as hard, since it had come during the week.
Now, though, since time and even the calendar seemed to be against her, Halloween fell on Saturday, meaning everyone wanted to party. Hiding at home already was proving a challenge.
Deanna reached over and stroked her arm. “It is time for you to move on. Do you really think your parents would want you sitting home on Halloween?”
Crossing her arms over her chest, she tried to fight Deanna’s determination. “Forget it, Deanna, I don’t do Halloween.”
“It’s time for you to live again.”
It was no use. Deanna’s determination was more powerful than any form of persuasion in the world.
Before she could even voice any type of reply, Deanna headed into Marissa’s room to start putting together the ultimate Halloween costume.
*
I should have never opened the door, Marissa mulled as she walked in the door of Kristy and Dale’s party.
Not only was she being dragged to a Halloween party, Deanna had insisted on dressing her for it, and had come prepared.
She was now the Slutty Librarian, complete with stiletto heels, garters, stockings, and a push-up bra that would give even a boy super cleavage.
The heavy makeup made her eyelashes stick together under the cat-eye glasses. Her long, black hair had been bundled up into a French twist Deanna had somehow managed to secure with two pencils.
Kristy and Dale greeted her with cheers and hugs and kisses; Kristy was dressed as a red devil temptress and Dale as a priest. The party was in full swing with people all over their little ranch house, and everyone in costume.
It was a sea of painted faces, big masks, and jovial laughter. She didn’t know a soul beyond the hosts and Deanna. Which had its pluses and minuses. On the plus side, she could slip out undetected. Minus, she’d have to sneak past Dale, Kristy, and Deanna before making her big escape.
And Dale and Kristy were masters of observation. Even as she mingled through, she could feel Kristy’s gaze running over her, assessing where she was headed. If she didn’t make nice for at least a little while, she’d be forced to help play hostess next to Kristy for a few hours.
Certainly something she didn’t want to do.
Weaving past a Darth Vader and a Neo before finding the punch bowl, she poured herself a glass, hoping the stuff was spiked to the hilt. She was going to need it to get through this night.
How long do I have to stay before I can get out of here? she wondered. The desire to strangle Deanna burned inside. Her so-called friend had insisted on driving, so she couldn’t just up and leave. Damn Deanna for knowing her so well.
Taking a long sip of the red punch with floating ice hands in it, she did smile, realizing that yes, the punch was spiked. Vodka if she wasn’t mistaken, and that was good.
Her second cup started to relax her as she stood in front of the snack food trays. The food was all done in a Halloween theme; orange and black cookies, little treats that looked like jack-o-lanterns, witches, and ghosts. Several bowls of candy also littered the table.
She pulled out a Three Musketeers and opened it, popping the tiny mini-bite into her mouth. A tear welled up, her mother’s favorite candy suddenly tasting bitter. Her mother had always bought herself a separate bag of Three Musketeers candy and hid it somewhere in the house.
And woe to the child who managed to find Mom’s secret stash. A small smile twisted the corner of her lips as she remembered getting caught in Mom’s chocolate stockpile.
What am I doing here?
A woman dressed as a fortune teller with gypsy beads glittering around her neck and a large purple scarf covering her wavy black hair mingled about, stopping to take people’s hands and whisper soft words. Some party-goers looked excited, some shocked at her words, but all seemed to take the woman’s alleged wisdom to heart.
Marissa rolled her eyes. She didn’t believe in the powers of mystics and the supernatural. When someone is dead, they’re dead.
Period.
If anyone knew that, she did.
The gypsy woman stopped in front of her. “It is not good for the soul to dwell on the past,” she said, taking Marissa’s hand.
She pulled her hand away from the woman. “Trust me when I say, do not go there.”
The fortune teller raised her sculpted black eyebrow at her. “The future is always upon us, whether we wish to see it or not.”
“Thanks for the tip.”
The fortune teller tried one more time. “You shall be saved thrice before it is through, then you shall finally be free.”
“I’ve never been saved once.”
“Are you sure?” the fortune teller asked.
Before she could object and remind this woman she’d certainly know if she’d ever been saved, the gypsy wandered off in the crowd, beads clattering in her wake.
Marissa chugged the last of her punch to stop herself from going over there and knocking the woman down. How dare she? How dare she assume to know anything about her? The nerve of some people. After all, she’d certainly know if she’d ever been saved. What was wrong with people? Did
they think putting on some funky costume suddenly made them an expert about the supernatural? Making up mumbo-jumbo like that just for the hell of it, to get under people’s skin—Halloween brought out the worst in people.
How she’d ever loved this holiday, she didn’t know.
Yet her rebellious mind brought back a memory, one from only four or five years ago, where she’d worn a similar get-up and ran around a party, pretending to be some great fortune teller. She’d spat out future-babble for people, most of it so cheesy it could have come from a fortune cookie.
Gritting her teeth, she turned to look over the table of food again, as if it could erase her memory.
She grabbed the ladle and refilled her glass, taking a sip, then refilling her cup completely. She quickly downed the whole thing.
Just get through tonight. You can do this. You can. As she started to refill her glass again, she considered just sticking a straw in the bowl. Much easier to drown her anger that way. And faster. Of course, maybe if she ventured into the kitchen, she might be able to find the vodka bottle and get the alcohol straight from the source.
That’s what she’d do. Go find the bottle of vodka.
Someone had the balls to interrupt her internal pep talk.
“Interesting predictions,” the male voice said.
“And what the hell do you know about it?” Marissa didn’t look up as she ladled another cup, taking a sip, and repeating the process.
“Sorry,” he said. “Could you hand me a glass? That is, if you’re not planning on drinking the whole punch bowl.”
About to spout off something incredibly rude, she stopped dead. “Here,” she managed to squeak out. It was the best she could do when confronted with the most amazing eyes she’d ever seen.
“Thank you,” said the green-eyed man. He took the ladle and filled his glass, his eyes wandering over her. He was dressed from head to toe like Bela Lugosi’s Dracula, with the medallion, the cape and the tux. His sharp widow’s peak was combed back into a mass of black hair and framed his strong face.
She stepped away from the punch bowl, looking for an escape route. This absolutely wouldn’t do—men were not part of her mourning. Even sexy, black-haired ones.
Nope, she told herself. Not going there. Her libido had suddenly jumped a thousand percent, and throbbed as he looked her up and down. She could hear her heart pounding in her ears, and the room started to take on a surreal feel, as if the two of them were the only ones in the entire world.
He radiated some weird vampire-esque type magnetism she’d read about in books. Her skin practically sizzled with desire as he raked his gaze over her.
This was so not good.
Not good at all.
She needed to get away from him; he sent crazy mojo through her, making her entire being feel like it was on fire.
Sure, she’d felt intensity with men before. Instant desire and attraction. Even her ex-boyfriend Kirk had projected that kind of bad boy magnetism when she’d first met him. Probably why she put up with his shit far longer than she should have.
Ever since, she wanted nothing to do with men who had that kind of power.
And Kirk had nothing on this guy’s intensity.
She tried to see the door, but people littered the way, voices echoing all around, and everything seemed to overload her senses as she considered an escape plan from this man.
Her body hummed as she met his green eyes again; her rational thoughts screamed that she needed to get away from him right away. Her breath slipped out of her chest as she tried to formulate words, wanting partially to tell this guy to get his vampire mojo away from her, but the primal side of herself wanted him and his mojo to stay.
That part, she repressed.
No, I need to go. Mingle. Be social.
All the while, working my way to the door.
The only thing stopping her was the last nighttime adventure through the dark a month ago. What she saw had seemed like a dream, and how much of it had been real, she didn’t know, but something had happened. She’d had a nice goose egg on her forehead the next morning to prove it.
Still, how it had happened, she wasn’t sure. Only in her dreams did she see any clue—images of huge dog-like animals stained her brain. The further away the moment got, the less she was able to remember. The only overall impression she had from that night was that she needed to be kinder to stray dogs.
The man put the ladle back, took a sip off his drink, and smiled with those dark green eyes burrowing into her. It was almost a tactile sensation. She let her gaze wander down his strong jaw line and saw his smile widen.
My God, are those real? She stared at his teeth, and he certainly had some long-assed canines. And unlike store-bought ones, they matched his teeth color. Lord, he could have been a real vampire. Or worse, he could have been one of those idiots who thought he was a real vampire.
His brow raised as he looked her over, and the I-can’t-wait-to-see-you-naked glint in his eye amplified the energy between them a thousand-fold. She felt rooted to the spot, like she couldn’t get away from him, even if she wanted to.
Her brain cried out for her to bolt when he held out his hand. “Neil Drigan.”
“Marissa Van Dyke,” she said, shaking his hand. She noticed the dark brown hairs on the back of his hand. She would bet he had a soft, fuzzy chest, and forearms and legs covered in thick, luxurious hair…
She caught herself looking down his body, her pulse quickening. She’d always had a thing for hairy guys. Wolverine was her dream man—minus the claws, of course. Not that she’d admit that to her girlfriends. They’d all think it was weird, but still, hairy chests always had been a turn on for her.
There was something special about curling up against a fuzzy chest that made her feel comfortable, safe…
She blamed her dad, whose chest had been covered in hair.
The thought of her father slapped her back into reality, killing the attraction.
Neil pulled her hand up to his mouth, inhaling her scent as he placed a kiss on her wrist. “A pleasure,” he said, his voice deeper than it had been a minute before.
“Uh huh.” Her pulse throbbed, the beat running amuck from the brush against her wrist. Run girl, run, pleaded her brain. Stay girl, stay, pleaded her libido. If she could detach her libido and leave it, she would have. This was not a pleasant situation to be stuck in—being overrun with hormones now? Tonight?
Not what she considered a proper memorial.
Of course, if she’d had her way, she would be at home right now.
The stereo’s tunes switched to Nine Inch Nails, and the dark, pulsing beat didn’t help Marissa’s euphoria at the man’s touch. Her libido screamed in ecstasy at the music choice, and her body wasn’t the only one turned on from the beat. People in the crowd started to move and dance, hips gyrating and bodies bumping together, mimicking primal movements
Her own hips started to sway a little, and she chided herself. God, how much vodka was in that punch?
Neil held out his hand. “Would you like to dance a bit?”
In the few seconds it took to make a decision, her mind warred with itself. If she said yes, the dancing would only heighten her arousal. If she said no, she might be able to flee him this second, but she doubted she could make it to the door without anyone noticing.
And then there was outside.
He raised his brow, his smile warm enough as he waited for the war in her mind to ebb.
Hell, she thought as she reached up to take his hand. You win this round, libido. His palm was marred by strong calluses and defined lines. He escorted her a few feet from the food table, into an unoccupied corner. The crowd swayed and pulsed, the song, the tempo of the rhythm, even the lighting seemed to move with the music.
Neil pulled her against him, his chest pressed against hers, and she inhaled a sharp breath at the intimate contact. That gentlemanly confidence radiated off him, daring her to admit she didn’t like the closeness.
; And her libido was absolutely loving this. She hated to admit it, but it was true. He truly felt incredible wrapped around her. When her logical side started in with its rational reasons why she shouldn’t have anything to do with this guy, she blocked the thoughts.
If only in this moment, she’d let herself enjoy the sensation of a warm body against her. She wound her arms around his neck, her fingers grazing his hairline, and he smiled at her.
Together they swayed to the music, Neil’s pace easily matched, intensifying the NIN song.
“I love Pretty Hate Machine,” Neil said.
“It’s a very sexy rhythm.” Her voice was thick, either from the vodka or the intensity of this man. Probably a bit of both.
“Only when dancing with the sexiest girl at the party,” he whispered, his breath grazing her earlobe.
Her cheeks flamed bright red as his words sunk in. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had called her sexy.
“I saw you come in, and I had to know you,” he whispered. “I was pulled.” He tightened her against him, their bodies pressed together, his erection rubbing in the right places. The sensation made her wet, and she wanted to feel everything.
No, do not do this! This is your day of mourning! Her rational brain screamed at her. Every hormone in her protested as he continued to touch her. Neil’s hand ran down her waist, caressing the small of her back, his fingers spreading down just over the top curve of her ass.
She shuddered in his arms. The heat of him made her lightheaded. Good Lord, who was this man that made these incredible sensations pool in her core so easily? How could he have such an effect on her? And why was she submitting to it so easily?
Why did it have to be today? Tonight? Why couldn’t it have been tomorrow, next week, last week, something?
Not tonight.
This was something she could never have. She wasn’t supposed to feel this kind of sensation, this kind of want and need. Her soul had died three years ago. She didn’t deserve to feel this now. Not after what she’d done.
She tensed in his arms.
“Marissa?” he whispered in her ear; just saying her name was enough to send warm spasms of desire through her body. She forced the sensations down. She wasn’t allowed to feel this way.
Unholy Night Page 2