A Light So Cruel (Pioneer Falls Book 3)

by Heather Davis

  “How’s it coming?” Maggie called out, climbing the stairs.

  Fawn wiped her hands on her jeans and accepted one of the sodas Maggie held out. “This guy had bad taste in clothes and cologne. There’s a funk to everything.”

  I shook my head at her. Fawn still didn’t get that wolves held a unique musk that would always stand out from humans. That was the funk, besides old-man smell.

  “It’s not that bad,” Rose said, tying off another of the black bags.

  Maggie shrugged. “We can air everything out once it’s all cleared. I thought since this room is the largest, it could house all the paperwork and maps. We could put a few bookcases, maybe a desk or a large table, where people could spread things out.”

  “Like a library,” Rose said, her eyes brightening. “You could get some of those cool banker’s lamps.”

  “Exactly.” Maggie gave Rose an appreciative smile and handed her a can of soda. “The other upstairs bedroom, since it has so much light, could be for historical artwork and crafts of the area.”

  “What about the rooms downstairs?” Fawn said, taking a breather on a trunk at the foot of the bed.

  “Well, the living room would be set up as a gathering space for events and lectures. We’d leave the couches and bring in folding chairs as needed. Of course, we’ll create a permanent collection of photographs and historical documents on the walls in there. The dining room would be for themed exhibits. The den off the entry I’d use half for an office for the society and the other half for gift-shop items.”

  I gaped at Maggie. “How long have you been planning this?”

  “Only a few weeks,” she said, blushing. “But I’ve been presenting the idea of reviving the society for at least a year to the town council. That’s how I got their support so quickly when the bequest was announced.”

  “Well, it’ll be great to have a local museum like this,” Fawn said. “It might help bring in some tourism. Bring more traffic to Main Street and your coffee shop.”

  Rose set her pop can down on the floor and dragged another stuffed black bag out into the hallway. “I think Mr. Gray would appreciate how much thought has gone into this.”

  “Me, too,” I said, popping my soda and taking a drink.

  Maggie looked around at the room. “Should we text Morgan to help with the heavy lifting? We can clear out the bedroom furniture as soon as you girls are finished.”

  “We’re almost done,” Fawn said, stuffing one final sweater into a bag.

  “The worst of it’s over, I promise,” Maggie said. “Lily, I’m laying out some stuff to display downstairs, wanna help?”

  “Sure.” I grabbed a couple of the smaller boxes and took them with me on the way down. Ahead of me Maggie dragged one of the large trash bags. We started a pile in the entryway. In the living room, Maggie had spread out old photographs on the two couches and low coffee table.

  “We’re going to need frames for most of these. Mats, too—with name placards and things like that. Look at some of these gems.”

  Early residents of Pioneer Falls gazed out at us from sepia-toned and black and white photographs. Perching on giant tree trunks, in railroad cars, standing at fish camps with salmon drying on stakes—women, their aprons over worn dresses, men in suspenders, trousers and overalls, all townspeople from the oldest days. Other photographs were stiff, posed portraits of people in ruffled dresses and fine suits.

  “These are the earliest,” Maggie said. “Some of the logging ones were shot by Darius Kinsey in the 1890s. He documented a lot of the industry during those years. The studio portrait tintypes are probably a little earlier.” She pulled a few more photos from one of the boxes. “We really should get these digitized. I mean, look at these images of the stores on Main Street. So quaint! And moving forward in time, check out these town picnic photos that span the 1920s to the ‘50s.”

  In the midst of the stack I found a candid shot of a beautiful blond girl, standing in front of what was clearly Ms. Wilson’s house, a raven perched on the iron fence beside her. I turned it over and saw Millicent’s name scrawled and the year.

  “Raven’s Maid,” Maggie murmured, looking over my shoulder.

  “What did you say?”

  Maggie held out another picture of Millicent, this one with the words “Raven’s Maid” printed in block letters in the white margin on the photo paper. “I found her in another stack earlier.”

  My skin prickled with goose bumps. The townsfolk must’ve thought she was a bit eccentric when she’d installed the aviary behind her house. Someone had thought to call out her interest on the photo, recording it.

  “It’s Millicent. The spirit Ms. Wilson thinks is hanging around her old house. She’s the one I want to help into the light, if she’s really there,” I told Maggie.

  “Strange. What a beautiful girl,” Maggie said, moving the photographs into a stack. “Oh, and this is fun.” She held out one of the studio portraits. It showed a group of about six men, some seated, some standing. A telescope stood in the background and a small placard in front of them said something in Latin.

  “Fillis Noctus,” I read aloud.

  “That means ‘night born,’ or ‘sons of the night,’ something like that,” Maggie explained. “Cool name for an astronomy society. But look at that guy in the back. Doesn’t he look like—”

  “Ezra Smith,” I said.

  A younger, more handsome Ezra stood in the back of the photo, wearing a dark tailored suit, his smile less of a sneer than usual.

  “No, not him. I was going to say your dad,” Maggie said, pointing to a guy in the front row.

  A man stared out from the photo, looking very much like Dad––same light eyes and dark hair with a similar hairline. Dad’s father, Barnaby Turner, maybe. I took out my phone and snapped a picture to show him later.

  “Doppelgangers,” I said with a nervous laugh. “They say everyone has one.”

  “Yeah, the resemblance is strong. And you’re right about Ezra Smith, too. That young guy in the back row has his same lopsided smile. There were Smiths back in the early days here.” She turned the photograph over. “This is from 1877, according to the date on the back. No names, though. And I don’t see any other photographs of these guys. I wonder what happened.”

  “They disbanded,” I mumbled.

  “Well, it would have been the tail end of the influenza epidemic that hit town,” Maggie said. “Some of them probably died from influenza. I guess it’s more of a footnote than something we’d feature in an exhibit.” She set the photograph in a pile with other groups.

  I let out a deep exhale. “Yeah, I mean, clubs that continued were probably more important to the development of the town.”

  Maggie laughed. “The only group that has consistent pictures besides the churches is the chamber of commerce. We’ll be skipping that display, too.” She paused, rummaging back through one of the boxes. “Then again, we might need their donations to keep this place afloat.”

  I shook my head in admiration. “Always thinking, Maggie.”

  “Oh hey, speaking of angles. Can you pitch the rebirth of the historical society to Ms. Wilson as an article for the next issue? Maybe you could help me write some announcements for the county paper, too.”

  “Sure. After how much you’ve helped us and Morgan? I’d do anything for you.”

  Maggie grinned. “I’m making a note of that.”

  ***

  Monday afternoon after the last bell, I got my stuff from my locker, then went to find Ms. Wilson. In class I’d forgotten to ask her about Maggie’s idea for a piece on the historical society. We’d been delving into a unit on ethics in reporting and had watched a documentary on modern election coverage.

  The halls were already starting to empty out, but I found Ms. Wilson in an alcove outside the teachers’ lounge, her phone pressed to her ear. “I told you, there’s enough here to make it worth your while,” she said in a low voice. “Besides, I want to see you.”

&nbs
p; There was a sweet edge to her tone. I couldn’t see her face, but one of her hands moved to her hair, twisting a strand as she let out a little laugh. “You better,” she said, and then hung up the call.

  I realized I was standing there like a dope, so I dropped to one knee and pretended to tie my shoe. Unfortunately, that only works when you’ve got laces. I was wearing my short boots, so I switched to zipping it down and then up, as if that were the issue.

  Ms. Wilson turned, stowing her phone in her purse. “Oh, hi. I didn’t see you there.” She smiled, her lipstick a shade of red that that was more fire than blood and matched the cardigan she wore over her white blouse. She was back to her put-together look again.

  “I know you’d already settled on assignments for the next issue, but I was wondering if I could write up a piece for The Post about the new home of the revived historical society. Maggie Green is spearheading the effort.”

  “That’s a super idea. Did you run it by Tom? Now that he’s acting editor-in-chief, he’d have some say in assignments.”

  “I didn’t think of that. Last year, our advisor controlled that.”

  She cocked her head at me. “Things are different now.”

  “Yeah, I’m getting that feeling,” I said, scratching at my cheek. “Okay, I’ll ask him tomorrow.”

  “When’s Maggie’s meeting? I might want to check it out, you know, as a resident of one of the old houses.”

  “Wednesday.”

  “Maybe I’ll come to show my support. Maggie does so much for the community.”

  We started walking down the hallway toward her classroom. A few stragglers passed us in a rush, heading toward the buses and the parking lot.

  “Your boyfriend’s quite handy in addition to ghost-busting,” Ms. Wilson said, giving me a cheerful smile. “It’s nice to have his help around the house.”

  “About that—aren’t you worried about the ghost?”

  “I’m living with her,” Ms. Wilson said, giving me a nervous little smile. She started walking again, her pace slowing as we reached the classroom door. “We coexist. You can’t go anywhere that some energy transference hasn’t happened before. Every place has been touched by old souls at some point.”

  “So you’re not afraid of Millicent, I take it.”

  “I don’t mind if she’s there,” Ms. Wilson said. “But I also don’t think I have a choice.” She opened the door to the classroom and walked inside.

  I thought about telling her if she really wanted to make peace with the spirits, maybe she should think about a séance. But I was starting to think she actually liked having a ghost around. Not me. I’d seen the creeper ravens again that morning. I wasn’t so cool with the haunting.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket, probably a text from Morgan or my sisters, and I knew I had to get to work. So I kept my ghost-banishing thoughts to myself. I still didn’t know if anything Ms. Wilson had experienced was real, or if someone had been messing with her. Or if she was messing with me.

  ***

  I was halfway through my shift at the coffee shop later on when Morgan came in. Maggie was still there and gave me a go-ahead signal, so I took off my apron and brought him out a drip coffee, along with my mocha.

  “You look weird,” I said, handing him the coffee and sitting down across from him at a table near the window.

  “Thank you?” Morgan smirked and ran a hand through his hair. “Probably some cobwebs decorating me.”

  I gave him a thoughtful glance. “No, it’s in your eyes. What happened?”

  “Well, if you mean, why am I here,” he said, leaning across the table to kiss me, “that should be obvious.”

  I giggled. “Seriously, though. Ms. Wilson seems happy to have you helping around her house,” I said, taking a sip of my mocha.

  “Well, she shouldn’t be,” Morgan said. “I’ve discovered the reason for her bulletin boards. I was measuring for the shelving in the office when I saw something on her desk.”

  “You snooped around?” I said, wiping at some of the whipped cream on my lip.

  “I’m a tracker by trade, remember? I’m not a snooper,” he replied in a mock offended tone. His amber eyes flashed with amusement. “Anyhow, there were some printed pages on her desk. They had chapter headings, and nearby there was a bunch of note cards. At first I thought it was some kind of dissertation or something from university.”

  “Something educational.” I shrugged and took a sip of my mocha.

  “Love, I’m no expert, but it looked like a manuscript.” Morgan folded his arms on the table and leaned closer to me. “On paranormal activity in American towns. There’s a chapter outlined on Pioneer Falls.”

  I nearly spilled my mocha. “Holy crap. No wonder she wouldn’t want the ghost to leave! She’s documenting it. Maybe the ravens know. Maybe they’re trying to get me to help Millicent before Ms. Wilson exploits her.”

  Morgan arched a dark brow. “I don’t think ghosts worry about exploitation as much as the living.”

  “True.” I gave a glance toward Maggie back at the counter then said, “I don’t like you working over at Ms. Wilson’s house.”

  “I’ll be done in a few days,” Morgan said. “I can keep an eye on her this way.”

  “But what if this whole thing was just to lure you in, to make us interact with her? This ghost thing needs to end. Without her so-called paranormal activity, maybe, she’d lose interest in writing about our town.”

  Morgan took a sip of coffee. “And if there’s not a spirit?”

  “Then she’s in trouble for other reasons. Maybe it was Ezra’s lackeys who broke in. Maybe they know about her researching the area. That’s not good either, I guess.”

  “You always have the interests of others in mind. Even for potential bad guys. Well, bad women,” Morgan said, dipping his head toward mine to steal another kiss.

  I smiled against his lips as we parted. “I’m not saying she’s bad. There’s something off about Ms. Wilson, though. I felt it from the beginning.”

  “Well, you’re spot-on that her little ghost problem fits her narrative. She’ll have loads to write about if Millicent is floating around.” He finished his coffee and set the cup back in the saucer. “Any blueberry scones left?”

  “Sure, I’ll warm one up for you.” I brought our cups to the counter and slid a scone in the toaster oven.

  When I went to wash up in back, Maggie looked up from scaling dough balls and setting them onto a sheet pan. They looked about the right size for pizza crusts. “You have to go home soon, Maggie. This is too much.”

  She gave me a weary smile. “I’ll do the slider buns in the morning,” she said. “Would you let Morgan know I’ll need a delivery run around lunchtime?”

  “Ugh, I don’t like him going by the bowling alley,” I said.

  “I know you don’t like the Smiths for some reason, but that order’s paying most of our rent here. If this pizza thing takes off, I think we’ll be bringing in even more cash,” she said, with a shrug. “Oh, and maybe he could ask Nathaniel about supporting the historical society? Maybe some donated catering if we do a fundraiser?”

  “That’s more of a you conversation,” I said, drying my hands on a paper towel.

  “You’re right. I’ll talk to them myself.” Maggie stretched and moved her head from side to side. “I think I’m going to schedule a hot stone massage next time I drive into the city. Working with dough is different than mixing up cookies and pastry. It takes real muscle.”

  The toaster oven dinged out front and I ran to pull Morgan’s scone out and into a bag. I fished a couple dollars from my tip jar and slid it into the till.

  When I told him about the morning-delivery request from Maggie, Morgan promised to be wary around Nathaniel.

  “I’ll be by later,” I said, kissing him before he headed out. The door chimed behind him.

  I looked out the window as I wiped down the table where we’d sat.

  A large raven hopped onto the roof of a pa
rked car a few yards down the street. A small, blue Honda that belonged to Nathaniel. The bird perched there a moment, staring in at me, and then took off with a sudden burst of power as the street lamps clicked on, softening the twilight.

  ***

  “She’s writing a book about Pioneer Falls,” I said, setting my coat and school stuff down in the mudroom before following my dad into the kitchen. “She hasn’t said it yet, but Morgan found a manuscript on her desk.”

  “You don’t have proof Ms. Wilson knows anything real,” Dad said, grabbing a glass from the cabinet and filling it with water.

  “The book’s probably why she didn’t want us to tell anyone about the prank or haunting or whatever. She’s trying to keep it to herself. She’ll probably exploit Millicent in her book.”

  “Who says Millicent is real?” He leaned against the counter, taking a long drink.

  “I mean, I saw her. You’ve never heard of other werewolves who’ve had visions?”

  Dad set his glass in the sink and hung his jacket on the back of one of the kitchen chairs. “I’m not saying that. You can be a werewolf and have other mystical experiences. Our magic is born of blood, but it’s not the only magic in the world.”

  I sank down into a chair at the kitchen table and watched him rummage through the refrigerator for leftovers. “How hard can it be to tell a spirit to go to the light?”

  Dad opened a container from the fridge, revealing macaroni salad. Satisfied, he grabbed a fork from the drawer and leaned against the counter, eating. “Anyone else besides you and Morgan know that Ms. Wilson is writing a book about the supernatural?”

  “I don’t think so. Tom Lindstrom saw the bulletin boards, though. Why?”

  “It’s not the book that’s dangerous. It’s people knowing she’s writing it. Ezra wouldn’t hesitate to eliminate her if he saw her as a threat.”

  “He wouldn’t turn her? Force her to join their pack?”