by Mae Clair
The man’s words faded as Sarah moved closer to where Shawn sat. Did he have the knife on him now? The one with the weird spider mark on the handle? She stepped closer, watching as he polished off the remains of a hamburger.
Shock coursed through her.
Shawn looked like a man suffering from terminal illness. His clothes hung on his thin frame and his eyes were sunken, excessively bright as though fired with fever. She almost didn’t recognize him. He’d never been overly concerned with appearance, but his clothing had been clean, his hair neatly combed. Even when he’d gone on a drinking binge, he washed up and shaved. Now he looked like a derelict. Someone who should be sleeping off a narcotic high in a gutter. Was it possible he’d started experimenting with drugs?
He caught her staring. “You got a problem?”
She clamped down on her tongue. Yes, she had a problem. He’d beaten the shit out of his estranged wife. If anyone was a monster, it was Shawn-stinking-Preech, not the Mothman. “I was surprised to hear you were in here.” Sarah struggled to keep venom from her voice. “I heard you haven’t been to work all week.” She’d glommed onto that bit of scuttlebutt at Doreen Sue’s hair salon when she’d swung by for can of hairspray on her lunch hour.
“Been sick.” Shawn snagged a slice of pizza from a plate on the bar, folded it in half and chomped off the end. It dripped cheese and sausage onto his fingers. Licking at the goo, he reached for his beer. Another three slices waited on the plate. How much could one person eat, especially someone who’d grown stick thin?
“Yeah. A sick bastard.” There were so many people talking around her, she doubted he’d hear.
His ears were as sharp as his appetite. “What’d you say, bitch?” Red-faced, Shawn swiveled around on the barstool.
Conversation stopped immediately as if someone dropped a shroud over the room.
“Hey! You don’t talk like that in here, or I’ll kick your butt onto the street.” Behind the bar, Tucker stalked from his place to confront Shawn. A meaty finger broached the distance between them. “Apologize or get the hell out.”
“She called me a bastard.”
“Probably had reason to.”
“Just like I got reason to stay.” Shawn shoved to his feet. Gripping the edge of the bar, he leaned forward until his face was only inches from Tucker’s. “You best remember who’s keeping all these people in here, buying booze and food. They wanna hear about the Mothman and what that damn creature almost did to me, Mitch, and Painter. You toss me out, I can tell the same tales on the street. You won’t be ringing up sales on your cash register then.”
Tucker’s mouth twisted in disgust. “You’re an ass, Shawn.”
“But he’s right about everything he said.” Mitch Kennit muscled his way from a corner. His face was red, thick fingers wrapped around a can of Budweiser. “All I want to know is what we’re going to do about that damn creature. The thing’s a menace. It tried to kill us.”
“Got that right,” someone echoed.
Other voices chimed in. “…terrorized our town long enough…poor Will Hanley…probably at fault…got kids to worry about…”
“Mr. Kennit, perhaps I am mistaken, but I believe you were not in the immediate vicinity when the creature attacked Mr. Preech.” A man’s voice cut through the hubbub of conversation, drawing Mitch and Shawn around like marionettes on a string.
Recognizing the unusual accent, Sarah turned as Lach Evening approached from the doorway. Once infatuated by his looks and enigmatic personality, all she felt now was a keen sense of relief. Lach was not someone to be trifled with. If anyone could put Shawn Preech in his place, it was Point Pleasant’s mysterious visitor.
The crowd parted before him as if recognizing the oddity of a man wearing a black suit on a hot July day. Add in his white-blond hair and coal-black eyes and Lach invited stares.
Mitch grunted, no longer sure of himself. “Who are you?”
Ignoring him, Lach nodded politely to Sarah. “It is good to see you again, Miss Sherman.”
A streak of warmth shot through her. Her infatuation may have waned, but his attention still brought a flush to her cheeks. “And you.”
“Hey, I remember you.” Shoving past Mitch, Shawn angled his beer bottle to point at Lach. “You’re one of those weird Men in Black who showed up last fall when we had all that UFO shit going on. You—” His gaze dropped to Lach’s hands, which were folded in front of him. Spitting out a croak, he jerked violently backward. His face drained of color.
“Holy shit.” Shaking his head, Shawn backed away. Panic flitted through his eyes.
Sarah stood close enough to catch his shocked whisper.
“Can’t be. Not freaking possible.” Stumbling to the bar, Shawn bobbled his beer onto the top. “Tucker, give me my bill. I’m settling up and getting out of here.”
“Only too glad to comply.” Tucker flipped through a few slips and located his tab.
Shawn’s fingers trembled as he tossed a handful of bills onto the counter.
“Hey, Shawn, where are you headed?” Mitch seemed upset to be losing his partner in conspiracy.
“Outside.” Shawn didn’t bother to raise his head. “Gotta get away. Gotta think.” Head down, he stalked to the door and blundered onto the street.
Sarah stared after him, unable to comprehend his sudden change in attitude. Conversation resumed, mostly murmurs about the Mothman. When she glanced back to speak with Lach Evening, she discovered the Man in Black had vanished as silently as he’d appeared.
* * * *
Shawn stalked into the kitchen, wrenched open the refrigerator, and stood staring at the empty shelves. Why hadn’t he stopped at the store and grabbed some lunchmeat and bread? He’d downed a mound of food at the River, but renewed hunger gnawed at his gut. If he hadn’t been so freaked over Evening, he would have had enough sense to buy groceries.
Left to foraging, he poked around in the cupboard until he found a can of Chef Boyardee ravioli. Processed cheese and doughy carbs had never looked so good. Salivating, he rummaged up a manual can opener and impatiently cranked off the top. No sense heating the stuff up. Pacing to the window, he forked the cold pasta into his mouth.
What the hell was he going to do about Evening?
It cannot be him. It is not possible.
“No shit, but you saw his hands.”
He chewed mechanically. Dropped a glob of sauce onto his shirt, then swabbed it clean. He sucked the residue off his fingers, worrying the problem through his head. A clock above the stove ticktocked methodically as shadows seeped into the room. No need for light. He’d learned to see in the dark, thanks to Obadiah.
His ancestor stirred restlessly.
Evening looked different, his hair loose about his face rather than drawn back in a pigtail queue, his clothing tailored to modern styles. Changes aside, there was no disguising his features, his unusual accent, or those peculiar hands. The man who’d confronted him in the café was the same person who’d frequented Fort Randolph as a tradesman.
Rowan Wynter. He would be long dead.
“Like you.”
I live as a spirit. He walks as a man.
Flesh and blood. A week ago, Shawn would have dismissed the idea as crazy, but that was before his life had taken a nosedive off a supernatural cliff. Anything was possible in his fucked-up world.
The alternative was that Evening resembled Wynter—right down to his freakazoid fingers. Maybe it was some kind of birth defect that materialized every so many generations and Evening was descended from the man who’d tried to save Cornstalk. Wynter had taken a blow to the head for his trouble.
A blow that should have killed him.
“You didn’t hit him hard enough.”
He liked lording it over his ancestor, pointing out where the mighty Obadiah had failed. Wynter hadn’t died. In the scuffle of men fighting to drag Cornstalk from the barracks, no one had been able to say who hit him. No
t even Wynter himself.
I repeat. It cannot be him.
Shawn plopped the empty ravioli can in the sink. When it came right down to it, Evening didn’t matter one way or another. The course had been set in motion, Point Pleasant one step closer to mass hysteria every day. All he had to do was keep fanning the flames. When the TNT was flooded with hunters scenting cryptid blood, he would finally kill the thing that haunted his dreams for centuries.
When the Mothman was dead, Shawn Preech would start to live.
Chapter 10
Caden hung up the phone then crossed to the coffee pot to refresh his mug. The caffeine would keep him functioning on what was beginning to look like a long night. Hesitating near the kitchen door, he listened to the voices drifting from the screened-in porch. Saturday night had arrived sooner than anticipated, Quentin and Sarah dropping by for dinner as planned. To keep things casual, he’d tossed a few steaks on the grill while Eve whipped up a brown mushroom gravy. Baked potatoes and a large green salad rounded out the meal. Afterward, the four of them had congregated on the porch for strawberry pie and coffee.
Eve seemed to enjoy having her friend over, and the conversation kept to the light side. Quentin talked about his time at Juilliard and his family, sharing his reasons for visiting Point Pleasant. Caden couldn’t delay relaying the information Evening had shown him much longer, yet sensed he would be setting something unstoppable in motion.
Ryan, working late shift, had called to give him an update on the Mothman. Taking the latest threat seriously, Pete had flooded the TNT with every available man. In another hour, it would be dark. Pete would pull back the patrols, but send a few cars to traverse county roads. Maintaining a visible presence would hopefully keep fear to a minimum. At least, that was the plan.
Caden set his coffee down on the counter. Frowning, he pushed back his sleeve. The marks on his forearm remained ink-black as if diseased. What would happen the next time he encountered the Mothman? Had that brand been his protection, a barrier that kept him from experiencing the fear the creature evoked in others?
“Caden?” Eve’s voice drifted from the porch. “Are you coming back? Who was on the phone?”
He picked up his coffee then pushed through the door. “That was Ryan, checking in with an update.”
“Nothing bad, I hope.” Eve made room for him as he sat down on a cushioned glider beside her. Twilight hadn’t quite settled outside, but Eve had lit several squat candles. A large citronella bowl occupied the center of a glass-topped wicker table. The porch was screened, but an occasional mosquito still drilled through to the interior. Most evenings Caden enjoyed the tranquil setting, candlelight enchanting the quiet times he spent with Eve.
Tonight, he was edgy. His mouth tightened at a faint flicker of lightning. The air was dry, smelling more of the hydrangeas that bloomed off the porch than looming rain.
“Still looking for the Mothman,” Caden answered Eve’s question.
Seated on a chair beside Sarah, Quentin shifted. “The elephant in the room. I enjoyed dinner and the conversation, but don’t you think it’s time to address the reason we’re here?”
“Quentin.” Sarah appeared taken aback.
“It’s okay.” Always the peacemaker, Eve smiled. “Caden and I just aren’t used to people being open-minded where the Mothman is concerned.”
“I don’t have a choice.” Quentin motioned with his right hand. In the flickering wash of shadows and candlelight, the scars on his skin were starkly visible. “I’ve met Indrid Cold.”
Caden flinched. He should have known if Cold had returned.
Sarah regarded Quentin wide-eyed. “You went back to the igloo?”
“Yesterday. That’s when I ran across Shawn and the others in the woods.”
“But Cold’s a myth. At least I thought—” Sarah appeared at a loss, looking from Quentin to Eve and back again. “Even with Katie and Ryan, and all that happened last fall, I never really believed…” Sitting forward, she bit her lip. “You actually got answers? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I had to convince myself I didn’t dream the whole thing.”
Caden rubbed the back of his neck. He hadn’t missed Eve’s sharp glance at the mention of Cold. Both had thought Lach’s father gone for good. “Eve and I have both had encounters with Cold.”
“So, I’m not crazy.” A hint of sarcasm marked Quentin’s tone. “What about the inside of the igloo? Did it glow blue when you were there?”
“Blue?” Caden shook his head.
Quentin dug something from his pocket and set it on the coffee table. In the glow of the candles, the blue stone tended toward cobalt threaded with black.
Eve’s eyes widened. “Sarah, it’s just like your necklace.”
“I know.” Sarah touched the pendant at her throat.
“That was glowing, too.” Quentin pointed to the amulet. “Same color as the walls. Almost as if one activated the other.”
Thunder rumbled in the distance.
Leaning forward, Caden picked up the amulet. He rubbed his thumb over the stone. “You don’t know where this came from?”
“Only that it’s been in my family for generations.”
“Same as mine.” Sarah glanced over her shoulder as a flicker of lightning backlit a cluster of clouds.
Heat lightning.
Caden blew out a breath. “According to folklore, the TNT is crisscrossed by ley lines. Some people believe the igloo is located on a thin spot, an area where the walls between dimensions are weak. That allows entities from other worlds to cross into ours. Cold is one of those beings.”
“You mean an alien?” Quentin chuckled softly. “Look, something freaky happened in that igloo. I’m still not entirely sure what it was, but I won’t rule out supernatural. By the same token, I might have suffered a chemically induced hypnosis. I could have hallucinated the whole thing.”
“But it didn’t feel that way.” Caden’s gaze remained fixed on the amulet. It wasn’t a question so much as a statement.
“No. And I keep going back to that.” Quentin pointed to the stone in Caden’s hand. “What are the odds Sarah and I would have similar pieces, and they’d both be family heirlooms?”
“I think they were promise stones.” The pieces were falling into place in Caden’s mind. Jonathan Marsh and Etta Sherman had been engaged. It made sense they would exchange some token of affection.
“You mean like they were given in pledge of marriage?” Eve asked.
Caden nodded. “Before we go there,” his attention returned to Quentin, “you said this was passed down in your family.”
“Yes. From one set of twins to another.”
“But according to your sister, twins in your family are cursed,” Sarah protested.
“So it seems.” Leaning back in his chair, Quentin hooked an ankle over his knee. It was hard to read his gaze. “I came to Point Pleasant trying to learn something about Jonathan Marsh. Lach Evening told me I should concentrate on Sutton Marsh instead.”
“Sutton?” Caden set the amulet on the coffee table. He hadn’t realized Evening had been talking to Quentin, too. The alien was a never-ending source of frustration. Why not explain everything outright?
Earlier, Sarah had told them about Lach’s appearance in the River Café and how Shawn reacted to him. For someone who usually kept a low profile, Evening had been doing a lot of meddling.
“Sutton and Jonathan were twin brothers,” Quentin said into the silence. “I got that much from Cold.” He shook his head, a tight smile quirking his lips. “And he confirmed my family is cursed, something I’m sure Pen’s going to love hearing.”
“But that doesn’t make sense.” Leaning forward, Sarah gripped his wrist. “Why would your family be cursed?”
“Because Sutton murdered Chief Cornstalk.”
Disbelief washed over Sarah’s face. “I’ve never come across Sutton’s name in any of the research I’ve done. How c
an you be so sure?”
Quentin spread his hands. “I’m not. I’m just repeating what I learned from Evening and Cold.”
“I think I can build on that.” Caden glanced at Eve, who gave him a slight nod. He’d already gone over everything Evening had shown him with her. It was time the others knew, too. He’d protect Evening’s identity as much as he could. The less people who knew he was a centuries-old intergalactic traveler, the better. “Lach was able to share some information with me, but you’re going to have to take it on faith that it’s authentic.”
Quentin narrowed his gaze. “What does that mean?”
“Just that Lach has methods of gaining information outside of traditional channels. I’m unable to share what they are, but I believe they’re valid. And I agree Sutton was responsible for Cornstalk’s death. He must have left Fort Randolph not long after the murder, and that’s why there’s no record of him. I think he was prodded into killing Cornstalk by Obadiah Preech.”
“But Obadiah was supposed to be some kind of hero.” Sarah no sooner voiced the objection than her mouth twisted in distaste. “At least, according to Shawn.”
“I don’t think Obadiah was anything of the sort.”
“Lach told you that,” Quentin guessed.
“Yes. We already know from history that a soldier was killed outside the fort on the day Cornstalk was murdered, supposedly by the Shawnee. That’s what incited the uprising. What if that person was Jonathan Marsh?”
Silence settled over the group as they digested the theory.
Beyond the screened porch fireflies winked to life, creating lazy patterns in the heavy air. The atmosphere was close, weighted with pent-up energy. Night would fall soon, another day in which Mothman sightings overshadowed Will Hanley’s murder.
Caden clenched his jaw. Gut instinct told him that Hanley’s death and Cornstalk’s murder were tied together in some morbid mesh of parallel realities.
“A desolate hour when a tear in time renders past and present as one.”
Lach Evening had said those words to him when predicting the Mothman’s death.