Blame the Moonlight

by MacMeans, Donna

  That was a good sign. Maybe she was starting to forgive him a bit. “Have you thought any more about who to send for the World Series coverage?” He hated to beg but he needed to know if he was still in the race. “The series starts next week. You know my work is good. I can do the job.”

  “Do I? After that bungled football exposé, I’m not so sure.”

  “It’s not my fault that Desire Blanchette reneged on her earlier quote. If her husband hadn’t destroyed my—”

  “Yeah. Yeah. Tell me something I can use, Brandon. Give me a story and I’ll see what I can do. It’s all about the story.”

  “I might have something,” he said on impulse. “Have you ever heard of a race of invisible people?”

  She was quiet for a few moments. “It’s a little early for Halloween jokes.”

  “No. I’m serious,” Brandon insisted. “They exist.”

  “Let me see what you’ve got. If it isn’t Daily Press material maybe you can sell it to the National Enquirer. They don’t care if it’s a bunch of hogwash or not. I expect you back here tomorrow.”

  Click.

  A story, huh. Well, he had a good story. He didn’t particularly care for throwing Chelsea under the bus, but if he slanted his copy toward the existence of her kind and not on her personally, it might not impact her. He didn’t have to name her as a member of that cursed race. Besides it couldn’t hurt to start researching invisible people, ghost sightings, and that word Chelsea had used… nevidimi. It was possible, he’d never turn in the story, but as he had some time before he met Anton and Darcy for that interview. The least he could do was some research.

  After hours and hours of reading files and posts to the internet, he wasn’t much further along than when he started. Most of the internet “invisible” references were for forgotten or ignored classes of people, not actual “can’t see them even when they’re right in front of you” people. His attempts to research the term she had used led to many Russian references that were of little use when translated. The only articles of interest were a few articles about ghost sightings in various cities including Hollywood. Generally, those were nestled in-between articles of alien landings and zombie defense training in publications that were questionable in their professionalism. Chelsea was right. No one would believe a story about the headless woman he happened to meet while he was inebriated.

  If he was honest with himself, he’d admit that he felt a little relieved. He didn’t want to put Chelsea in jeopardy. He still remembered her face when she said she was running for her life. No one should have to do that. And yet here he was researching her story to see if he could turn it into something that would get him back in the Press’s good graces.

  He felt like a schmuck for even thinking about selling her out. All for a chance to get back in the big leagues.

  Time to get up and do something else to get the bad taste from his mouth. He stood and stretched, then noticed a copy of The Haven Harbor Herald under his door. It must be a perk of the hotel. The paper had a little box positioned under the paper’s name that detailed the phases of the moon that week, much the way other papers would show the daily temperatures.

  Hah! Chelsea would like that. He’d noticed how she shied away from the windows last night when he suggested they go out for something to eat. She refused his offer, preferring to stay inside. The woman had a closer relationship with the moon than he had with his beloved Red Sox. That was saying a lot.

  The local paper reminded him that he hadn’t stopped by to pay his respects to the town’s journalists as was his custom. Deciding the fresh air would do him good, he grabbed his Red Sox jacket and cap. then headed out to search for the address noted in the paper.

  The crisp autumn day outside, however, convinced him to explore the areas outside of town first, to get a feel for the lay of the land as it was. The town was on a tiny peninsula, protected and surrounded by water on three sides. That explained the sense of isolation, yet unified vibe.

  He traveled past cemeteries, a continuation of the wood, a few ruins of old stone houses that had been ravaged by the elements, and, after driving down a bumpy old road by a gray abandoned barn with missing planks, he stumbled upon some sort of communal fire ring. A few boulders dotted the cleared area with a particularly large boulder near the burned ground. Smaller boulders provided convenient seating. A stack of seasoned logs stood at the ready near where a fire would be laid, perfect for a small group to gather round to share ghost stories or toast marshmallows. Childhood memories of holding a long pointed stick with the sweet bubbly treat in the flames brought a smile to his face. A glance at his watch, though, set him back on his original mission. Time to hunt down the newspaper’s home.

  The Haven Harbor Herald was located in a much smaller office than he had anticipated. Obviously an arrangement had been made for the printing of the weekly edition elsewhere as this small establishment couldn’t possibly house a printing press. A bell above the door announced his entrance. He faced an empty desk with stacks of papers, but no person behind it.

  “Hello?” he called. “Anyone home?”

  A pleasant white-haired woman of about sixty-five emerged from the back with a wide smile.

  “You must be applying for the Editor-In-Chief position. I just ran that ad today. I’m so pleased it caught your eye.” She extended her hand.

  Brand shook her hand but quickly explained, “no ma’m. I’m sorry. I’m a reporter with the New York City Daily Press in town for a couple of days. I just wanted to stop by and introduce myself, reporter to reporter as it were.”

  Her eyes reflected her disappointment, but she led him to a smaller room with a raised nameplate identifying her as Hannah Brom, editor.

  “A reporter from the Press would be a good catch,” she said. “Are you here for the Spooktacular Fang-tastic Cast-iron Cauldron Cook-off? All my reporters are out covering the event now. Or maybe you came for the Samhain Ball?” She invited him to take a seat in front of her desk. “You do know that’s not until the end of the month.”

  “Spooktacular Fang…? No,” he said, confused. “I didn’t know there was such a thing, and a ball as well? He shook his head, doubting Natalie would let him stay longer to report about that. “I’m here to cover that movie company’s site assessment and to do a piece on the town’s Halloween preparations, but maybe I’ll check out that cook-off thing.”

  She looked him in the eye and narrowed her focus. “How badly did you screw up?”

  Surprised, he leaned back in his chair. After a moment, a smile creased his lips. “I see you’re familiar with newsroom politics.”

  She laughed. “I’ve worked in big newsrooms and in small. The politics are all the same, but on a small paper, like the Herald, you make your own rules. I like that.”

  He had to admit, he’d like that aspect as well. Natalie wasn’t the first editor to be a pain in the ass. “How big is the staff on the paper?”

  “Just me,” she grinned. “Well mostly. I have three reporters and FitzWilliam who handles classifieds and advertisements with his assistant. They’re at the cook-off as well, though more as spectators than any official capacity. Like I said, I make up my own rules and today, I rule the place.” She smiled.

  Brandon had the impression Hannah would rule even with a full contingent bustling about. The sports room alone at the Press had a dozen employees. The other departments probably had the same. A small paper might be nice but some help running the thing would be appreciated. “How do you get everything done?”

  “It’s the power of a weekly paper. We don’t have the pressure of a daily and our readership is more concerned with local stories.” She brightened. “You should try it.”

  “No. I believe I’ll pass, but I appreciate the offer.” He shifted forward in his seat, unsure how to broach the next topic, but then decided to be straight-forward, reporter to reporter. “I wonder if you might help me with a story I’m researching. Do your archives have anything on the Nevidimi?”<
br />
  “Nevidimi? Sounds like a food recipe.” She smiled, then turned to her computer. “How do you spell it?”

  He did, then watched her fingers slide across the keyboard. “It’s more of an unusual ethnic culture.”

  She shook her head. “Nothing in my files, but you might try the library. They have an excellent collection of books on ethnic cultures. It has to do with our proximity to Salem.”

  “One other question,” he asked after jotting down the address for the library. “I thought I saw a fire ring just outside of town in the middle of a field. I thought it might be for a Halloween celebration or something. Can you tell me about it?”

  “A fire ring?” Her eyes narrowed in thought. “Probably set up by one of the youth groups. They like to make those things with chocolate and graham crackers.”

  “S’mores?” he asked, drawing on his own boy scout memories.

  “That’s it!” she said. “They’re a bit too sweet for me, though.” She leaned forward, changing the tone of their banter. “Listen. Be sure to come back if you reconsider. I recommend Haven Harbor and the editor-in-chief position of this little rag highly. I’ve had no regrets.”

  “I’ll do that,” he answered with a smile, though he couldn’t imagine living in a town this small. Heck, they only had high school athletics, no college teams or professionals. “Thanks for the information.”

  He managed to stop at the library before returning to the hotel to prepare for the interview Chelsea had arranged. It was good that he did, for there in the stacks on an upper floor, he found a small, easily overlooked, leather bound book by a Dr. Vladimir Staveroski entitled, “The Scourge of the Nevidimi.”

  The decision to write the story was suddenly back on the table.

  * * *

  Chelsea sat in her room at the hotel working on her prosthetic designs for the werewolves in Anton’s movie. She would be expected to create the various molds to form the long canine features of the werewolves, but also use her skill with prosthetics to create the wounds and ripped skin so necessary in Anton’s movies. Her make-up could then be applied, or in some instances painted, over the molds. This was the work she loved, but not today.

  Today, her mind wouldn’t stay focused.

  She should run. Brandon knew of her abilities. Brandon was a reporter. A smart woman would get on the next plane, and yet, she didn’t want to leave. Maybe she was too tried of adjusting to new environments, making new friends, finding new employment. Her options were fairly limited given her special effects abilities, or F/X as it was called. Markets really only existed in Hollywood and New York. She could probably survive on the profits of her make-up business, but that’s not what had captured her heart.

  Plus there was the Brandon complication. She hadn’t thought that a high school romance would have the same pull, stimulate the same desires, yet she found herself enjoying the time they had spent together. Even last night, after the awkward panties conversation, she’d found her gaze returning to his eyes, his smile, his protective nature again and again. He’d been the high school star, the prize catch. He could have had any girl in the school for his girlfriend, yet he’d chosen her, who, to avoid notice by her classmates, was no one’s star anything. She was taught never to draw attention to herself, yet somehow Brandon noticed.

  Last night, they’d slipped into the easy conversational mode they’d shared as adolescents. They caught up on all that had transpired since high school. Neither had married, both pursued college and focused on their jobs. He teased her into laughing on more than one occasion. She was comfortable with Brandon, just as she had been in high school.

  But her parents had shuffled her off to Iowa after her mother had been spotted in mid-fade. Chelsea never had a chance to say good bye, never had a chance to explain, never had closure in her relationship with Brandon.

  That realization slammed into her brain, stopping her hand from sketching werewolves.

  Is that what was holding her back from flying straight to Los Angeles? The need for closure with Brandon?

  An ache formed low between her thighs. While she and Brandon had never “done the deed,” there had been other men in the intervening years. She had kept those relationships to strictly one night stands so as to avoid detection. She knew the pleasure to be had with good sex. She suspected sex with someone she cared for would naturally be even better. Would it be so wrong to explore this one thing?

  The movie crew was only staying till the weekend then she’d be gone. She and Brandon could enjoy intimacy, then she’d say good-bye, without the constant nagging thoughts about what could have been. He’d honor her request for anonymity, she was sure of it. As long as there was no evidence of her curse, or her people, what could he do?

  Anticipation fueled the building desire at her core. This would be her plan. She just needed the right opportunity. First, though, she needed to deal with the need stimulated by thoughts of what her plan. She set aside her drawing pads, then turned to the bedside drawer where she’d placed her battery-operated answer.

  Chapter 6

  “You must come, Chelsea. I insist,” Anton said with a pout much like a little boy.

  Initially, Chelsea had thought Brandon could meet Darcy and Anton at a nice restaurant and the three of them could just hammer the interview out. She’d forgotten that Jimmy would attend as well to take photos of the celebrities. That was fine as she’d be safe and protected, and totally unnoticed, in her hotel room. That apparently was not to be.

  “You’d have to eat alone in your room if you do not accompany us to dinner.”

  She’d seen Anton take this tack in the past with Darcy. Thus she knew that, pouting aside, Anton was not going to take “no” for an answer. So she reluctantly agreed. That, however, was only the beginning of her troubles.

  As Brandon had a car, it was decided that he would drive Chelsea to the restaurant. They planned to meet in the hotel lobby.

  Chelsea engaged Darcy’s help in dressing. Remembering the plan she devised last night to establish closure with Brandon, she wanted to be seductive, yet she needed to be sufficiently covered. If the moon entered the car windows, she could phase and attract unwanted attention. Her face could be managed with the same thin masking cream she’d demonstrated on Serena. She’d created that cream in her chemical pursuit to find a simple means to block the moonlight. The cream didn’t work well on other parts of her body, but at least her face would look vibrant and alive.

  She arrived in the hotel lobby with a thick scarf wrapped around her neck that could be raised to cover her mouth if needed, and a ski cap to cover her hair and the back of her head. On top of all that, she wore Mrs. Birkland’s woolen cape. All in all, she resembled a well fed tick, not exactly sexy, but she took comfort that she was prepared to meet the moon head-on tonight.

  Brandon, on the other hand, had shed his sports fan gear to wear a suit. The moment she saw him, her mouth dried as if she’d been sucking on her wool scarf. He was magnificent. Hero worthy. If he had acting skills, she imagined Anton would find him a role, but then he’d be opposite Darcy and Chelsea didn’t want that. No. She wanted Brandon all to herself. Wasn’t that really why she’d agreed to this dinner? It was all part of the plan. After they’d followed this sensual tension between them to its logical conclusion, she’d be able to return to California without mourning Brandon’s loss.

  Then, Jimmy arrived in the lobby with five cameras slung around his neck. “You guys, ready?”

  Brandon raised his brows in answer to her unspoken question. “Jimmy needs to take some photos of the interview. He’ll be riding with us.”

  She took a look at those cameras. This could be a problem.

  “You look like you’re planning to go to the North Pole,” Jimmy said once they’d all gotten in the car. “What’s up with the cape?”

  She’d phoned Mrs. Birkland the day Brandon had returned the garment. She’d apologized for her unanticipated misappropriation and had offered to immediately
return it to its rightful owner.

  “Keep the cape. You’ll need it in this weather,” Mrs. Birkland had said. “When you no longer need it, the cape will find its way back to me.”

  While Chelsea wasn’t exactly sure what Mrs. Birkland meant by that, she’d held on to the cape in case she was caught in the moonlight again.

  She turned toward Jimmy who sat in the back seat. “I’m from Hollywood. My winter jacket isn’t warm enough for October in Massachusetts.”

  “And the sunglasses?” he asked. “It’s already dark out.”

  “I’m from Hollywood,” she repeated. “Every one wears them night and day. Where are yours?”

  Brandon laughed as he drove toward the posh restaurant. Chelsea just prayed it didn’t have windows in the ceiling.

  Brandon tipped the maitre’d for a dark, secluded table far away from windows. Chelsea wanted to hug him but settled on mouthing “thank you” when no one else was looking. He winked in reply. A tingle raced straight from her head to her toes. He was protecting her. It had been a long time since anyone had been that considerate.

  Darcy and Anton arrived shortly and posed for a variety of photos taken in the flashing light of Jimmy’s cameras. Chelsea sipped her wine watching Brandon as he joined the photogenic group. Her mantra of I can do this. I can do this somehow morphed into I can do him. She licked her lips, anxious for this public facet of the evening to end. He may not know it, but she had some interesting plans for a very naked Brandon and his conservative striped tie.

  * * *

  When Brandon saw Chelsea in the hotel lobby, she looked ready to trudge through a couple feet of snow. Of course, he understood why she had every inch of skin covered. But once they’d arrived at the restaurant, she divested herself of all that wool, then divested him of the very act of breathing.