by Nora Roberts
“The more we can protect or at least give a fighting chance to, the more we’ll be able to focus on attack.” Cybil nodded. “I agree. And we are going to have to attack. It’s going to have to be at the Pagan Stone. I know we haven’t discussed it, not in detail since the men are resistant, but whatever we do to end it is going to have to be done there. We can’t be here, in town, putting out fires, trying to stop people from hurting themselves or each other. We all know when and where we’ll take our stand.”
“Midnight,” Quinn said with a sigh. “As July seventh begins. As this Seven begins, in full. I know you’re right. I think we all know it, but it feels like we’re deserting the field.”
“And it’s going to be harder on them, the guys,” Layla added. “Because they tried it before, and failed.”
“We’re not deserting the field. We’re taking the game to ours. We won’t fail this time, because we can’t.” Cybil looked back at the chart. “It doesn’t know us. It thinks it understands, and part of its understanding is that we’re weak, fragile, vulnerable. It’s got reason to think that. It comes, and in a very real way, it wins. Every time. Getting stronger, every time.”
“Dent took it down,” Layla reminded her. “For centuries.”
“Dent broke the rules, sacrificed himself. And he was a guardian.” Quinn angled her head as she studied Cybil’s face. “And still, it was a stopgap, still the burden and some of the power had to be passed on. Diluted, fractured. It took the six of us to reform that power and we still don’t know how to use it. But . . .”
“Yes, but. We have it now, and the means to learn. We know the time and the place,” Cybil said again. “We’re complete with the six of us. Those images I had, of something happening to each of us. I think they were warnings. It has to try to fracture us again, to dilute what we have. We can’t and we won’t let that happen.”
“I’ll talk to Cal about ending this at the Pagan Stone. Part of him knows it has to be that way already.”
“The same with Fox,” Layla said. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Which leaves me with Gage.” Cybil let out a breath.
GAGE PACED CAL’S OFFICE. “SHE WANTS TO TRY the link again. Today.”
“Not that many todays left, son, before the big one. No point wasting any.”
“You know what it’s like, even pushing that on your own. It’s a fucking sucker punch. She had a bad experience yesterday. The worst.”
“Are you looking out for her?”
Gage stopped, baffled, annoyed. “No more than I would anybody. Plus, I’m looking out for myself. If she can’t handle it—”
“Too late for that, you already put her first. Don’t bother bullshitting me. You’ve got a thing. Why wouldn’t you have a thing?”
“The thing is sex,” Gage insisted. “And, sure, a mutual dependency given the circumstances. We’re in this together, so we look out for each other. That’s all I’m doing.”
“Uh-huh.”
Gage turned back with a stony look that did nothing to break Cal’s grin. “Look, it’s different for you.”
“Sex is different for me?”
“For one thing.” Frustrated, Gage jammed his hands in his pockets. “For a lot of things. You’re dead-normal guy.”
“Don’t use the word dead, under the circumstances.”
Jingling the change in his pocket, Gage worked it out in his head. “You’re Bowl-a-Rama boy, Cal. House-in-the-country guy, with the tight family ball, the big, stupid dog—no offense,” he added, glancing down at Lump, who snored away with all four feet in the air.
“None taken.”
“You’re a Hawkins of the Hollow, and always will be. You’ve got the sexy blonde who’s happy to plunk her particularly fine ass down here with you and your big, stupid dog in your house in the country, and raise a brood of kids.”
“Sounds about right.”
“As for Fox, he’s as mired here as you. Hippie kid turned town lawyer with his sprawling and interesting family who snags the pretty brunette who turns out to have a spine of steel—enough of one to open a business in this town because that works for them. Like the house with a garden and a bunch of kids will work for them. The four of you will probably be happy as lunatics.”
“That’s the plan.”
“That’s if we live, and you know, I know, we all know some of us might not make it.”
“If and might.” Cal nodded. “Well, life’s a gamble.”
“For me, gambling’s life. If I get through, it’s on to the next. There’s no house in the country, no nine-to-five or what’s for dinner, honey in me.”
“And you figure that’s what Cybil’s looking for?”
“I don’t know what she’s looking for. It’s not my business to know, that’s the point.” Uneasy, he raked his fingers through his dark hair. Then stopped, annoyed, knowing the gesture was one of his tells. “We’re having sex,” he continued. “We’ve got a mutual goal to kill this bastard and live to talk about it. That’s it.”
“Fine.” Obligingly, Cal spread his hands. “Then what are you so worked up about?”
“I . . . Damned if I know,” Gage admitted. “Maybe I don’t want to be responsible, and linking up that way makes me responsible. They can claim equal shares all they want, but you know how it is, you know how it feels.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“What happened . . . What it did to her, how am I supposed to get that out of my head, Cal? How am I supposed to put that aside?”
“You can’t, you don’t. But that doesn’t mean we can stop. We all know that, too.”
“Maybe she gets to me.” He let out a breath. “Okay, she gets to me, no maybe about it. Hardly a surprise, considering.” His fingers itched to drag through his hair again, and he kept them firmly at his side. “This is all fucking intense.”
“Caring about her doesn’t equal house in the country and big, stupid dog, son.”
“No.” Gage let himself relax. “No, it doesn’t. I could spell that out for her. Diplomatically this time.”
“Sure, you do that. I’ll bring the platter so your head has somewhere to sit after she knocks it off and hands it to you.”
“Point,” Gage muttered. “So we let it ride, that’s all. But when we do the link-up, I want you and Fox there.”
“Then we will be.”
HE STILL DIDN’T LIKE IT, BUT GAGE WAS REALISTIC enough to know a lot of things needed doing he didn’t like. He’d offset that by setting the time and place. His ground—and Cal’s house was the closest to his ground as any in the Hollow—and late enough in the day to have his brothers with him.
If anything went wrong, he’d have backup.
“Even considering Crazy Roscoe, I’d rather do this outside.” Cybil glanced around the room, then zeroed in on Gage. “The fact is, we might need to do this later on, and in the open, so we might as well figure out how to defend ourselves if necessary.”
“Fine. Hold on.” Gage walked out of the room, returning moments later with his Luger.
“Don’t even think about handing that to me,” Fox told him.
“So grab a garden tool like last time.” Gage turned to Cal.
“Okay. Shit.” With considerable care, Cal took the gun.
“Safety’s on.”
Cybil opened her bag, took out her .22 and handed it to Quinn. Quinn flipped open the cylinder, examined the chamber, then smoothly locked it back in place. “Okay,” she said while Cal stared at her.
“Well, the things you learn about the love of your life. Maybe you should take the big one.”
“That’s okay, cutie, you can handle it.”
“Quinn’s an excellent shot,” Cybil commented. “So, are we ready for this?”
As they headed out the back, through the kitchen, Fox pulled two knives from the block on Cal’s counter. “Just in case,” he said when he gave one to Layla.
“Just in case.”
Clouds were edging in, Gage noted, but for now there was enough ligh
t and the breeze was easy. Like Cybil, he sat on the grass while their friends circled around them.
“Why don’t we try to focus on a specific place?” she suggested.
“Such as?”
“Right here. Cal’s house. It’s a good starting point. We can work our way out from there. Ease into it this time, and we might lessen the side effects.”
“Okay.” He took her hands. He looked into her eyes. This place, he thought. This grass, this wood, this glass, this dirt.
He saw it in his mind, the lay of the land, the slopes and rises, the lines of the house. Colors and shapes. As he let it form, the greens of spring, the blooms of it faded, withered, browned. White crept in until snow covered the ground, layered on the branches. It fell still, in fat, fast flakes. He felt them, cold and wet against his skin. In his hands, Cybil’s hands chilled.
Smoke spiraled from the chimney, and a cardinal, a bright red splash, winged through the falling snow to land in the bird feeder.
Inside, he thought. Who was inside? Who’d built the fire, filled the feeder? Gripping Cybil’s hand, he walked through the walls, into the kitchen. A bowl he recognized as Fox’s mother’s work sat on the counter holding fruit. Music drifted in, something classical that struck the first uneasy note in him. Cal wasn’t the classical type, and he’d never known Quinn to go for it.
Who was listening to the music? Who’d bought the apples, the oranges in the bowl? The thought of strangers in Cal’s house pushed him forward, lit a spark of anger in him. Cybil’s hands tightened on his, nudged him back. He sensed, almost heard her.
No anger. No fear. Wait and see.
Locking down emotion, he moved with her.
A fire crackled in the hearth. Tulips spilled out of a clear glass vase on the mantel. And on the couch, Quinn slept under a colorful blanket. As he watched, Cal stepped to her, leaned over, and kissed her cheek. Even as the restrained tension eased out of Gage, Quinn stirred.
She smiled as her eyes opened. “Hi.”
“Hi, Blondie.”
“Sorry. Mozart may be good for the kid, but it puts me to sleep every time.”
As she shifted, as the blanket slid down, Gage saw she was hugely pregnant. Her hands crossed over her belly, and Cal’s closed over them.
It flicked off, the sounds, the images, the scents, and he was back on the grass staring into Cybil’s eyes.
“It’s nice to have a positive possibility for a change,” she managed.
“Headache?” Quinn asked immediately. “Nausea?”
“Not really. It was easier, smoother. And the vision was a quiet one. I think that makes a difference, too. A happy one. You and Cal, in the house. It was winter, and you were sitting in front of the fire.”
She squeezed Gage’s hand, shot him a look. He took both as a warning, and shrugged. She didn’t want to bring up the bun in the oven, fine.
“I like that better than the last one you had of us,” Quinn decided. “So, how’d I look? Any disfiguring scars from demon battles?”
“Actually, you looked fabulous. Both of you did. Let’s try again. Not a place this time, but people.” Cybil looked up at Fox and Layla. “If that’s okay with you?”
“Yeah.” Layla reached for Fox’s hand. “Okay.”
“The same way.” Cybil met Gage’s eyes, settled her breathing. “Slow.”
He brought them into his mind as he had Cal’s house, shapes, colors, textures. He envisioned them as they were now, standing hand-in-hand behind him. Again, what was faded into what might be.
The shop, he decided. Layla’s future boutique with the counters, the displays, the racks. She sat at a fancy little desk, typing something on a laptop. When the door opened, she glanced up and stood as Fox strolled in.
“Good day?” he asked.
“Good day. September’s looking great, and I got more fall stock in this afternoon.”
“Then congratulations and happy anniversary.” He brought a bouquet of pink roses from behind his back.
“They’re gorgeous! Happy anniversary.”
“One month since your official grand opening.”
She laughed, and as she took the flowers, the diamond on her finger caught the light and sizzled. “Then let’s go home and celebrate. I’ll have my one glass of wine a week.”
“You’re on.” He put his arms around her. “We made it.”
“Yes, we did.”
When they came back, Cybil’s hands once again squeezed his. “You take this one,” she suggested.
“Your shop looks pretty slick, and so did you,” he added when Layla let out a shaky breath. “That one looked pretty much like he always did. So considering these are possibilities, you’ve still got time to dump him.”
He looked up at the sky. “We’re going to get rained on before much longer.”
“We’ve got time for another,” Cybil insisted. “Let’s go for the gold. The Pagan Stone.”
He’d expected her to want to see herself, specifically, or the two of them. As he’d thought before, she surprised him. “We do this, that’s it for tonight.”
“Agreed. I’ve got some ideas for other avenues. Another time. Ready?”
It came too fast. He knew it the moment he opened to it, to her. Not a drift this time, but the sensation of being the pebble flying from the slingshot. The flight flung him straight into the holocaust. It rained blood and fire, each striking the scorched ground of the clearing to flash, to burn. The stone boiled with both.
He saw Cybil, her face pale as wax. Her hand bled, as did his. His lungs strained as he fought to breathe in the smoke-thickened air. He heard the shouts around him, and braced.
For what? For what? What did he know?
It came from everywhere at once. Out of the dark, the smoke, out of the ground, the air. When he reached for his gun, his hand came up empty. When he reached for Cybil, it struck, knocking her to the ground where she lay still as death.
He was alone with his own fear and fury. The thing that surrounded him roared in a sound of greedy triumph. Whatever sliced out at him carved a burning gash across his chest. The pain all but swallowed him whole.
Staggering, he tried to drag Cybil away. Her eyes flickered open, latched on to his. “Do it now. You have to do it now. There’s no other choice.”
He leaped toward the Pagan Stone, fell painfully against it. And he grasped the burning bloodstone atop it in his bare hand. With it closed in his fist, with its flames licking between his clenched fingers, he plunged with it into absolute black.
There was nothing, there was nothing, there was nothing but pain. Then he lay on the Pagan Stone as its fire consumed him.
He clawed his way back, head ringing, nausea a wretched churn in his belly. Swiping blood from his nose, he looked into Cybil’s glassy eyes. “So much for slow and easy.”
Twelve
IT DIDN’T TAKE MUCH OF A PUSH TO CONVINCE Cybil to throttle back to research mode for a few days. They’d have to look again, she and Gage, but she couldn’t claim to look forward to the experience.
Had she seen Gage’s death? Had she felt her own? The question played through her mind over and over. Had it been death, or another kind of end when the black had dropped around her, leaving her blind. Had the screams she’d heard been her own?
She’d seen herself at the Pagan Stone before, and every time she did, death came for her there. Not life, not like Quinn and Layla, she mused, no celebration. Only the blood and the black.
She’d have to go back, she knew. In vision and in reality. Not only to seek answers, but to accept them. When she did, she had to go back strong. But not today. Today was a holiday with red, white, and blue bunting, with marching bands and little girls in sparkling costumes. Today’s Memorial Day parade was, in her opinion, a little slice of the Hawkins Hollow pie, and sampling it helped remind her why she would go back.
And the view from the steps of Fox’s office building was one of the best in the house.
“I love a parade,
” Quinn said beside her.
“Main Street, U.S.A. Hard to resist.”
“Aw, look, there’s some of the Little League guys.” Quinn bounced on her toes while the pickup carting kids in the back inched by. “Those are the Blazers, proudly sponsored by the Bowl-a-Rama. Cal’s dad coaches, too. They’re on a three-game streak.”
“You’re really into all this. I mean, seriously into small-town mode.”
“Who knew?” With a laugh, Quinn snaked an arm around Cybil’s waist. “I’m thinking of joining a committee, and I’m going to do a discussion and signing at the bookstore. Cal’s mom offered to teach me how to make pie, but I’m dodging that. There are limits.”
“You’re in love with this place,” Cybil observed. “Not just Cal, but the town.”
“I am. Writing this book changed my life, I guess. Bringing me here, realizing I was part of the lore I was researching. It brought me to Cal. But the process of writing it—beyond the hard stuff, the ugly stuff we’ve faced and have to face—it pulled me in, Cyb. The people, the community, the traditions, the pride. It’s just exactly what I want. Not your style, I know.”
“I’ve got nothing against it. In fact, I like it very much.”
She looked out over the crowds lining the sidewalks, the fathers with kids riding their shoulders, long-legged teenage girls moving in their colorful packs, families and friends hunkered down in their folding chairs at the curbs. The air was ripe with hot dogs and candy, spicy with the heliotrope from the pots Fox had stacked on his steps. Everything was bright and clear—the blue sky, the yellow sun, the patriotic bunting flying over the streets, the red and white petunias spilling out of baskets hanging on every lamppost along Main.
Young girls in their spangles tossed batons, executed cartwheels on their way toward the Square. In the distance she heard the sound of trumpets and drums from an approaching marching band.
Most days she might prefer the pace of New York, the style of Paris, the romance of Florence, but on a sunny Saturday afternoon while May readied to give over to June, Hawkins Hollow was the perfect place to be.
She glanced over when Fox held out a glass. “Sun tea,” he told her. “There’s beer inside if you’d rather.”