But this is your life; not a dress rehearsal, Winter thought against the sudden clutch of tension in her chest.
Dennis came into the kitchen, slinging his jacket and briefcase onto one of the kitchen chairs, and fixed Winter with a challenging stare from his small cold eyes that made her feel he was assessing the dollar value of everything she wore, from the casual Aigner pumps to the wheat-colored cashmere sweater and the diamond studs in her ears. Assessing … and resenting.
“So this is your old girlfriend, huh, Neenie?” he said. His voice was like the rest of him; aggressive and uncared-for; and Winter, whose entire working day had been spent shouting at the top of her lungs and then trying to repair the damage afterward, winced faintly in sympathy at the rough rawness of Dennis Raymond’s voice.
“This is Winter; you remember I—”
“What’s for dinner?” Denny said, cutting her off. He looked around the kitchen, sniffing exaggeratedly.
For the last few hours the fragrant scent of pot roast with red wine and onions had been slowly filling the kitchen. Janelle was a good cook but an anxious one, fussing and worrying over every ingredient.
“Pot roast; I thought—” Janelle began again.
“Well hurry up with it, would you? I’m starved. A man who has to work for a living—” he said, with a baleful glare at Winter “—has a right to expect a few things when he gets home, you know what I’m saying?”
Yes; but he hasn’t got the right to make other people slave for him without a word of thanks. Winter had worked longer and harder days than Dennis Raymond ever had, she suspected, rising while it was still dark in order to get the news from Tokyo and the gold-fix , from London; sipping her first coffee of the day staring at the big display over the Pit and waiting for Chicago to wake up so that the most frantic part of her working day could begin. She’d had people to shop for her, cook for her, clean for her—but she’d never assumed these things were hers by right. She’d paid for them, and been grateful she was in a position to be able to pay.
“Sure, honey.” Janelle’s tone was apprehensive, and she kept darting worried glances at Winter. Without being told, Janelle got a glass from the cupboard and filled it with ice, then retrieved a bottle from under the kitchen sink and poured a generous splash of bourbon into it.
“Would you like a drink, Winter?” Janelle said, trying to turn the moment into a social one.
“Women shouldn’t drink,” Denny said, taking the glass.
Winter repressed the urge to ask Janelle for a double bourbon and see if she could drink Denny under the table.
“And what is it, Mr. Raymond, that you think women should do?” Winter asked silkily. She crossed one leg over the other and leaned back in her chair, feeling a small sense of triumph as the gray flannel skirt slid up over the gleaming Evan Picone stockings and Denny’s eyes followed the movement. Sex was a weapon, Jack had always told her, and she should use every weapon the good Lord had given her to get what she wanted.
God, she missed Jack. He’d been her mentor; she’d clerked for him when she’d first arrived on the Street, and been a good friend to him and Lorna both. When he’d died last year—
“I think they shouldn’t try to be men,” Denny said, knocking back the second half of his drink. His face was flushed now from the alcohol, and his mouth was set in a thin line.
Heart attack within the year, Winter prophesied automatically. She readied herself for another retort—she’d been annihilating assholes like this since she was twenty-five—but then she glanced sideways at Janelle. Her friend’s gray eyes were wells of pain, and she looked pleadingly at Winter.
Winter took a deep breath, only now realizing how disastrous the consequences of losing her hold on her temper could be. If the poltergeist should strike here … She took a deep breath, and visualized the muscles of her chest and stomach—where, according to the pamphlet from Inquire Within, anger energy accumulated—relaxing.
“I’m sure you’re right,” Winter said. “Jannie, shall I help you set the table?”
ALTHOUGH THE BUNGALOW had an eat-in kitchen, there was also a small dining room, dutifully furnished with an eight-piece early American dining suite from Sears. Denny Raymond—on his third bourbon by this time—bulldozed his way through pot roast and carrots in a silence broken only by monosyllabic demands for more food. Winter found herself sneaking surreptitious glances at her watch, counting the moments until dinner would be over and she could gracefully leave.
But I have to ask jannie about Grey.
It was true that Janelle hadn’t mentioned him by name earlier when she’d been discussing how out of touch she was with the others, but even if she weren’t in touch, she might at least have some idea of where Winter could begin looking for Hunter Greyson. Only Winter wasn’t entirely sure of how to broach the subject, not with Dennis Raymond sitting across the table from her glaring at her as though she were his worst enemy.
Which of course I am: a woman he can neither bully nor defeat. In the fashion that Dennis measures success—money—I’m better than he’ll ever be, and he just can’t stand it.
She glanced out of the corner of her eye at Janelle, who, for all her chatter earlier, had been silent since she’d sat down, looking at neither of them. Considering Denny’s manners—or lack of them—Winter wondered why Janelle had asked her to stay for dinner. Surely it would have been easier all around if Winter had merely left before Denny got home?
Or would it? The sudden doubt chilled her. What were evenings like here at 167 Grammercy Park Road, shut up in this little house in the middle of suburbia with a man who obviously resented any spark of competence shown by a woman?
No wonder Janelle doesn’t paint any more, Winter thought, and felt a little like crying.
“So. What do you do?” His first hunger satisfied, Dennis Raymond was now prepared to make what was his version of small talk. But, with senses abraded raw by tension and stress, Winter knew that what the world would see as small talk was only Dennis’s method of setting up another attack.
And unfortunately, any retaliation on Winter’s part would have a price that was paid by Janelle, and not by her. A high price.
“I have a seat on the New York Stock Exchange,” Winter said, although that wasn’t quite true. Arkham Miskatonic King paid the five-figure rental fee each year, not her, and she was sure that by now her pit pass had gone to someone else.
Still, it sounded impressive.
“Well la-di-dah,” Dennis said archly, waggling his hand. He was not entirely sober. “I guess you’re one of those women who thinks she can do just fine without a man.”
For some reason the statement made Winter think of Grey again; if she concentrated, she could almost imagine him here, now, one slanting golden eyebrow raised and a mocking smile of deliberation playing about his mobile mouth.
“Denny—” Janelle said.
“Shut up, Neenie; I’m talking to our guest. Isn’t that right, Miz Musgrave, that you’re one of those women who thinks she’s as good as a man?”
I’m as good as some and better than some. And you aren’t even a man, Dennis Raymond—you’re a willful, spoiled brat and someone should spank you. Hard.
There was the sound of shattering glass from the kitchen and Winter started guiltily. Had she caused that breakage?
Dennis swore and shoved his chair back. “Gaw-dam kids,” he said, his words more slurred than they had been a moment ago. He lurched to his feet and shambled off in the direction of the kitchen.
Winter looked at Janelle.
“The local kids,” Janelle said. “They throw rocks at the house. They broke the kitchen window last week—cracked right across.”
Oh no they didn’t, Winter thought with despairing certainty. She heard another crash from the kitchen, and the ugly sound of Denny’s cursing. She heard the kitchen door open and slam.
“He’s gone outside. But he never finds them,” Janelle said dejectedly.
This might be my o
nly chance.
A clear cold sense of purpose cut across the tangled emotions of the evening, sharpening Winter’s will and senses as if she’d inhaled pure oxygen. If she did not ask about Hunter Greyson now there might not be another chance.
“Jannie, do you remember Hunter Greyson? Do you remember Nuclear Circle—the things we used to do?”
Janelle’s face lit up; she looked eager and wistful. “Oh, golly—Grey! I haven’t thought about him in years! I guess the two of you broke up?” she asked Winter.
Or … something.
“So you don’t hear from him?” Winter asked, just to be sure. It was only later that she realized that Janelle had sidestepped her question about Nuclear Circle completely.
“No.” Janelle’s face was losing its animation, regaining its defensive mask of vagueness. “Maybe Ramsey does; I don’t know. He’s never mentioned him.”
Denny Raymond stomped back into the dining room. His face was an alarming shade of crimson, and he’d taken the opportunity in the kitchen to refresh his drink. This time the short glass was half full of straight bourbon—no ice.
“Well, your little friends got away again,” he said to Janelle. “She encourages them,” he added to Winter. “They’re always sucking up to her, hanging around—she feeds them, that’s what it is, when honest to God, they’ve got their own homes to go to, don’t they?”
“Most of the women around here work,” Janelle murmured apologetically. “All I do Is—”
“All you do is get taken advantage of, Neenie, and don’t forget I told you. You don’t work—I told you when I married you I was going to take care of you, didn’t I? And these guys that say it’s okay for their wives to work—well, you aren’t going to be the one taking care of their kids—or anything else of theirs for that matter—and when I catch those little bastards …” His voice trailed off ominously, and he glared at both women as if they’d contradicted him.
Was this what Denny thought of as taking care of his wife? Winter wondered. For that matter, was this what Janelle had wanted out of their marriage? Someone who would make all the decisions, take all her freedom, so she would not have to face the pressure of her own success or failure?
Surely not. She’d been eight years younger when she’d married him, and in the flush of romantic love. Surely she hadn’t known what Dennis Raymond was—or would turn into.
But she knew now. And she was still here.
THERE WERE SEVERAL other unexplained noises during the rest of dinner, but Denny didn’t get up to investigate them. Instead he complained about the quality of the meal, the housekeeping of the immaculate house, and even about the way Janelle looked until it was all Winter could do to hold her tongue. She could not keep the treacherous, dangerous thought out of her mind that if the creature that stalked her—and which apparently, in defiance of the laws of space and time, was here in Rappahoag, New Jersey, at the same time it stalked Glastonbury—wished to hurt and kill, here was one candidate who would not be missed. She prayed very hard that she had no influence over it, since if Denny turned up dead Winter would find it difficult to forgive herself, no matter how pleasurable the thought of his death was to contemplate now.
Finally dinner and dessert—a gooey bakery cake—were over, and Winter, hastily rising to her feet, thanked Janelle for a lovely evening while saying she had to go.
“I’ve got to hit the road bright and early tomorrow morning, you know. It’s been terrific seeing you again, Jannie—and a pleasure to meet you as well, Mr. Raymond.”
Winter had learned, on Wall Street, to lie passionately and convincingly on short notice, and she drew on those skills now.
“Yeah, stop by anytime.” The inflection Denny put on his words turned them into their opposite. He did not get up; he merely stared into his empty glass.
Janelle went back to the guest room with Winter to retrieve her coat and purse. Winter just happened to be looking toward her as Janelle reached for the hanger, and that was how she saw the mottled green and yellow bruises that circled Janelle’s wrist like a bracelet. She took no pleasure from having her suspicions confirmed.
“You could leave him, you know,” she said to Janelle.
“Yeah.” Janelle turned toward her, holding out the coat. “But where would I go? And what does it matter, anyway? I’m not anybody.”
“Yes you are,” Winter told her fiercely.
But she knew that no words of hers would pierce the impenetrable hedge of psychic thorns that Janelle had woven around herself. Denny, monster though he was, was only the tool by which Janelle Baker—clever, talented Janelle—had made it impossible for herself to succeed and unnecessary even to try. And for that form of freedom Janelle would pay any price.
Even this.
Janelle saw where Winter was looking and pushed the sleeve of her sweatshirt back down so it covered the bruises.
“It … it’s only sometimes. But he doesn’t mean it,” Janelle said dully. “It was an accident, really.”
Winter wondered with a flash of despair just how many other marks the baggy, all-encompassing green sweatsuit hid. And she knew that with no one to stop him, Denny Raymond would go from sometimes to always—if he hadn’t already—and that at his fists someday Janelle would find in truth the oblivion she sought.
“How could it happen?” Winter asked, and it wasn’t the beatings that she meant. Janelle shrugged, and now there were tears glittering in her eyes.
“I don’t know, Winter. You make choices, and by the time you figure the first one wasn’t that good and ought to be unmade, you’ve already made five more on top of it, then ten—and you can’t go back. It’s just easier, I guess, to let it ride. Because you’re all tangled up, and even if you could get loose and shove everything back to square one, the chances you thought you had when you were twenty are all gone—and there’s no way you could have known how they were going to work out anyhow. I’m just not that brave.”
Winter nodded, biting her lip to keep from crying. “If I could—”
Janelle put a hand on her arm.
“It’s too late, Winter. It’s too late for all of us. Even for Grey, wherever he is. It’s too late.”
8
Winter and Rough Weather
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man’s ingratitude.
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
BACK IN HER neat, antiseptic hotel room—as soulless and bland as Janelle’s house but with more justification—Winter paced and fretted. She was not completely well even yet, and should have been exhausted from the long drive and everything that had happened that day, but somehow the frustration energized her until her body and mind were racing like an engine with no cut-off switch. How could she leave Janelle in that horrible situation, married to a man who beat her and despised her?
And who would someday kill her. Someday soon. Truth Jourdemayne might have called it a psychic flash; Winter Musgrave only knew that it was an unwelcome and unprovable intuition that she had no trouble at all believing. And the guilty, angry suspicion that Janelle would welcome that release did nothing to make Winter feel better.
All her life Winter had been a realist—accepting with good grace or at least good manners the things she could not change, however much she hated them. And I did hate them—a lot of them, anyway. But the daily realities of Janelle’s life filled her with a monstrous sense of unfairness; even if Janelle were afraid of her artistic talent, surely she did not have to be punished so much for choosing not to use her gifts.
That horrible, pompous, arrogant, mean-spirited little hypocritical coward of a man! Winter dug her nails into her palms until the flesh bled. Dennis Raymond’s face filled her mind’s eye. He was not evil-she had a hazy acquaintance with evil, at least enough to know what it was not—but he was the sort that let evil in, and then whined afterward, desperate to escape the consequences of the actions they’d relished at the time.
Warmth and streng
th filled her, a tingling rush of power that was curiously numbing, though Winter felt achingly alert. The inoffensive neutral tones of carpet, walls, and bedspread that made up the Marriott bedroom seemed to take on vividness, as though they were painted with light, and the plain yellow illumination of the lamp on the dresser seemed to be filled with patterns of coruscating color. She felt a hot congested warmth beneath her heart; a predatory certainty … .
The row of cosmetics lined up on the dresser began to dance upon its surface, trembling as if perturbed by a small earthquake. With horrified intuition, Winter saw the hate-serpent that lived inside her wake, its aura pressing out through the surface of her skin until she could look down and see a shimmering mist of sequin-bright scales overlaying her skin, as the monstrous intolerant guardian within her spread its patterned hood and sought for prey.
No!
Winter sank slowly to her knees, the faint trembling of the objects on her dresser sounding as loud as the rumblings of an avalanche in her ears. She would not let this happen here—the creature that stalked her, the magickal child, that creature she could not control—but the poltergeist, born of her very marrow, should be hers to command. She could master this shameful shadow-twin; she’d found that out that night at the Institute. But the tension in her body was nearly sexual in its intensity, unambiguously demanding release. Winter nearly panicked and surrendered to its craving—but to panic would be to lose all.
To panic would be to fail.
Winter drew the refusal to fail about her like an icy cloak, like the season for which she was named. She tried to concentrate, but could not remember what would stop the thing that drew its life from her, and it had seduced her on until she was far too keyed-up to release the energy and the tension within her.
She took a deep breath, forcing her lungs to expand against the iron weight crushing her chest. And having nothing else left to fight with, she set her mind and her bare will against the power in which she still only half believed.
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