The October Trilogy Complete Box Set

by Heather Killough-Walden

  It was a thought so suddenly bright and hopeful, Logan’s knee-jerk instinct was to give it voice and share it with Dominic right away. But somehow she managed to keep her mouth shut and maintain a lid on it. It was certainly a hope. But that was the problem. This time, things might be different. It might just be a false hope.

  And that was the last thing she wanted to give Dominic just then.

  Chapter Eight

  Logan moved through Dominic’s living room like a ghost, not touching anything. It felt surreal for her to be there, for several reasons. It was strange enough to be in the living quarters of someone so wealthy. Logan knew that Dom’s family was well off, but Dominic himself never put on airs. He didn’t dress in Hilfiger or use two hundred dollar gel in his hair or hide a badminton racket in his locker. He was a guitarist in vintage Black Sabbath t-shirts and blue jeans. To stand now in the middle of a room sporting tiny objects that probably cost more than her family’s entire house was… odd.

  She felt out of place, like a great pretender. She could imagine that Dominic’s father would walk in any second and his poor-scoping-x-ray vision would instantly peg her for the non-heiress she was and demand she be thrown out.

  But even more jarring was the fact that she was there in the first place. In Dominic Maldovan’s living room. For years, she’d dreamed of Dominic one day inviting her over to his house. When she was younger, she imagined that he probably had all of the coolest toys. Not the most expensive, necessarily – just the coolest. Toys she liked. LEGOs. A Star Wars lightsaber maybe, or one of those huge Millennium Falcons.

  As she got older, what she imagined his room consisted of changed. Lately, she’d been seeing him surrounded with a lot of black. Dark curtains, posters of Dio on the wall. Maybe a drum set in the corner, and definitely a few guitars and amps. That would quintessentially be Dom.

  Now she was turning a slow circle in the midst of gold gilded mirrors, plush leather couches, crystal decanter sets and Persian rugs. She stopped and peered across the room toward the kitchen and the large marble-topped bar that separated it from the dining room. Dom sat there right now, his elbows on the bar, his hands clutching his hair, his eyes shut tight.

  Looking at him amid all of this stone and silk, it was clear to her that there was much more of Dom’s father in this house than there was of him.

  It was also clear that she was being a horrible friend.

  The realization was a little jarring. Dom was hunched over, clutching at himself, clearly in horrible amounts of mental pain, and all she could do was ogle his family’s belongings and judge.

  She swore softly under her breath as she tore off her leather messenger bag, tossed it onto the couch, and pulled her jacket off next. She was rolling up her long sleeves on her way into the kitchen when Dom looked up at the sound of her shoes on the tiles.

  Logan placed a gentle hand on his upper arm – didn’t fail to notice the thick muscle – and forced herself to move on past him.

  Dominic had just suffered a life-altering traumatic event. It wasn’t something new to him, which was a tragedy in and of itself. But every new horror life revealed was different in intricate, terrible ways. It bore different colors, different tastes, and it demanded its own separate attention.

  As he had hopefully done when his mother died, Dominic would eventually need to grieve Alec’s death. He would need to talk about it, re-live it, purge it, and vomit the pain until there was nothing left of it but the dried-up husks of emotion that remained at the bottom of that nausea-of-the-soul abyss.

  But right now? It was too soon. Right now he just really needed to be distracted.

  Right now he needed cookies.

  And it just so happened that Logan was pretty much the best cookie chef in town.

  *****

  Inhabiting a person’s body was an experience that Sam would never get used to and one he whole-heartedly hoped he would never have to do again. There was a law of physics that claimed two objects could not occupy the same space at the same time, and now that Sam was outright breaking that law, he would almost agree that it was true. It was an impossibility that became possible but was so uncomfortable and so wrong, it was nearly impossible once more.

  When he’d become Alec Sheffield, he’d shoved the boy’s will or spirit or force, whatever one wanted to call it, to the side and infused his own essence into every nucleus, every strand of DNA until he was operating the same neurons that Sheffield had once operated. What the boy knew, Sam knew. What he’d experienced, Sam remembered. Every bit of knowledge Sheffield had ever acquired, every dream he’d ever had, and every fear he’d ever experienced became Sam’s.

  There was no literal voice in his head telling him to get out; that was impossible, after all. Alec’s brain waves had been Sam’s; his neural synapses were the same. The difference was not in the physical, it was in the ethereal.

  The only way Sam would be able to describe it was that as Alec Sheffield, he felt depressed, he felt drained, he felt as if he had to struggle with every decision he made, second guessing himself, and sometimes wanting to give up. That was Alec’s willpower, Alec’s own “soul” at work. It hadn’t left the body. It was still there, still crammed in alongside Sam’s, only it was no longer in control.

  The sensation was discombobulating, but one Sam had managed to handle.

  However, now that he was in Dominic Maldovan’s body, there was an entirely new sensation to contend with. Compared to Sheffield’s will, Maldovan’s was stronger in spades. It was like thick black oil versus clear water. It was hard to see in here, hard to feel anything but rage and desperation.

  With every passing second, he felt closer to losing control, to wanting to simply kill Maldovan’s body so he could get the hell out of it. It was too hard, too much work. Maldovan cared too much.

  He’d brought them to Dominic’s home, but once there, Sam succumbed to the fight going on inside. His hands fisted in his hair, his eyes shut tight to the turmoil raging inside of him, he hunched over the bar and tried to remember – his realm, his kingdom, his sovereignty – in the hopes that recalling just how powerful he truly was would give him the strength to see this out.

  He had no idea how he was going to get Logan writing again; he desperately needed the magic power that came when she created words, any words, new words, new imaginings. There was an inherent energy involved when a bard created. He desperately needed that. It was the spark that would ignite his fire once more and set him on the road to being at full strength.

  But he could barely function, much less conceive of how to get a pen in the bard’s hands.

  He was beginning to despair. Maldovan was winning.

  And then he heard Logan’s footsteps drawing nearer, and he raised his head just as she placed her hand on his arm.

  Her touch shot through him like electric warmth, a cleansing kind of fire that temporarily burned away the black and red and chaos of his personal battle. While the touch, so tender and warm, gave Maldovan inside something to fight harder for, it simultaneously gave Sam the strength with which to fight back.

  Logan turned a smile on him, gentle and compassionate. Her amber colored eyes looked like honey, freshly heated by the sun. For one blessed moment, Sam melted in those eyes, was sweetened by them, fortified by their liquid gold.

  “Where do you keep the flour?” she asked.

  And because he was in Dominic’s body and had all of his memories, Sam knew.

  Twenty minutes later, the house that Sam knew Dominic hated with a passion smelled like Autumn. It smelled like October, like cookies and cinnamon and apple cider, like a new year and a new hope and all of the right colors.

  Sam watched as Logan bent to pull a baking tray out of the oven. He felt something hard in him spike with need, and he clutched the side of the counter with a clenching fist as her tight jeans hugged her hips and the curve of her ass. A cloud of chocolate-scented steam wafted from the oven to curl around her as she lifted the tray out and placed i
t on the stove. Sam licked his lips, for the briefest moment not at all certain whether he was hungry just for Logan… or for the cookies she’d made as well. They honestly looked and smelled delicious.

  He realized something just then. He was in a human body. For now, anyway. And he had to admit that he’d put that human body through quite an ordeal. It had been some time since Maldovan had eaten, actually. Sam was feeling that human frailty now.

  “Get the cider, would you?” she asked, smiling over at him.

  Sam blinked, remembering who he was pretending to be and reminding himself of the part he had to play. He nodded and straightened, coming off of where he’d been leaning against the kitchen counter. “Right,” he said. “The cider.”

  Logan moved out of his way, taking the cookies to another counter and using a spatula to get them onto a cooling rack. Sam lifted the metal pot of cider off the stove and poured its steaming contents into two mugs that Logan had already prepared with cinnamon sticks.

  Autumn. October.

  Little by little, Logan was managing to make him feel more at home. This was what his kingdom was like all the time, in a way. His realm was muted. It was orange and red and purple mixed with shadows apple and cinnamon and clove, but caught as if from far off. Crisp wind, rain storms, warm fires, but not quite as cold and not quite as hot. His realm was Autumn, but cast into night. It was the darker side of Fall. It was an almost beautiful thing, as if all it needed was for someone to switch on a light, pull back a curtain, and take the apple pie out of the oven.

  Logan could do that for him. Watching her now, experiencing the way she seemed to bring October with her everywhere she went, Sam realized that there was more to his choice than he’d originally thought. Logan was not only a bard, not only beautiful, and not only possessing of an ancient soul. She was capable of turning his realm into everything its potential promised it could be. She didn’t even know she was doing it. This was just her – just Logan Wright and her pumpkin patch, full moon, fog magic soul.

  She was perfect. She was Halloween. And she was going to make the perfect queen.

  Chapter Nine

  Sam brushed his hands together and then did what Dominic would have done and wiped his palms down the front of his jeans. Logan watched him from across the bar and shook her head, smiling. She handed him the kitchen towel beside her as she finished chewing. He took it, made some effort to get the chocolate off, and then set it down on the counter.

  The cookies had been his first. He’d never tasted anything like them before. In his realm there was no need to eat. He wasn’t mortal there, and not bogged down by mortal weaknesses. But while the frailty of human necessities in this world could be irritating, he had to admit that there was reward involved as well. It felt good to satisfy your hunger. It tasted good. He’d learned that much as a vampire. It seemed the same held when you were just plain human – if not more so.

  “Thank you,” he said, meaning it from the bottom of his stolen, human heart.

  Logan smiled a closed-mouth smile since she had yet to swallow the rest of her food. She took a big drink of the milk she’d poured after finishing her cider; cider wasn’t great with cookies. Then she set down the empty glass, wiped her mouth with her napkin, and said, “It’s the least I can do.”

  “If you’d like, I’ll give you a tour of the rest of the estate,” Sam offered, feeling fortified and confident. He had all of Maldovan’s memories, so he knew this house as well as the guitarist did.

  Logan nodded and pushed away from the bar, following him out of the dining room. As he took her from room to room, he concentrated on several things at once. He tried to appear unaffected by the wealth the house represented. He remained close to Logan – but not too close. And he thought furiously about how he was going to get her writing again.

  Eventually, they came to his room, Dominic’s room, which was on the third floor of the mansion. It was a converted attic, complete with a few slanted ceiling spaces and floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the entire town beyond.

  Sam entered and turned, watching Logan as she hesitated at his threshold. Her eyes were so big in her lovely face, so hesitant and uncertain. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips parted. Her gaze skirted over the interior of the room, taking it all in, and Sam had the sudden urge to reach out, grab her, and pull her in after him.

  Why, he had no idea. It would accomplish nothing. It was just an urge.

  “You do have posters of Dio on the wall,” she muttered, smiling to herself.

  Sam tilted his head to one side. “So I do,” he said, his voice a little mystified. He smiled. “Why?” She seemed to be enjoying some inside joke. He wanted in on it.

  But she shook her head. “Nothing.” And finally she entered the room.

  “You like Tenacious D?” she asked, turning from a “D” poster to smile curiously at him.

  Sam knew that Dominic appreciated the guitarist of the band; apparently he was quite talented. “Good guitarist,” he said by way of confirmation.

  “Yeah,” Logan said, now grinning. “I agree Cage doesn’t exactly suck.” She moved on, eyeing his belongings like a kid in a toy store.

  “Oh my God,” she suddenly said. She’d come to a stop in front of one of the many shelves that lined Maldovan’s walls. The shelves were polished oak and most likely meant for leather backed tomes, medical encyclopedias, and white washed skulls. But Maldovan had filled them with CD’s, trophies, ribbons, and photographs of abstract but admittedly beautiful things such as crumbling churches, raven silhouettes, and full moons. There were collectibles scattered here and there: a troll doll with black leather spiked cuffs and poufy black hair stood beside a bent black slinky. An Optimus Prime Transformer action figure stood tall behind a seated Jack Skellington figurine.

  At one end of the shelf to Sam’s right, a very large Millennium Falcon was displayed. This is where Logan stood. She stared disbelievingly up at the vintage toy. Beside it, a LEGO castle had been carefully constructed and preserved with glue. On the floor beneath these stood a Star Wars AT-AT from the seventies. The items in this room were of a decidedly different taste than those in the rest of the house, but were nonetheless worth thousands of dollars.

  “I don’t believe it,” Logan whispered. “Somehow I just knew you would have one of these.”

  “My mother’s brother collected everything having to do with Star Wars. He had five of those Falcons,” Sam told her as he came to stand behind her. “He left that one in the box and gave it to me for my seventh birthday.”

  Logan shook her head. She’d gone mute. He could sense a tension about her and recognized it at once. It was the same sort of tension that rode him non-stop when he was around her. She wanted to touch the toy. Oh, he knew the urge all too well.

  “You want to see it?” he asked as he moved around her and took the Falcon off of its pegs on the shelf. Logan stepped back, immediately uneasy. She recognized the value of the item and no doubt had little desire to cause it any harm.

  This time, when the urge came to seize her, Sam didn’t fight it. He held the large gray Star Wars space ship with his right hand, and with more speed than he should have displayed, he reached out for her with his left. His hand encircled her wrist, bringing her to a fast halt.

  She froze, startled. He immediately let her go. “It’s okay,” he told her, shifting the antique toy from one hand to both. “Here, take it. It’s seriously fine.” He held the ship out for her and gave her a reassuring nod.

  Logan hesitated a second more and then gingerly took the ship from him. She turned it around, ogling it as would a child.

  “I take it you’re a Star Wars fan,” he teased gently.

  She let out a breath. “You have no idea.” She shook her head. “When I was little, I decided that if there was a heaven, I wanted it to be Star Wars. I promised all of the forces in the world that I would be a good girl as long as they would give me a Millennium Falcon when I died.” She laughed. “I also had a thin
g for Vader.”

  Now it was Sam’s turn to laugh. He should have guessed as much about her. The original Star Wars was of a different generation, but it was also timeless. A lot of people still loved it, and the franchise was certainly still alive. Darth Vader, or Anakin Skywalker, had only become more appealing of late. And if her writing was any indication, Logan Wright loved a good, charismatic bad guy… especially when he wasn’t really all bad.

  After a few minutes, she handed the ship back to him and he placed it back on its pegs. Then she turned her attention to the LEGOs on the shelf.

  “I also knew you would have these.” She turned to face him. “You know, I loved LEGOs as a kid but we could never afford them. So I would go over to a friend’s house and play with hers….” Her voice drifted off and an uncomfortable look crossed her beautiful features. She shoved her hands into the front pockets of her wonderfully form-fitting jeans. “Eventually she stopped letting me play with hers too.”

  Sam’s gaze narrowed. “Why?”

  Logan’s cheeks grew pink and her expression turned guilty. “Well…. I was sort of good at them, I guess.”

  “It pissed her off, didn’t it?” Sam guessed. Envy had many faces. He was betting that a lot of people would be jealous of Logan as they had to try so very hard to have what they undoubtedly thought came naturally to her: beauty, intelligence, creativity. They had no idea that Logan Wright’s home life was riddled with more violence and sickness than any young girl should ever have to endure. That she wrote, in fact, to escape this pain. It was her only way out.

  I will give you another, Dominic thought, as an idea occurred to him. And when I do, you’ll have all of the broken down hunk of junk space ships your precious heart desires.

  Chapter Ten

  Dietrich Lehrer shoved the tome he’d been scouring aside and pulled another one toward him across the chopping block table. He’d been at it for hours. The words were beginning to blur, despite his glasses.