“I teach Byron, Coleridge and the Brontës in my classes,” I’d replied, returning his condescending smile. “I’d hardly call their work trash.”
I hadn’t mentioned that my classes also watched episodes of Dark Shadows and read Anne Rice. Or that my own interest in demon lovers wasn’t only scholarly. I was used to academic snobs turning up their noses at my subject area. So I phrased my answer to Elizabeth Book’s question carefully now that we were alone in her office.
“I grew up listening to my mother and father telling Scottish fairy tales ...” I began, but Dean Book interrupted me.
“Is that where you got your unusual name, Cailleach?” She pronounced it correctly – Kay-lex – for a change.
“My father was Scottish,” I explained. “My mother just loved the stories and culture so much that she went to St Andrews, where she met my father. They were archeologists interested in ancient Celtic customs – that’s how I got the name. But my friends call me Callie.” What I didn’t add was that my parents had died in a plane crash when I was twelve and that I’d gone to live with my grandmother on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Or that I remembered little of my parents besides the fairy tales they told me. Or that throughout my teens I’d been haunted by strange dreams of a shadowy figure.
Instead I launched into the spiel I’d delivered a dozen times before – for my college essay, grad school interviews, the pitch for my book. How listening to my parents telling those old stories had fostered a love of folklore and fairy tale that had, in turn, inspired me to study the appearance of fairies, demons and vampires in Romantic and Gothic literature. I had told the story so many times that it had begun to sound false to my ears. But I knew it was all true – or at least it had been when I first started telling it. I had felt a passion for the subject when I first realized that the stories my parents had told me when I was little existed in the outside world – or at least pieces of them did. I’d find traces of their stories in fairy tale collections and Gothic novels – from The Secret Garden and The Princess and the Goblin to Jane Eyre and Dracula. Perhaps I’d felt that if I could trace these stories down to their origins I would reclaim the childhood I’d lost when they died and I moved in with my conscientious, but decidedly chilly and austere grandmother. Perhaps, too, I could find a clue to why I had such strange dreams after their deaths. But instead of becoming clearer, the stories my parents had told me had grown fainter ... as if I’d worn them out with use. I’d become a very competent researcher, earned a doctorate, received awards for my thesis, and published a successful book. The dreams had ended, too, as if I’d exorcised them with all that scholarly research and analysis, which had sort of been the point. Hadn’t it? Only with the disappearance of the dreams the initial spark that had spurred my work had also gone out and I was struggling with ideas for my next book.
I sometimes wondered if the storytellers I documented – the shamans sitting around a campfire, the old women spinning wool as they unfurled their tales – ever grew bored with the stories they told and retold.
But the story still worked.
“You’re just what we’re looking for,” Elizabeth Book said when I’d finished.
Was she actually offering me the job here and now? The other universities where I’d interviewed at had waited a seemly ten days to get back to me – and although I’d had two interviews and taught a sample class for N.Y.U., I still wasn’t sure if they were going to hire me. If Dean Book was actually offering me a job, her approach was really refreshing – or a little desperate.
“That’s very flattering,” I began.
Dean Book leaned forward, her long double rope of pearls clicking together, and clasped her hands. “Of course you’ll have had other offers with the popularity of your subject. Vampires are all the rage now, aren’t they? And I imagine Fairwick College must look rather humble after N.Y.U. and Columbia, but I urge you to consider us. Folklore has been taught at Fairwick since its ‘inception’ and the department has been nurtured by such prominent folklorists as Matthew Briggs and Angus Fraser. We take the study of legend and myth very seriously ...” She paused, as if too overcome by emotion to go on. Her eyes drifted toward a framed photograph on her desk and for a moment I thought she might cry. But then she squeezed her hands together, turning her knuckles white, and firmed her mouth. “And I think you would find it an inspiration for your work.”
She gave me such a meaningful smile that I felt sure she must know how much trouble I was having with my second book. How for the first time in my life the folklore and fairy tales that had seemed so alive to me felt dull and flat as pasteboard. But of course she couldn’t know that and she had already moved on to more practical issues.
“The committee does have to meet this afternoon. You’re the last applicant we’re interviewing. And just between you and me and the doorpost, by far the best. You should hear from us by tomorrow morning. You’re staying at the Hart Brake Inn, correct?”
“Yes,” I said, trying not to cringe at the twee name of the B&B. “The owner has been very nice ...”
“Diana Hart is a dear friend,” the dean said. “One of the lovely things about teaching here at Fairwick is the good relationship between town and gown. The townspeople are truly good neighbors.”
“That’s nice ...” I was unsure of what else to say. None of the other colleges – and certainly not NYU, which had all of Manhattan to boast of – had bothered to talk about the amenities of the town. “I certainly appreciate you taking the time to consider my application. It’s a fine college. Anyone would be proud to teach here.”
Dean Book tilted her head and regarded me thoughtfully. Had I sounded too condescending? But then she smiled and stood, holding her hand out. When I placed mine in hers I was surprised at how forcefully she squeezed it. Beneath her pink suit I suspected there beat the heart of a steelywilled administrator.
“I look forward to hearing from you,” I told her.
Walking through the campus, past the ivy-covered Gothic library, under ancient leafy trees, I wondered if I could stand to live here. While the campus was pretty, the town was scruffy and down at the heels. The heights of its culinary pretensions were a handful of pizzerias, a Chinese takeout and a Greek diner. The shopping choices were a couple of vintagey-studenty boutiques on Main Street and a mall on the highway. I paused at the edge of the campus to gaze out at the view. From up here the town didn’t look too bad, and beyond were forest-covered mountains that would look beautiful in the fall – but by November they would be bare and then snow-covered.
I had to admit I had my heart set on New York City, as did Paul, my boyfriend of eight years. We’d met our sophomore year at N.Y.U. Although he was from Connecticut he was passionate about New York City and we agreed that someday we would live there together. Even when he didn’t get into graduate school in the city he had insisted I go to Columbia while he went to U.C.L.A. Our plan was for him to apply to New York City schools when he finished rewriting his doctoral thesis in economics and got his degree next year. Surely he would tell me to hold out for the N.Y.U. offer rather than leave the city now.
But could I really say no to Fairwick if I hadn’t gotten a definite yes from N.Y.U.? It would be better if I could find a way to put off my answer to Dean Book. I had until tomorrow morning to think of a delaying tactic.
I continued walking past the high iron gates of the college onto the town road that led to Hart Brake Inn. I could see the blue Victorian house, with its decorative flags and overspilling flowerboxes, from here. The opposite side of the road was bordered by massive pine trees, the beginning of a huge tract of protected state forest. I paused for a moment at the edge of a narrow trail, peering into the shadows. Even though the day was bright the woods were dark. Vines looped from tree to tree, filling every crevice and twisting into curious shapes. This is where all the stories start, I thought, on the edge of a dark wood. Was this why the dean thought that living here would be an inspiration to me? Because the woods we
re the natural habitat of fairies and demons? I tried to laugh off the idea ... but couldn’t quite. A wind came up and blew out of the woods toward me, carrying with it the chill scent of pine needles, damp earth and something sweet. Honeysuckle? Peering closer, I saw that the shadowy woods were indeed starred with white and yellow flowers. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. The breeze curled around me, tickling the damp at the back of my neck and lifting the ends of my long hair like a hand caressing me. The sensation reminded me of the dreams I’d had as a teenager. A shadowy man would appear at the foot of my bed. The room would fill with the scent of honeysuckle and salt. I’d hear the ocean and be filled with an inchoate longing.
The psychiatrist my grandmother had sent me to said the dreams were an expression of grief for my parents, but I’d always found that hard to believe. The feelings I’d had for the shadow man were not at all filial.
Now the invisible hand tugged at me and I stepped forward, off the pavement and onto the dirt path. The heels of my boots sank into the soft, loamy soil.
I opened my eyes, stumbling, as if waking from a dream, and started to turn away ... That’s when I saw the house. It was hidden from the road by a dense, overgrown hedge. Even without the hedge the house would have been hard to see because it blended in so well with its surroundings. It was a Queen Anne Victorian, its clapboard painted a pale yellow that was peeling in so many places it resembled a cleverly camouflaged butterfly. The roof was slate and furred with moss, the decorative cornices, pointed eaves and turret were painted a deep pine green. The honeysuckle from the forest had encroached over the porch railings – or, more likely, the honeysuckle from the house’s garden had spread into the woods. The vines and shrubs circling the porch were so thick it looked as though the house were sitting in a nest. I stepped a few feet closer and a breeze stirred a loose vine over the door. It waved to me as though it were beckoning me to come closer.
I looked around to see if there were any signs of habitation, but the driveway was empty, the windows were shuttered, and a green dust, undisturbed by footprints, lay over the porch steps. Such a pretty house to be deserted, I thought. The breeze sighed through the woods as if agreeing. As I got closer I saw that the verge board trim along the pointed eaves was beautifully carved with vines and trumpet-shaped flowers. Above the doorway in the pediment was a wood carving of a man’s face, a pagan god of the forest, I thought, from the pinecone wreath resting on his abundant flowing hair. I’d seen a face like it somewhere before ... perhaps in a book on forest deities ... The same face appeared in the stained glass fanlight above the front door.
Startled, I realized I’d come all the way up the steps and was standing at the front door, my hand resting on the bronze door knocker, which was carved in the shape of an antlered buck. What was I thinking? Even if no one lived here it was still private property.
I turned to leave. The wind picked up, lifting the green pollen from the porch floor and blowing it into little funnels around my feet as I hurried down the steps, which groaned under my boot heels. The vines that were twisted around the porch columns creaked and strained. A loose trailer snapped against my arm as I reached the ground, startling me so much that I stumbled. I caught my balance, though, and hurried down the front path, slowing only because I saw how slippery it was from the moss growing in between the stones. When I reached the hedge I turned around to look back at the house. It gave one more sigh as the wind stopped, its clapboard walls moaning as if sorry to see me go, and then it settled on its foundation and sat back, staring at me.
Also by Carol Goodman:
Incubus
This is where all stories start, on the edge of a dark wood...
Ever since moving to Fairwick to take up a teaching post at the local college, Callie has been having vivid, erotic dreams about a man made out of moonlight and shadows. Dreams she begins to fear as well as anticipate ...
She learns that her home – a Victorian cottage at the edge of a wood she bought on a whim – is supposedly haunted. And then her new – and rather strange – colleagues tell her a local legend about an incubus demon with a human past who was enchanted by a fairy queen ...
Also by Carol Goodman:
Water Witch
‘You have only to call my name to bring me back,’ he whispered, his breath hot in my ear.
‘You have only to love me to make me human’
Seduced by a powerful incubus demon, Callie has succeeded in banishing him to the Borderlands but Liam still haunts her dreams, tempting her with the knowledge of how to bring him back.
But loving an incubus usually ends in death for a human. For her own sake, Callie must learn to control her desires and ensure Liam remains trapped for all eternity in his watery prison.
Only there is a more dangerous creature than Liam in the Borderlands. The Water Witch is looking for a way back ...
Also available from Ebury Press:
The Lost Boys
by Lilian Carmine
Fate has brought them together.
But will it also keep them apart?
Having moved to a strange town, sixteen-year-old Joey Gray is feeling a little lost, until she meets a cute, mysterious boy near her new home.
But Tristan Halloway is not what he seems. And there’s a very good reason why he’s always to be found roaming between the gravestones in the local cemetery...
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I was lucky enough to be teaching a class in fairy tales at the State University of New York at New Paltz while working on this book. I’d like to thank my students there for their insights and observations that helped fuel this book.
As always I am grateful to my first readers: Gary Feinberg, Juliet Harrison, Lauren Lipton, Wendy Rossi, Cathy Seilhan, Scott Silverman, and Nora Slonimsky. Nor could I venture into the lands of Faerie without the constant love and support of my family: Lee, Nora, and Maggie.
Thanks to Robin Rue and Beth Miller at Writers House, to Dana Isaacson and Lisa Barnes at Random House, and Gillian Green at Ebury for opening a door for Callie’s adventures in Faerie and beyond. I would especially like to thank Linda Marrow, whose editorial wisdom and constant friendship have given a home to my imagination for all these many years.
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Version 1.0
Epub ISBN 9781448175482
www.randomhouse.co.uk
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
First published in the US as The Angel Stone in 2013 by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
Published in the UK in 2013 by Ebury Press, an imprint of Ebury Publishing A Random House Group Company
Copyright © 2013 by Carol Goodman
Extract from Incubus © 2011 Carol Goodman
Carol Goodman has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner
The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009
Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm
A CIP catalogue record
for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9780091953133
To buy books by your favourite authors and register for offers visit: www.randomhouse.co.uk
Dark Possession Page 28