The Awakening (21 page)

“I got that impression, too. But who knows? Maybe Marty has been living a secret little life, and she just hasn't known anything about it.”

“I guess.” He hesitated. “Megan, really—”

“He swung at you twice, Finn. I was there. You don't need to keep giving me apologies or explanations.”

She felt him nod after a moment.

“And I'm seriously thinking of violence myself.”

“You?”

“Your fans are getting up close and personal.”

He laughed. “Go to it, then.”

She grinned as well, settling against him. “Does Sam Tartan look like Ichabod Crane or what?”

He laughed. “The cartoon character—or Johnny Depp?”

“He's no Johnny Depp.”

His arm nestled more tightly around her. His eyes were on the road. “Do you believe this shit again?”

“What? Do you mean Gayle Sawyer?”

“No, silly. The fog. You'd think it was San Francisco or something.”

She hadn't been giving the road all that much attention, but when she looked out the front window, she could see that once again, ground fog was rising. And beneath the moon, once again, it was cast in an eerie blue glow.

“It's New England,” she said, as if that explained it all. To residents and natives, it did.

“And once again, no parking,” he said.

“It's not that far a walk.”

It wasn't. Still, the minute they got out of the car, Megan felt uneasy.

“What's the matter?” Finn said, coming around to her side.

“It's just . . . eerie.”

“Hey, it's New England.”

“Touché.”

She wanted to be light, to feel a sense of security. As she well knew, Finn was no pushover. She also believed that he'd die for her.

She still felt as if they were watched through the fog. And, for a moment, she remembered the way Finn's eyes had looked . . . a few times now. When she had awakened from her dream, and even tonight, while they had played and looked at one another.

She glanced up at him cautiously, alarmed by the feeling of something akin to terror that tugged at her heart while she forced her eyes to raise to his, got him to look down at her. For a moment her heart stood still. They would be gold, red-gold, orangish red-gold, like the eyes of a cat in the night. She didn't need to be afraid of the fog, because the horror that was after her was walking along at her side.

She expelled her breath as Finn looked down, giving her an encouraging grin. His eyes were green. Just as they had always been.

But then, assured that her husband was her husband, just that and nothing more, she felt again as if the blue fog was hiding a multitude of... eyes. Demon eyes. Eyes, perhaps, belonging to a creature with a forked tongue, a horned head, a long, evil tail with a strange extremity that could reach out and touch . . . like a hand.

She quickened her pace.

“Careful, we'll trip over something. Why are you shivering?”

“Cold,” she lied.

He stopped, ready to pull off his own black cape.

“No, I'd rather just get there. Finn, come on, hurry.”

He shook his head, then shrugged. Megan felt the breeze pick up. Branches with dead leaves seemed to whisper and chatter at the onslaught. She had said that she was cold. Now, it was as if waves of icy sleet were washing over her.

There was something in the fog.

And it was after them.

She heard Andy Markham's words ricochet in her mind.

Despite Finn's presence, she started to run.

“Megan! What the hell is the matter with you?”

He ran behind her. Long-legged, he easily caught up, catching her by the arm. Irrationally, she struggled against him. “Finn, we have to get in!”

“Megan, please, I'm with you!” he said sternly.

Looking past his shoulder, she could see a huge old oak. There was something in it. Tall, big . . . small. She didn't know.

But it had eyes. Eyes that glowed red and gold.

She broke free from Finn and raced for Huntington House. As fast and long-limbed as he was, he didn't catch her until she sped her way up the steps, and was struggling with the key at the door.

Finn's hand fell on her arm. She started violently, swinging around to stare at him.

“Megan—”

“Finn, there was something out there. There is something out there.”

He took the key from her, fitting it into the lock. He was stiff and angry. “Great, Megan. A pack of weird, pierced, Wiccan women think I'm the next best thing to Arnold Schwartzenegger, but I can't even protect you from a fog.”

He pushed the door open. She preceded him in. He locked the door behind them. Once it was closed, Megan began to feel relieved, and a little bit silly. Finn remained uptight, walking ahead of her through the foyer and dining area to their room in the solitary right wing of the house. She followed behind him.

He slipped the room key into their door, and once again, walked ahead of her. She followed him in. Finn walked straight into the bathroom. She heard the fall of the shower as he turned it on. Locking their door, she eased on into the room and sat at the foot of the bed, wondering herself what had gotten into her. It was the power of suggestion, Mike had said. She needed to turn on a ridiculous sitcom.

She turned on the television, pressing the button to get into the main channels.

One of the
Friday the 13th
movies was on. She flicked channels, coming to a Dracula movie, the Lon Chaney
Werewolf,
and then, on to the one of the offerings from the
Nightmare on Elm Street
series. She changed the channel again—no good. Mike Myers was busy chasing the Jamie Lee Curtis character in one of the
Halloween
offerings.

“Surely, there's a cartoon channel!” she murmured aloud.

She found it. No good. A cartoon duck had been bitten by an evil, demon dog.

She looked for a rerun of the local eleven o'clock news.

There could be no horror movies on the news channel!

But in fact, the news was no better. The grisly remains of a girl who had been missing from Boston for several weeks had at last been discovered—washed up on a cold North Shore beach. The family had been notified, but the coroner, as yet, was not giving out any information as to the cause of death. Detectives were dismayed at the condition of the body, because the seawater, time, and elements would have destroyed so much evidence that might have been recovered.

She turned the channel again.

Another news channel. The dead girl's name had been Theresa Kavanaugh. Once again, the newscaster announced that the coroner's office had refused to speculate on cause of death until the autopsy had been performed.

She turned back to Lon Chaney's
Werewolf.

There were the trees . . .

Mist rising.

She turned off the television. The bathroom door opened and Finn emerged in a cloud of steam, wrapped in a towel. His flesh seemed extremely bronzed against the white terry. Muscles rippled. Hair damp, freshly washed, slicked back. He barely glanced her way, still impatient with her, or more—obviously still angry. He walked on by her, opening the drapes. Steam continued to waft from the bathroom.

Like the strange fog, it, too, seemed blue.

Finn, just wrapped in the towel, stood by the balcony doors, and opened them. He looked like Atlas standing there, naked back oddly evocative. She wanted to walk up and touch him, lean against him. She wasn't about to do so, not when it appeared that he would shake off her touch.

She walked into the shower herself.

 

 

He was walking, walking, walking. Striding . . . no, almost strutting, with confidence. Almost floating on air. He could hear the chanting, see blurred imagines of those who were applauding him. More, worshiping him, bowing down before him as he came, leading him onward, though he knew where he was going. Instinct kept him moving. Excitement riddled his body, enhanced and increased by the chants, the cries, the applause, and the wonder. Women touched him as he moved, stroked him, eager to do anything, please him in any way. Whispers caressed his ears, tongues laved over him with hot liquid homage. They fell to the wayside, because there was only one he wanted, one worthy of all the power and wonder that was
him.

He felt the bare earth beneath his feet, and even it enhanced the raw, elemental sense of rough, carnal pleasure that was enveloping him. All lay ahead . . . He was there
. . .

No!

“Finn, no Finn, no Finn . . .”

“Stop, stop, stop . . .”

“No.”

“Finn.” His name. Her voice.

Finn woke, groggy and miserable, only strange remnants of the dream remaining, a terrible headache plaguing him from the second he realized he was awake. He couldn't open his eyes, but rather ground them more tightly shut. He groaned aloud and turned over, longing to draw Megan against him. He wanted to hold her, and tell her he was sorry, it was just that she had rather shattered his ego, being afraid of
fog
when he was with her, when he did love her so much, and would die to defend her.

She wasn't close. She was probably still angry. He moved his hand farther across the sheet. It was cold . . .

He opened his eyes. Megan wasn't there.

“Meg?”

He cast the sheets off, sliding his legs off the side of the bed and coming up. He had to sit again, his head pounded so fiercely.

He managed to rise and walk to the bathroom.

“Meg?”

She wasn't there. He walked back to the bed, holding his pounding temples.

At last, he looked around the room.

And then he realized.

Not only was Megan gone, but . . .

Her things . . . purse . . . makeup . . . clothing . . . luggage. . . all was gone.

His jaw dropped.

His wife had left him again.

Her cell phone was ringing. It was Finn, and Megan knew it. She didn't answer.

She sat on Aunt Martha's porch, sipping tea Martha had made, special tea, guaranteed to soothe, she had been assured.

Martha was great.

She hadn't asked any questions, assuming that Megan would talk when she was ready. Naturally, she realized that Megan was upset. Beyond upset. Scared, dismayed, disconsolate, and still . . .
what? Was she an idiot? She loved him so much; she didn't understand, couldn't understand, it was all too bizarre, strange.

The phone stopped ringing. The sound began again. Every strident note seemed to tear into her.

She didn't intend
not
to talk to him—just not yet.

Aunt Martha came out with her own cup of tea and sat quietly at Megan's side.

Megan glanced at her. “Whatever you do, please don't mention any of this to my parents.”

“Dear, I can hardly mention anything to your parents because I wouldn't know what I was saying,” Martha told her. “Besides, you know us. We're all family . . . but it's not as if we chat on a weekly basis or anything. Since your folks have been in Maine . . . it's Christmas cards, birthday cards, that kind of thing. So don't worry.”

“Thanks,” Megan murmured.

“I'm sure you'll work things out,” Martha said.

Megan remained silent. Martha commented on the fact that almost all the leaves had fallen. “Another winter. I don't know why I live here, sometimes,” Martha said. “The cold can be so fierce up here!”

“Winter can be pretty, too,” Megan murmured.

“Well, we're just chatting here, when you've much more serious things on your mind,” Martha said. She cleared her throat. “Megan, you're welcome to stay here as long as you want, of course, and you know that. And I have no idea of what happened that brought you here, and I'm not asking; if and when you choose to tell me, you will. But let me just say that I think your young man loves you very much. And let's face it, you have some strange relatives here. I don't approve of Morwenna's ‘religion' and you know it. She and her coven can be downright, wicked weird! So if things are strained between you and Finn, you've got to admit that you might have thrown a lot at him, bringing him here.”

“Aunt Martha, I didn't bring him here. The offer from Sam Tartan brought us both here. I didn't push it in the least. And if my relatives were Hindu, Buddhist, or something else not quite so well known in the States, anyone out there would have said that they had the right to worship however they pleased. I'm supposed to stay away from Morwenna and Joseph because their doctrine might be considered weird?”

“Of course not, dear! But to other people, Wiccans might be . . . There's so much that's suggestive here, that's all. Ghouls and goblins, Halloween nonsense! Then there's all that's real in history, the poor victims of the witchcraft craze, the beliefs in the devil and all that rot that went on. You are two nice sane young people with a grip on the world. You shouldn't be letting all this hogwash get to you!”

It was more or less what Mike had told her, Megan thought. But they didn't understand what was happening, and she didn't want to explain, because she wasn't sure that she was really seeing what she was seeing, that she
could
be seeing what she was seeing, or experiencing. And she didn't want to find out that she should be locked up herself, that she was half mad, so susceptible to suggestion that she was losing her mind.

And Finn, because of it.

But there
was
something happening with Finn. It seemed he was falling prey to the power of suggestion, though exactly what
suggestion
she didn't know. He had simply changed, and it was in the middle of the night, between the world of sleep and wakefulness, dreams and the conscious mind, that the changes took place. And she wasn't sure if they were her dreams, his dreams . . .

Or if it was real. If he became someone . . . something. . . else. A demon with red-glowing eyes, hands that forced rather than caressed, a touch that was cruel, rather than seductive.

Or had Andy Markham planted seeds within her mind that had made her waken to the belief that her husband was a monster? Was she the crazy one? All she knew for certain was that in what
seemed
like reality, she had wakened before the light had come, and had believed that she was living her nightmare of the first evening, that Finn was there, the threatened menace, ready to wind his fingers around her throat when he had used her up, and was ready to cast her aside. She had seen it in his eyes, when it seemed there was no green, only the burning reds and yellows of hell's own fires.

Crazy. Certainly. But her fear of him was now real.

“Megan, you love that young man. It's my suggestion that you do whatever you have to do workwise, and get yourselves home, and to a marriage counselor,” Martha said. “I mean . . . this work is important to both of you, right?”

“Absolutely!” Megan said. “Oh, Aunt Martha, I have no intention of not showing up for work. It's just . . .” She didn't want to tell Martha that it was really just at night when things became so very weird. “I need a little distance during our off hours.”

“Um. Well, you be careful coming and going from that hotel alone at those wee hours, Megan. Unfortunately, the world has its share of maniacs. Did you read about that poor girl they found the other day? Missing almost a month . . . then her body shows up. The killer disposed of her in water, a good way to hide a lot of evidence.” She made a face. “I like to watch forensic shows when I'm knitting. HBO does some great stuff on autopsies.”

Megan arched a brow trying to imagine Martha intently staring at the screen during human dissections. She lowered her head, hiding a small smile.

“I promise, I'll be careful. You're sure you don't mind me taking your car? I can rent one, you know.”

“Good heavens, there's still the old truck in the barn if I need transportation. You're more than welcome to the car. But, honey, be careful with what you're doing. Morwenna's Tarot cards are a bunch of—do excuse the language—pure crap. Don't go ruining your life with a man who is just perfect for you because of a bunch of would-be magicians!”

“Thanks, Aunt Martha.”

“The house phone is ringing,” Martha murmured. She stared at Megan. “Now, I'll let him know that he's not welcome here at the moment, but if he wants to know that you're alive and well, I intend to tell him, and if he feels the need to speak with me, well, I want you to know that I'll listen to him.”

Megan smiled. “Of course. I love him, Aunt Martha. I just don't know what's happening.”

Martha rose to answer the phone.

She returned a moment later. Megan arched a brow to her.

“No, dear, it wasn't Finn.”

“Oh.”

Aunt Martha chuckled softly. “It was just a telemarketer, trying to sell one of those publishers series of books.”

“On what?”

“What else? It's Halloween season. The history of witchcraft!”

 

 

Finn hesitated on the street for a long time, staring at the shop window.

At last, he determined to go in.

Sara was on guard duty at the doorstep. She looked at Finn warily.

“Is it busy in there?” he asked

“What do you think? But you can go on in. You're family.” She said the last as if she were mimicking Morwenna.

“Thanks.” He walked by her. Joseph was behind the counter. Morwenna was showing someone capes. Jamie Gray was busy adjusting the store logo T-shirts on the shelves.

Morwenna saw him from her position near the beaded partition to the back. She smiled and waved enthusiastically. He realized as she did so that Megan hadn't come to her shop.

He looked at a display shelf full of dragons, but this time, refrained from touching. A minute later, Morwenna came up to him, giving him a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“Where's my cousin?” she asked.

“I was hoping you would know,” he said honestly. Morwenna frowned. If nothing else, she was a good actress. “You've lost her? In Salem? It's not that big a place,” she teased.

“She hasn't been here, I take it.”

Morwenna shook her head. “Is something wrong?”

He didn't mean to hesitate, but he did. “No, nothing.”

Morwenna studied him gravely. “Finn . . . I have a good friend here who owns a really great bookstore, and . . . he thinks that something is going on. And that you're the key to it.”

“Something is going on, and I'm the key to it?” he repeated.

Morwenna sighed. “I can hear it in your voice, you're not about to believe anything that I say. Finn . . . haven't you felt . . . strange, at times? Joseph and I were commenting on the nights lately. We have fog here a lot, but . . . not like the fog we've had lately.”

“I agree, weird fog, a weather phenomena,” he said.

Morwenna studied him for a minute, then rushed in, “Wiccans are good, Finn. I swear. And intuitive, and . . . there's a feeling that something that isn't good is going on. Eddie started telling me about an old story he found in a diary, about a group—
not of Wiccans!
—but of Satanists who were at it here once, years and years ago, a few centuries ago, actually—”

“And they weren't burned at the stake?”

“No one was burned at the stake here, Finn. They were hanged; Giles Corey was pressed to death. Of course, others accused of witchcraft were also executed in the colonies, but the ‘hysteria' always refers to that one time—”

“I know all that, Morwenna. My point is, how would Satanists rise in a place where the populace was being arrested right and left for ‘spectral' evidence and any other flimsy excuse?”

“That was the perfect time, right after, don't you see? The people were horrified about what had happened within the past decade. No one at that time would have thought of openly accusing someone of witchcraft again. The community was embarrassed. Many were appalled. So if something came up . . . well, according to Eddie, the people who knew about it simply took care of it all on their own. And that's why it's not in most history books.”

He was startled when someone spoke softly behind him. “She left you, didn't she?”

He spun around. Sara, who else?

“My relationship with my wife isn't really your concern, is it?”

“People are trying to help you. Though I don't know why.”

“I don't think it's your help that I need. What I need is for people to quit telling Megan stories that give her terrible dreams.”

“Finn, I know you don't believe . . . well, in us,” Morwenna said. “You won't allow yourself to believe that there is anything in the world that you can't touch, and understand.”

Angrily, he took two steps toward the display of herbs. “Keep this in my pocket—and money will come? Light some kind of incense, and my love life will improve? No, I'm sorry. Worship a tree? You know what I do believe? That there is one God, a supreme power. And—”

“If there is a god, one God, a supreme power, then what else may be true, Finn? A God, angels, and perhaps an angel that was cast from Heaven. Forces of good, and evil. Have you ever read the Old Testament, actually read it? Did an angel come down and speak to Mary? If you believe in any of these things, Finn, then you must understand that there can be forces of good as well as evil.”

“Why don't we just run out on the street and start arresting people again—since there can be those forces of good and evil?” he countered.

“He can't be helped,” Sara said.

Finn hesitated. The women were both staring at him so seriously. But there was Sara again, with that strange tension about her, as if she despised him, but could barely keep her hands off him. And God help him, there was that tension in him in return. He gritted his teeth. Every muscle in his body was painfully constricted. He needed to run out of the shop, to get as far away from her as he could.

He looked at Morwenna, who was staring at him so intently.
Forces of good and evil. So, do you really want to help me, or seal the lid on my coffin? Are you doing your best to make sure that Megan stays as far away from me as possible?

“Finn, you should come with me to see Eddie. Just come with me, and look at some of the books he has.”

He had to get out of the shop. He couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from Sara's cleavage. If they were alone together . . .

He would want to pounce, drag her down, and everything would be rough; he wanted to taste her mouth with its bizarrely red lipstick, rip off her clothing, ground into her against the hard floor, the walls . . .

And all at the same time, he wanted his wife back.

He had to get out. Had to. He was a fool. There was no way to trust Morwenna.

He fought every bizarre urge that seemed to have possessed him, so tense he could barely speak or move. “Morwenna, thank you. I'll call you later. Maybe we'll see this friend of yours, Eddie.”

“Anytime, Finn. I don't care how busy the place is. I'll go with you. Please . . . open your mind Finn. For yourself, and for Megan.”

“I'll try, Morwenna. Hey, all right . . . sometime. We'll go see this guy. I like books, any books. Can't hurt, right?”

He turned and started out. Joseph was behind the counter, without any customers at the moment. He had spread out the morning paper, and was reading intensely. He looked up as Finn started out.