The Pagan Stone (22 page)

“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 light 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.

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.”

“This is great.” Looking over his shoulder, she lifted an eyebrow at Gage as she sipped. “Not a parade fan?”

“I’ve seen my share.”

“Here comes the highlight,” Cal announced. “The Hawkins Hollow High School Marching Band.”

Majorettes and honor guards twirled and tossed silver batons and glossy white rifles. The squad of cheerleaders danced and shook pom-poms. Crowd favorites, Cybil thought as cheers and applause erupted. And with the pair of drum majors high-stepping, the band rocked into “Twist and Shout.”

“Bueller?” Cal said from behind her, and Cybil laughed.

“It’s perfect, isn’t it? Just absolutely.”

The sweetness of it made her eyes sting. All those young faces, the bold blue and pure white of the uniforms, the tall hats, the spinning batons all moving, moving to the sheer fun of the music. People on the sidewalk began to dance, to call out the lyrics, and the sun bounced cheerfully over the bright, bright brass of instruments.

Blood gushed out of trumpets to splash over the bold blue and pure white, the fresh young faces, the high hats. It splat-ted from piccolos, dripped from flutes, rained up from the beat of sticks on drums.

“Oh God,” Cybil breathed.

The boy swooped over the street, dropped to it to dance. She wanted to cringe back, to cower away when its awful eyes latched on to hers. But she stood, fighting off the quaking and grateful when Gage’s hand dropped firmly onto her shoulder.

Overhead the bunting burst into flame. And the band played to the cheers of the crowd.

“Wait.” Fox gripped Layla’s hand. “Some of them see it or feel it. Look.”

Cybil tore her gaze away from the demon. She saw shock and fear on some of the faces in the crowd, paleness or puzzlement on others. Here and there parents grabbed young children, pushed through the onlookers to drag them away while others only stood clapping hands to the beat.