If she could have followed her mother’s advice, Cassie’s words for him would have probably been “Geez, this is awkward. Look, if it helps, I think you’re cute, too. But don’t get nervous around me, okay? And don’t put me on a pedestal.” Nope. Couldn’t do it. Not a chance in hell. He already looked like he was ready to die, just lie down and let his life flow away. She felt like an idiot, not knowing what to say, so she smiled and risked more than she was comfortable with in proposing a plan for getting to know each other. “Make ya a deal? Get to know me, don’t expect anything and we’ll see what happens. Okay?” She finished her argument by giving him a small kiss on the uncut side of his face.
She could see that he was flustered and more than a little stunned by the peck on the cheek. If his mouth opened any wider, she’d be able to see his heart thudding in his chest. She smiled and he smiled back, tentatively. “Uh,” he started and she waited patiently while he tried to kick his brain into gear. “I-um, okay. Shit, I didn’t think it was that obvious.” He looked like he was relaxing, as if he’d just shared a guilty secret, one that it had been a torture to hide inside, with someone.
She had mercy on him and answered the question he seemed so desperate to ask. “Listen, I take a jog around the Red Oaks everyday. If you want, you can join me. We’ll talk, get to know each other. ’Sides, you look like you could use a little bit of exercise.” The smile she gave him took the sting out of the last words and he laughed with her. He had a nice laugh, it came from deep in his chest and was obviously heartfelt. She squeezed his hand and started jogging in place. “I gotta get back home, s’almost dinner-time.” She waved enthusiastically as she started into motion again. “Bye.”
Cassie listened to his mumbled response and accelerated into a full scale run. In less than a minute he was out of sight around the curve of Red Oaks Circle. She smiled to herself as she ran. Definitely cute, but she decided to hold any kind of judgment until she saw whether or not he showed for the run tomorrow.
Cassie was sitting at home at the dinner table by the time Mark Howell walked into the woods with a smile stuck to his face. He didn’t even feel the stitches pulling, he was too busy with the warm burning spots on his face, where her lips had touched him.
11
He had shown himself again. He was here. They thrilled at how close He was, but dared not move. “Not yet,” They whispered to one another. “Soon, but not just yet.” He settled down next to the Stone, a smile on His face and They shuddered with joy.
They sang to Him and He slowly responded to Their silent words. He closed His eyes and lay back. In a matter of minutes He was asleep.
Still, They waited. They fidgeted, They shook from the tensions. They waited. Twenty minutes later, They approached.
12
The dream was glorious. He was in the woods and the sun was setting and She was there. Her straight red hair fell to her shoulders and past. She smiled at him and took off her clothes and stood before him, the hunger clear on her face.
She knelt before him, planting tiny kisses on his face, where the wound stung. She caressed his body with her hands and, after an eternity of teasing, opened the fly on his pants. He gasped as her slim, callused fingers stroked his length. Oh, dear Lord, don’t ever stop.
He ran his hands over every inch of exposed flesh that he could find, probing and squeezing and wanting more. She pulled the pants away from his hips and kissed him, there. His body shook with barely suppressed needs and she climbed atop him. He thrust slowly, eagerly. She matched his pace. They came together in a screaming, writhing, bucking explosion of energy that left them both drained and left them both fulfilled. She lay atop him, winded, content. He kissed her delicate features softly, repeatedly.
He wanted to cry as she stood, pulling the warmth from him. Cassie bent and redressed him and, with a thousand and tiny kisses, she promised that she would return soon.
In his dream, she walked away and the darkness enveloped him. It was a safe warmth, he knew that his friends were with him. In his dream, he had so many friends and they comforted him. They loved him and would protect him.
Mark woke up as the sun finished setting. He felt content and happy. He wished and hoped that his dream would soon come true. He knew it had been a wonderful dream, about Cassie, but he couldn’t remember the details. He heard little noises around him and knew immediately that they were not the normal sounds of the woods. He looked around, alarmed momentarily by the sounds. And stared in shock as he saw the Little Ones.
They were beautiful and evasive. They danced around the edges of his sight and darted close enough to touch him, whenever he was looking somewhere else. The sounds they made were musical, whispered hints and promises of delight.
Slowly, they came to where he could see them. He knew. They were friends, he could trust Them. He sat with the tiny little creatures and They talked to him and he to Them. Secrets were shared, promises were exchanged and then They were gone.
He felt wonderful. With a casual ease, he found his way home in the dark. He had friends, real friends, not just imaginary little dreams to talk to. And he had talked to Cassie, in time, possibly they would be more than friends. In time.
He was home and eating his solitary dinner, when his parents came home. Joe looked over the stitches and remarked on how well he was healing. Mark just smiled and then he told them of Cassie, his new jogging partner. He didn’t tell of his time in the woods. A secret shared is no longer a secret.
13
Jennifer Gallagher Howell looked over at her sleeping husband and smiled. She was tempted to wake him ask what he thought about Mark having a little girlfriend, but she already knew the answer. He was nearly ecstatic about the idea. For the first time she could remember, he and Mark had talked to each other, not just around each other. It made her feel wonderful.
Mark had tried so hard to win Joe’s affection and had failed, she was sure, because Joe was afraid the boy was too effeminate. Possibly even homosexual. That would have been a shattering blow to Joe’s manhood.
Joe was masculine, well muscled and macho, at least in public. He didn’t like to show that he had feelings, not to anyone but her, and she loved him for it. She knew that he had looked at other women from time to time, but he had never done anything but look. Other women didn’t know him, how fragile he was in his own way, how he sometimes clung to her, as if she were a life raft, and shook, the fears of his childhood trying to tear him apart. It was that weakness that made him all hers and her all his. He was afraid of having that secret revealed and knew that he never had to fear her telling.
She remembered the first time they made love and his guilty confession that he was a virgin. She had already known, but she feigned surprise and they made love again, with Joe being more confident than he had before, more commanding. He knew that all of his secrets were safe with Jenny, and that made him a better man.
Pushing the nonsensical thoughts away, she looked at his rugged face and ran her fingers through the mane of chestnut hair on his head. He shivered and awoke with a smile that said more than his words ever would or could. She hoped with all of her heart, that her son would find a love as powerful, when his first love came to bloom. She hoped he would never run across a woman that could be as cruel as his father had been, from time to time, when the mood switched to anything less than perfect.
Mark’s father had been an incredible lover, possessed of skills far beyond those of most men twice his age. Every move that he had made, every caress, had kept her on the edge of ecstasy. For what seemed like hours, he would tease her and then he would satisfy her. Just when it seemed like nothing more could possibly happen, he would start on her again and bring her to a wailing orgasm again. And again and again. Joe didn’t even begin to compare, but he made up for that lack in a thousand ways every day.
They moved together in the same motions that they had used for years, motions that seemed the only ones known to her husband and, in a very short while, Joe had finishe
d. He fell asleep with a smile on his face. As she heard his gentle snores start, Jennifer smiled, she was very thankful for Joe. When he had reached a constant, rhythmic, rumble, she thought of her first love, not her true love and satisfied herself. She managed not to cry out his name, but only with an effort.
14
They rejoiced, the woods fairly quaked with the sounds of Their celebration. He was Theirs, They had waited so long but, at last, He was Theirs. Promises had been made, gifts exchanged and the patience They had shown had been rewarded. His hopes had been satisfied and would be again, as was necessary. Such small hopes, so easily fulfilled. Ah, but hopes can change so quickly, one day a friend, the next, a foe. They would listen and watch from a distance and when the time was right, They would move to satisfy. Nothing must hurt the Chosen, until the time came that He was no longer important.
They calmed, They rested. The watch had to be extended, They had to be near at all times and They had to be prepared at all times. Several left the others and moving at blinding speeds, ran to watch, to guard. It was Their sacred duty. They would have it no other way. As the sun rose, They positioned Themselves. As They waited, quietly, patiently, They shivered with ecstatic joy. The time was here again. It was so good to be needed.
CHAPTER TWO
1
The last two days of the week went by in a blur. Mark barely acknowledged school, it was only a time to think about Cassie. The jogging wasn’t easy, but he managed to keep up with her for the most part. She had to slow her pace for him and even stop now and then as he paused, panting and red faced, to catch his breath. But to spend time with Cassie, he would gladly run three times the distance, barefoot. On salt covered glass shards, he mused. In the Sahara desert. At noon.
By Saturday he was certain that he was in love. He was also certain that he was about to be late for work. P.J. would not be happy, he’d been late too many times before.
With a groan, he rolled out of bed and started getting dressed. The same jeans he had worn Tuesday and his Pinhead tee shirt. Within ten minutes he was out the door and on his bike. The Basilisk’s Books and Hobbies store was over a mile away and he’d have to really push himself if he wanted to make it in before the end of P.J.’s five minute grace period.
P.J. Sanderson was one of those rare people that Mark had liked at first sight. The feeling was obviously mutual. He knew that he’d be in no real trouble if he was late again, but a single frown of disapproval was enough to make Mark feel like a slug. P.J. could make a nun feel guilty of every sin in the book and probably had a dozen times. Not only did P.J. own the Basilisk, he ran the store as well. And that was something he did more as a hobby than as a way to make a living. P.J. was, Mark felt certain, more than wealthy enough without the store. His many novels, seven of which had been on the New York Times best seller list, had netted him enough to close the store permanently, if he so desired.
The first time Mark had gone into the only comic book store in town, he’d almost dropped dead of shock. Standing before him was the author of such works as Screams At Midnight, The Night of the Howler and Stirrings. He’d read all of the books a dozen times and knew the author’s face on sight. He was tall and like Mark himself, more than a little plump. His face was open and friendly, but held the potential for his trademark smile, a smile that could chill your blood and darken your soul with fear. He was older than in the photo on the back cover of his books. It was definitely the same face, but easily a decade older. If anyone doubted, they had but to look at the backs of all of his books where they rested on a shelf behind the counter, not quite hidden but not prominently shown.
When Mark had opened his mouth to speak and found himself without the ability, P.J. had made the comment for him. “Oh My Gawd! You’re that writer! Oh, wow, I read one of your books!” He made the exclamation with such a look of profound shock, that Mark couldn’t help laughing with him. P.J. had a grin that was infectious and a personality to match. By the time Mark had finished his window shopping and his thousand and one jabbered questions, he and the older man had become friends.
P.J. was easily the oldest big kid he had ever met. They would talk for hours on end, about the latest novels by King, Koontz, McCammon, Grant and of course, Clive Barker. Both read all of the authors and Phillip James Sanderson knew most of them on a first name basis. His love of reading horror stories was only exceeded by his love of writing them.
By the time that the third Saturday in a row had passed, with the two of them talking and comparing notes, P.J. had proposed Mark working for him part time. “Mark,” he started, “you’re here all day any way, you may as well get paid for all the help you give me.” He would listen to none of Mark’s protests and before Mark knew what had hit him, he was the Assistant Manager at Basilisk. The fact that he was the only other person working there took nothing at all away from the title. Neither did the fact that both the job and title were simply P.J.’s way of making sure he had companionship on the weekends.
He missed the five-minute grace period mark by two minutes and thirty-seven seconds, a fact that P.J. pointed out as soon as he walked through the door. “Mark, my boy, you’re late again.” The accompanying frown was exaggerated and made rather comical by the granny glasses perched on the end of P.J.’s hawkish nose. With mock seriousness, the older man continued. “I’ll have to dock you the last three month’s salary and I fear an hour in the Iron Maiden may be necessary, to remind you of the severity of this crime,” he mused, as he pulled at his salt and pepper beard.
Mark was glad to see he was in a good mood. It was when he said nothing at all, that Mark knew he was in trouble. Mark clasped his hands together tightly and threw himself to his knees before the man. “Puh-lease, Mawthter, forgive poor Igor!” he pleaded. “The monster made me shine his shoes! Hasn’t your poor servant suffered enough?”
P.J. grinned and helped Mark to his feet. With a swat at the back of his head, P.J. told him to get his butt in gear. “The latest shipments are merely waiting for your eager young hands to assist them to the proper locations.”
Mark got right to it, knowing that the reason P.J. hadn’t set the magazines and books in place was more so that Mark would have something to do, than because of the back pains he claimed to suffer from. Mark had seen the author in action a dozen times and knew the man was more than healthy enough to move the dozen or so boxes by himself. But he hated to ask the boy to sort the older comics; he took so long looking at each one and wanting to read it. Mark had found in P.J. the substitute father he had needed for so long. It wasn’t quite the same as a real one, but he could talk to the store’s owner, as he could with no other adult. He could tell the man his problems, no matter how trivial and the man was always ready with a comforting word, or solid advice. Even the silences, when Mark was ringing customers or settling stock and P.J. was writing, were comfortable. Mark often thought that it would be wonderful if his mother had met and married P.J. instead of Joe.
After he had placed all of the stock where it belonged, Mark sat across from the writer, placing a fresh cup of coffee before each of them. They both liked it sickeningly sweet, with huge quantities of cream. “How goes the book?” Mark asked.
Without pausing in his typing, the writer took a one handed sip of his coffee and replied. “Very well, thank you. I’m reaching the climax and it’s going to be a good one. If you’d like, I’ll make a copy for you and you can give me an advance critique before I fight it out with that joke I call an editor.”
Mark was stunned by the offer. He knew from experience what the original manuscript could potentially net on the market. He forced himself to be calm, to keep the squeak of excitement out of his voice, as he replied. “Yeah, I’d love to see it. You’re so secretive, that I don’t even know what the blasted thing’s about.”
“That’s the way I’ve always worked, drives Hathaway crazy.” Mark grinned at that, the arguments between P.J. and Alberta Hathaway were practically legendary. He was fairly certain that i
f they ever saw each other in person, one or the other would leave in an ambulance. The author looked away from his manuscript and stared meaningfully at Mark before he spoke again. “Now, why don’t you tell me what happened to your face? I suspect that there is quite a story in that as well.”
Mark told him, leaving nothing to the author’s imagination save the names of his assailants. P.J. was upset by the incident and asked why Mark hadn’t pressed charges. “I just didn’t think it was necessary, I mean I can’t even confirm who most of them were,” he explained, faltering when he saw the look on his friend’s face. P.J. was furious.
Standing slowly, the writer punched a few buttons on his word processor and turned towards Mark. “You let them get away with that? What next? Mugging you for your paycheck here? Breaking your arm or leg? Mark, you have to stand and up for yourself. In the long run, no one else will.”
Mark frowned at that and shook his head, “I brought it on myself, I’m the one that started it.”
“Bullshit!” Mark jumped slightly, shocked by the venom in his friend’s voice. “They’ve been hassling you since you first came to the school. Don’t tell me they haven’t. I know the kind. They throw all the hassles they can at a few kids and try to make themselves look bigger in the eyes of anyone they consider to be worth the effort in the process. Don’t you dare tell me you brought that on yourself! I’ve half a mind to call that father of yours and tear him apart for not pressing charges against those little bastards!”
Under the Overtree Page 6
