by Mae Clair
“Get your ghoul on this Saturday night with Hode Hill’s first Halloween Masquerade Pub Crawl. Starting at seven, quaff spirits and enjoy devilish meals at your favorite Fourth Street eateries, each decked out for spook-tacular fun. Live music, blood-curdling costumes, and, of course, the best in local brews. Put on your mask, or come as you are, but make no bones about it—you’re sure to have a fang-tastic time.”
“Mom said you’re taking her and Jillian to that masquerade thing.” Elliott seemed to have picked up on the commercial. The ad transitioned to one for a car dealer who assured his unbeatable prices weren’t just “witchful thinking.”
“Yeah, we’re going to the masquerade.” Dante set his bottle aside. “I heard you’re having your friend over and your grandmother is going to stay with you until your mom gets home.” He and Imelda might not be on speaking terms, but he admired her for the attention she lavished on her daughter and grandson.
Elliott bobbed his head. “Finn’s spending the weekend. He’s coming over after school tomorrow night.”
“Sounds like Finn is becoming a good friend.” Having Elliott adjust to his new school had been one of Tessa’s biggest concerns. She’d confided he’d kept mostly to himself before the move, withdrawn over his parents’ divorce and too shy to make friends. Whether he knew it or not, Finn Carrigan had taken a load off her shoulders.
“We like a lot of the same things. Space stuff and UFOs.” The bulk of the pumpkin’s innards were clumped into a sticky marshmallow in the bowl. Elliott picked up a spoon, then began to scrape the remaining strings from the fleshy insides. “Finn’s dad doesn’t come around either. He lives with his uncle.”
No wonder the two boys had bonded. “What’s his uncle do?”
“He’s a detective. His name’s David Gregg.”
Small world. David Gregg had been one of the cops who’d responded to Hickory Chapel Cemetery the night Spencer was killed. “What about Finn’s mom?” Having a father out of the picture was one thing, but it was odd for both parents to be AWOL.
Elliott scrunched his mouth to the side as if working through how to reply. “She’s in jail.” He nudged his glasses higher with the back of his wrist. “Finn doesn’t like to talk about her. He said she’s a drug addict and cares more about getting high than she does about him.”
Dante felt like someone had punched him in the gut. The soda he’d ingested turned sour. No kid deserved an MIA father, but the thought of a mother who favored pills over her own child was reprehensible. “It’s a good thing Finn has his uncle.”
“Yeah.” Elliott set the spoon on the table, then reached for a paper towel to wipe his fingers. “His uncle works weird shifts, but Mom’s been letting Finn hang with me when he does. Like this Friday and Saturday night.”
Halloween Eve and Halloween. Cops would be on high alert for vandalism and pranks that got out of hand. Hopefully, no one would be stupid enough to camp out in Hickory Chapel Cemetery, like he, Spencer, and Alex Price had done.
“Mom said we can have pizza Friday night. We’re gonna stay up late and watch scary movies since you guys are gonna be next door at Jillian’s for game night.”
Dante was the one who’d contrived the excuse for Tessa. She didn’t want to tell her son she was participating in a séance, so Dante had suggested a board game night for adults. In some respects, it wasn’t far from the truth. In the late 1800s, séances had become a form of entertainment with people forming “home circles” to communicate with the dead, often gathering around Ouija boards, or trying to produce spirit-rappings.
“Scary movies, huh?” That part surprised him. “Aren’t you worried about monsters?”
Elliott crossed to the sink, then turned on the water to wash his hands. “Not the movie kind. They’re not real.”
“But others are?”
Elliott rolled one shoulder into a shrug. “Finn told me he and the kids he used to hang out with made that stuff up about the cemetery to scare me. He said the folktales about the place aren’t really true.”
Dante knew otherwise but didn’t want Elliott thinking differently. “Maybe you don’t need your wishstone anymore.”
“Maybe.” Elliott switched off the water, then dried his hands on a clean paper towel. “I’m ready to carve the pumpkin. Can we look at your drawings?”
“Sure.” Dante grabbed the tablet from the counter and passed it to him. He threw his empty soda bottle into a recycle bin. “Any chance I could borrow your wishstone for a few nights?” He’d been trying to find a way to work around to the subject from the moment he’d arrived. Gut instinct told him the gem had belonged to Gabriel and having something of Vane’s during the séance created a better chance of reaching his spirit.
“Sure. I guess so.” Elliott tilted his head to stare up at him. “How come you want to borrow it?”
He hated lying but knew he’d only frighten the kid if he told Elliott the truth. “I want to make a few wishes. You said it helped you.”
“Uh-huh.” Elliott sucked on his bottom lip, his gaze dropping briefly as if giving the matter serious thought. He dug the stone from the pocket of his jeans and stared down at the rough shape in his hands. “A lot of the monsters…they were really the kids at school. They laughed at me, and no one wanted to be my friend.”
“I’m sorry, Elliott.” Kids could be freaking cruel.
“I guess I don’t need this anymore.” Elliott extended his hand, offering the stone. “Finn isn’t my only friend; he’s my best friend. A lot of the other kids talk to me now, and we have fun together.” He dropped the stone in Dante’s palm. “It brought me luck, but I think I’m supposed to pass it on so someone else can benefit.” Elliott studied him with a deliberative manner. “When you’re done with it, you have to give it to someone else, okay?”
“Okay.” With an inner sigh of relief, Dante fisted his hand around the stone. He knew exactly who he’d give it to—Gabriel Vane, the emerald’s original owner.
Chapter 14
October 21, 1799
Gabriel groaned and rolled onto his side. The night air smelled of dog and sweat, the rancid perspiration of men trapped by fear. He forced his hands under him, his palms clotted with blood and dark soil. They’d stripped him of his coat, the biting cold making him shiver. A single blossom of heat pulsed below his heart where his tunic was plastered to his chest by something sticky and wet.
Grunting with effort, he tried to rise. Someone planted a foot against his hip and shoved, thrusting him face-first to the ground. He became conscious of boots ringed around him, the hot breath of a dog as it strained at the end of a rope, the steeple of a bell tower looming overhead.
Hickory Chapel!
Nausea bubbled up from his gut. He was no longer in the woods, far removed from any chance of reaching Vernon Hode. He wasn’t afraid to die, but not like this. The sound of multiple spades sinking into the earth made his head spin. Merciful God in Heaven, not like this.
Gabriel ran his tongue over his lips. Tried to find his voice in the pitted, torn tissue of his throat. The emerald had shredded his gullet like a straight-edge. “At-Atticus.”
His voice was a ragged thread, easily overshadowed by the grunt of labored breathing and the splatter of loose soil, flung against the ground. How many hours had they been working at the task? How many had he lain unconscious? He recalled a grave already half-dug in the rear of the church, internment for the first of the plague victims. No bodies would be buried there now, the spot segregated for him alone.
Struggling to stay alert, he rolled onto his back. The bell tower pinwheeled above him, backlit by icy stars on a stygian sky. Torches flickered beyond the ring of men and dogs, the frenzied jump of flames casting monstrous shadows on the flat chapel walls. Pain made him drift briefly, faces bobbing in and out of his consciousness—Dinah, Jasper, his parents.
He longed for death. Prayed for it
. Was pulled back from the edge when someone grabbed his ankles and dragged him closer to his grave. Pebbles, leaves, and crushed hickory nuts prickled his back. The ragged tear below his heart pumped hot blood over cold flesh. Wildly, he looked about for Enoch but couldn’t spy him among the ring of somber faces. He hadn’t been in the woods either, which left Atticus as his savior.
“You can’t do this.” His voice was a coarse thread, pockmarked by the hard hitch of his breath. “It’s sacrilege. Atticus, you…you defy Jasper’s church.”
“Do not tell me what I defy!” With a roar of anger, Atticus kicked him in the ribs.
Gabriel grunted and folded in half.
“For the love of God, don’t do this.”
“You will not speak of our Lord, foul demon.” Atticus’s tone was ruthless, nearly unrecognizable. “Cyrus. Everett. Put Vane in the grave. I will throw the first shovelful of dirt.”
Gabriel’s head flopped back when they lifted him, one man grabbing his ankles, the other his arms. The rough handling tore the flesh around his wound and ripped a scream from his throat. Through the poison of terror, he thought he heard someone tramping away.
The open pit gaped below him—seconds only before he was thrown, his body tossed like worthless garbage. He managed to twist mid-air, angling to take the bulk of the impact on his arm, hip, and thigh. Breath rattled between his teeth and pain exploded the length of his side. A ring of somber faces stared down from above, the features of men he’d once called friends contorted by hatred and fear in the torchlight.
Monsters. God save their murderous souls, but they looked like monsters.
Atticus hefted a shovelful of dirt.
“At least kill me first.” Gabriel pushed against his dirt prison. The sky reeled as he staggered half upright.
“Your passing will be swifter if you lie down and accept your fate.” Atticus shoveled more dirt into the grave. The other men joined him, working in silence, unwilling to meet Gabriel’s eyes.
Loose soil rained down on him, the spades singing a death dirge. The prison was narrow, the dirt coarse. Clods of mud and stone pelted his head and back, driving him to his knees. The barrage was violent and swift. As if by exerting themselves, the men could finish quickly and forget their shameful deed.
Blood dribbled into Gabriel’s eyes. He clawed at the sides of the pit in an effort to escape the brutal pummeling. A chunk of stone struck his temple and sent him sprawling. Sheer terror spiked into his head. It couldn’t end like this, suffocated by cold soil. Buried alive.
Get above the dirt. Find a way out.
He tried to scrabble upright but toppled to his side. Soil rained down in a deluge, each blow siphoning breath from his lungs. Mounds of earth piled higher—covering his face, pinning his legs and hips. His heart labored, thumping terror into his skull. Weakly, he tried to writhe free, but there was little strength left in muscles cramped by pain and ravaged by fever. Pinpricks of light exploded behind his eyes. Somewhere up above, one of his killers pulled the cord in the church tower.
The last sound Gabriel heard was the mournful toll of a bell.
* * * *
Present Day
Clive walked to the pound to look at the dogs. He could have taken his car, but it was only a few miles by foot and he needed to think. Warren had told him he could bring a pup home next week. They had plans to check out the pub crawl tomorrow night, and Warren said it wouldn’t be good to leave a dog at home.
He thought about getting a pup anyway and skipping the crawl but figured a few days wouldn’t hurt. Besides, it would be cool to wear a mask. Warren said the bash was going to be a cross between a Halloween party and a Carnivale celebration with food and entertainment. Lots of people would be there.
Pausing at a cross street, Clive waited for a green minivan to pass before he walked to the other side. On the main road, a bus chugged by, spewing a puff of exhaust. A panel on the side advertised the masquerade, showing a woman in a sequined blue mask with elaborate plumes of feathers. It made him wonder if the devil mask he usually wore for the annual Fiend Fest was going to cut it.
With a mental shrug, he stuffed his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. Too late to worry about it now. As long as he could get burgers and beer, he’d be happy.
He picked up his pace, passing a few people walking in the opposite direction. Mostly business types on lunch break from a nearby corporate center, a few with cell phones glued to their ears.
He could never sit behind a desk. Not just because he wasn’t smart enough—the boredom would get to him. He’d taken the day off from his job driving a delivery truck for Hode Development so he could spend a few hours at the pound. As he got closer, his feet dragged. What if he couldn’t find a dog that looked like Bodine? What if he did and Kirk just shot it up like that poor stray when they were kids?
Clive’s stomach flip-flopped. Spying a bench beneath an oak tree, he sat down and stared moodily at the passing traffic. On the opposite side of the street, a guy walked a golden retriever. The dog trotted on its leash with its head high, tongue lolling happily from its mouth. Damn it, he wanted a pup that would do that, too. Why did Kirk have to ruin everything?
Because the bastard’s bad news.
He should have never given his brother’s phone number to Yancy. Thinking about the goof made his stomach clench tighter.
Eventually, he’d have to work up the nerve to tell Warren what he’d done. Warren would call him a dumb ass, then tell him to forget it when Clive’s feelings got hurt. Warren groused at him a lot, but he looked after him, too. Kirk just looked after Kirk.
Clive dug his cell from his pocket. The cool air made him sniffle. He dragged a sleeve under his nose and hooked his ankles beneath the bench. The sun was bright—it looked like a glob of butterscotch candy—but autumn was starting to take hold. Maybe he’d stop somewhere for a hot apple cider and piece of pumpkin pie after he finished at the pound. In the meantime, he had to do something about Kirk. He kept thinking about the kid Warren had mentioned, the one who’d fallen into the grave they’d dug up.
Switching to his texts, he found Kirk’s contact information and thumbed out a message: did Yancy call u
It took a few minutes for Kirk’s reply to ping back. Clive used the time to watch the guy with the golden, noting how the dog offered a friendly nose to anyone who stopped. When he was done, he’d hike across the street and say hello.
After a while, an emoji thumbs-up flashed on his screen.
Clive keyed in a new text: what did he want
Not important
was it about a stone
Why
about a kid
Several seconds passed. Finally, Kirk’s reply came through.
Don’t worry about it
An ill feeling washed over Clive. He squirmed on the seat as his thumbs flew over the screen.
don’t do nuthin stupid
Like??
mill street
This time the delay was longer. Clive chewed the inside of his cheek, head bowed over his phone. Finally, a ping followed by Kirk’s message.
Grabbing lunch. Later
Clive slumped against the bench. He thought of the bell he’d heard the night he and Warren dug up Vane’s bones. Something bad was going to happen. He was sure of it.
Worriedly, he rubbed his lizard tattoo. His totem animal would protect him, but what about Warren? What about Kirk?
Kirk had killed Bodine, and he’d killed that man on Mill Street, but he wouldn’t really harm a kid.
Sweat broke out on the back of Clive’s neck.
Shit.
Maybe the best outcome for everyone would be if something bad really did happen to Kirk.
* * * *
Dante arrived at Jillian’s brownstone before any of the other sitters on Friday night. He carried several duffle bags in
side then declined her offer of wine. Needing something to take the edge from her nerves, she sipped a glass of Riesling as she watched him set up.
“Your table is perfect because it’s oval.” He covered the surface with a dark navy cloth then brushed a hand over the fabric to smooth away wrinkles. “Ovals are conducive to communication with the spirit world. Rectangles and squares—any kind of rigid lines—create barriers.”
“I suppose that makes sense.” She hoped her nervousness didn’t show. Lately, she felt like a rubber band, stretched in different directions. Madison had been discharged to a rehab center that morning, and Jillian had spent the day getting her sister settled. She’d taken her usual evening walk with Blizzard, then ate a premade salad she’d picked up from a local deli. Dante had showed up just after seven thirty.
He wore all black tonight—jeans with a chambray shirt, his hair secured in a tight ponytail. The only spot of color to his clothing was the gold medallion looped around his neck. She’d noticed it before but had never asked about its meaning. Given they were about to hold a séance, it seemed an appropriate time.
“Is that a religious medal?” She motioned to the glimmer of gold visible beneath the open collar of his shirt.
“The Archangel Michael.” He set a bag on the table and unzipped the top. “It belonged to my father. I’m rarely without it, especially when conducting a séance.”
She didn’t like the sound of that. “Should I be concerned?”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of.” He pulled several squat candles from the bag and set them on the table. Blizzard watched from a spot on the floor near the doors to the deck. “I always begin any séance with a prayer. Saint Michael protects against darkness and demons.”
“And monsters.” She said the words for him.
“Try not to think about the cemetery. Summoning works better if the energy is positive.”
“I’ll do my best.” It was a tall order considering the hypersensitive state of her nerves.
He took his time setting up, placing various items in different corners of the room—a basket with chunks of fresh bread, another with herbs and autumn flowers, several pillar candles of differing heights.
