End of Day

by Mae Clair

  “Elliott! Finn!” Tessa herded them into the hallway. In a streak, Dante shot past her, catching Porter around the waist. The two hit the floor with a loud crash as Tessa and the boys pounded down the steps. Sirens wailed in the distance, drawing closer, the scintillating heat in Jillian’s veins screaming in unison with the tumult. Green light shot through the cracks of her clenched fist, phosphorescent illumination that made her hitch in a breath.

  Protect or destroy.

  Near the window, Porter slashed out with his knife. Dante reeled backward, blundering into Elliott’s telescope. Cat-quick, Porter danced around him and sliced into Dante’s arm. Her friend cursed and tried to back away, but Porter had maneuvered him into a corner. One hand clamped on the bloody gash, Dante kept his gaze on Porter’s knife. Wildly, Jillian looked for a weapon.

  Protect or destroy.

  “Porter!” She hated the man. Saw he was hideous inside, twisted with an insatiable darkness like the monsters of Hickory Chapel Cemetery.

  Ignoring her, he lunged at Dante. Porter was the shorter of the two, but he had no qualms about killing. He hefted the knife, ready to plunge the blade down on Dante. All Jillian saw was him doing the same to Boyd. Over and over.

  In that freeze-frame of time, she stood in her sister’s place, watching the man she’d come to care about fight to stave off death. Rather than close herself to terror, she opened her mind to Dante, inviting him to join her as they had in the woods behind Wickham. Resilience flooded her as he gave her his strength. In turn, she poured out her protection, binding them together through the power of the stone.

  The room exploded with green light. Porter was flung backward against the closet, then slumped to the floor, his legs corkscrewed at an odd angle. The crack of bone reverberated on the air. Eyes boggling, he screamed and slashed at the nothingness in front of him. Spittle flew from his lips as he yelled and hacked with the knife—tried to drag himself away from something only he could see. His legs hadn’t broken in the fall. Couldn’t have.

  And then Jillian saw them.

  Protect or destroy.

  Summoned by the power of the stone, they moved in that eerie green light—the monsters of Hickory Chapel Cemetery. If not them, creatures like them—unspeakable things oozing slime and blood. Things that slithered and crawled. That reeked of offal and sulfur. They swarmed over Porter with fangs and stinging tentacles. Tails that thrashed and claws that scored flesh until all that was left was a blood-soaked mass of pulp.

  “Jillian.” Dante bolted across the lower bunk. Wrapping his arms around her, he dragged her away from the horrific scene. The green light vanished as if someone had thrown a switch, the emerald turning cold in her hand. Kirk Porter sat slumped against the closet, whole and unbroken, not a mark on him.

  Without venturing closer, she knew he was dead.

  Chapter 17

  January 11, 1800

  Enoch Crowe stared down at his father’s headstone, trying to resurrect some feeling of pity or remorse, but there was none to be found in his heart. His feelings for Atticus had not changed from the night he’d learned of Gabriel’s murder. Flipping his collar up against the winter air, he looked from the fancy limestone block marking Atticus’s grave—raised more for the sake of Jasper and Dinah than him and Fern—to the unadorned patch of ground behind the church. He’d had a small slab set in the ground as a marker for Gabriel, but it seemed wrong to do more. Vernon Hode had wanted to dig up the grave and give Gabriel a proper burial with a coffin, but Enoch asked him not to. He couldn’t bear the thought of his friend being disturbed, of shovels possibly piercing his flesh after he’d already suffered so much.

  “Let him rest where he lies,” he’d told Vernon. “This cemetery is his now. He doesn’t need a marker or a coffin for that.”

  Enoch drew in a breath and gazed up at the chapel. Clouds massed behind the bell tower, dingy and gray. It would snow before the day was out. He thought of the chores waiting for him at home, of the baby growing in Nellie’s belly. If the child was a boy, he’d name him Gabriel after Jasper’s friend—his friend. After the man Dinah had loved. Either way, he’d be sure his family never forgot Gabriel. As long as his line continued, one of his descendants would tend to Gabriel’s grave.

  The crunch of frozen grass beneath boot heels made him glance over his shoulder.

  Hands in the pockets of his coat, Vernon Hode stepped to his side. He said nothing for a time, the two of them regarding the tombstone in silence. Finally, he spoke. “Your father’s health went downhill quickly.”

  Enoch nodded. “He was feeble and alone. No one to care for him.” Even the friends who’d stood by him the night of Gabriel’s death had deserted him. Overcome with grief, Cyrus Herman had hanged himself in his barn a week after the murder. Thaddeus Keel died when a horse he tried to shoe kicked him in the chest. The others who’d taken part in Gabriel’s killing gradually drifted away, rarely showing their faces in the village. Sensing something horrific had happened and taking their key from Enoch and Fern, who turned their backs on their father, the townspeople ostracized Atticus.

  “He was bitter in the end.” Hode’s breath plumed in the icy air. “I think he was scared, too.”

  “Of death?” Enoch’s mouth twisted. “He had a right to be, but he’s in the ground now—protected by the man he murdered if I’m to believe his inane superstition.”

  Hode crooked his neck. “You carry no grief for your father?”

  “None.” Enoch’s voice was flat. “There is no room for a man like him in this new century. Let God judge him.”

  Hode sucked in a breath. Nodded toward the chapel. “With deference to our Lord, do you think we will ever find a man of God to sanctify this holy place?”

  Enoch thought of Gabriel, buried in a lonely grave. Of the horror and pain he must have endured before death mercifully claimed him. His eyes misted over, but the tears were not for the brutality of his passing. Rather, for the manner in which he’d lived his life.

  “I have no doubt we already have.”

  * * * *

  Present Day

  Jillian plucked a piece of cheese from the antipasto platter on the coffee table. Settled several feet away, Blizzard tracked her movement but seemed content to rest with his head between his paws despite the tempting smells wafting from Dante’s kitchen.

  When he’d asked her out for dinner, Jillian had been prepared to leave the husky at home until Dante insisted differently. “I’m as attached to him as you are. You’re forgetting, we spent a lot of time together when you stayed overnight with Madison.”

  The family room of Dante’s house was large but cozy, benefitting from low lighting and candles. He’d kindled a fire in the brick hearth, the warmth inviting Blizzard to lounge nearby. Paintings of riverscapes and cityscapes decorated the walls. She’d seen enough of his work to recognize it now. A single canvas in the corner was propped behind a chair, the image turned away from her.

  “Do you need more wine?” Dante appeared in the archway to the kitchen, a tea towel flung over his shoulder, a bottle of Merlot and an empty glass in his hand.

  “I’m fine.” Jillian shifted to face him. “When you said you wanted to take me out for dinner, I thought you meant to a restaurant.”

  His expression clouded. “You don’t like this?”

  “It’s lovely.” She preferred the quiet evening with just the two of them over a crowded eatery. “But you’re doing all the work.”

  “What work? The lasagna is baking, and the salad is made.” Joining her on the sofa, he poured wine into the empty glass, then set the bottle aside. “How about a toast?”

  “To what?”

  He was silent for a moment as if mulling over the thought before raising his glass. “To Gabriel Vane. He was the catalyst for everything that’s happened.”

  Jillian clicked her glass to his. “I’ll drink
to that.” She sipped her wine. Mention of Gabriel didn’t bring the gut-punch of emotion it had before. So much had changed over the last month. Madison was due to be released from rehab in another three days and would be moving in with her. Dante and Tessa had helped her add a fresh coat of paint to her second bedroom—in lavender, Madison’s favorite color. Her sister’s memories had gradually returned, distance and time providing the necessary filter to keep her sane. Madison was undergoing counseling and would be for months to come. At least Kirk Porter’s death had brought a warped kind of closure for both of them.

  He’d died without a mark on his body. Not a single broken bone. The coroner concluded he’d suffered a massive shock induced by fright, but Jillian and Dante knew the terror he’d experienced had been real.

  To him.

  The monsters of Hickory Chapel Cemetery might not have left a physical scratch on his flesh, but they’d butchered him with fangs and claws in the realm of his mind. Slaughter he’d felt. Heard. Breathed. A death he’d believed to be real.

  To protect or destroy.

  In protecting Dante, Jillian had summoned the power of the stone to destroy the man who’d threatened him. Closing her mind to the memory, she set her wine aside. It was important the emerald be reburied with Gabriel, entombed in the ground so no one could ever use it again.

  Leaning forward, she helped herself to the antipasto, putting together a small plate with a sampling of green and black olives, marinated mushrooms, and a few cubes of mozzarella. She used one of the toothpicks Dante had set out to spear a mushroom.

  “Sherre told me Gabriel’s bones should be released tomorrow. The city is going to stand the cost of reburial.”

  “That’s good news.” He picked at a piece of salami, the movement of his right arm stiff. The knife wound had taken stitches, but thankfully, the damage hadn’t been extensive. “I want to be there with you when they rebury him.”

  “Thanks. Tessa and Sherre are planning on attending, too. Even Madison.”

  In an effort to be supportive of Finn, David Gregg had taken it upon himself to rent a boat and drag the river, eventually recovering the sack containing Gabriel’s remains. This time he would have a proper burial with clergy, a coffin, and a marble headstone to offset the date slab that had been his only marker. In addition to the city, the Historical Society of Hode’s Hill was contributing funds, and Collin Hode had agreed to cover any excess. Once Maya told him of the situation, he became interested enough to mount a funding project for the preservation of the cemetery and the chapel. With the Hode name attached to the project, the old burial ground and church were sure to see sweeping revitalization.

  “I heard Yancy is being questioned about his part in everything.” Dante slouched into a corner of the sofa, one arm extended on the backrest, the other over the armrest. “He may still worm his way free given the evidence against him is sketchy. I wonder what will happen to him.”

  “One thing’s for sure. No one will be signing up to be his client at Wickham.”

  “I hate that damn place.” Dante’s expression darkened.

  “I do, too, now that I understand what happened there.” At least Gabriel would finally find peace. His remains had yet to be returned to his burial spot, but after Kirk Porter’s death, the rash of accidental deaths had stopped. Almost as if the monsters of Hickory Chapel had been satiated with the Porter brothers’ blood. “Did you hear what happened there three nights ago?”

  “At Wickham?” He raised a brow. “What?”

  “There was a fire. No one seems to know how it started, but it looks like it could have been arson. Sherre picked up the call on her scanner.”

  Dropping his gaze, Dante swirled the wine in his glass. “Do they have any leads?”

  “Absolutely none. There wasn’t much damage to the building itself, but the inside was gutted. Sherre said it will likely be condemned and will have to be razed to the ground. It’s unlikely anything will ever go there again.”

  “I can’t say I’m sorry.”

  “I feel the same way.” She shook off the gloom. “We should stop dwelling on the negatives and concentrate on the good things that have happened. Tessa told me Detective Gregg was taking her, Elliott, and Finn out for dinner. I’m so thankful the boys haven’t suffered any nightmares because of Halloween night.”

  “Maybe a few, but nothing serious.” Dante set his wine aside. “I think Gregg has a soft spot for Tessa and vice versa.”

  “They look good together.”

  “He’s almost fifteen years older.”

  “That sounds like the words of a protective cousin.”

  “Guilty.” He shrugged. “Her ex-husband was a jerk. I don’t want to see her make another mistake.”

  “Who says she is?” Jillian laughed. “Besides, they’re just going out for dinner. With Elliott and Finn.”

  “Point taken.” A ding sounded from somewhere over his shoulder. “That’s the oven. I’m going to check the lasagna. I hope you’re hungry.”

  “Starved.” After he left, Jillian strolled closer to study one of the riverscapes, recognizing a point below the North Bridge. Blizzard tracked over, and she bent to rough his fur. Her gaze landed on the canvas propped behind the chair.

  Curious, she lifted it to the light.

  The building was recognizable in a heartbeat. Dante had painted Wickham with storm clouds massed behind it, but clouds weren’t the only embellishment he’d added. Flames shot from the windows and danced on the rooftop, angry red brushstrokes against a night-blackened sky.

  “Five more minutes.”

  His sudden presence as he strolled into the room made her jerk.

  The heat of surprise flooded her face. “Dante—”

  He walked closer and stared down at the canvas, looking over her shoulder. “You know what’s great about having a lot of money?” His tone was conversational, but tension was evident in his jaw. “You can buy real estate for cash, especially when the owner wants to divest quickly.”

  Tightening her fingers on the canvas, she stared up into his face. “Do you mean—”

  “Once you own a building, you can do anything you want with it. Especially when you don’t carry insurance.”

  Jillian swallowed hard and glanced back to the painting. “Like burn it to the ground?” The words slipped from her lips, barely a whisper.

  “Wickham took my father. I’ve evened the score.”

  She’d never tell a soul.

  Some circumstances were best kept secret.

  Meet the Author

  Mae Clair opened a Pandora’s Box of characters when she was a child and never looked back. A member of the Mystery Writers of America and Thriller Writer’s International, she loves creating character-driven fiction in settings that blend contemporary and historical time periods.

  Wherever her pen takes her, she flavors her stories with mystery, suspense, and a hint of the supernatural. Married to her high school sweetheart, she lives in Pennsylvania and is passionate about urban legends, old photographs, a good Maine lobster tail, and cats.

  Discover more about Mae on her website and blog at MaeClair.net.

  Acknowledgments

  To my critique partners, Staci and Joan, thank you for your insightful feedback and last-minute chapter turnarounds. Your patience in putting up with my scattershot method of writing is greatly appreciated!

  To my fabulous editor, Paige Christian, and all of the team at Kensington Publishing/Lyrical Underground—from editing to promo, production and more—I couldn’t ask for a better group.

  I am so thankful to be part of the Kensington family!

  To my readers who continue to support me by purchasing books and leaving reviews, you make it all worthwhile. I am truly grateful you find my novels entertaining. Thank you!

  Finally, to my family, friends, and especially my husband,
thank you for your unwavering support throughout the years. The writing life is not for the faint of heart, but your belief in me has allowed me to turn a childhood dream into reality.

  EVENTIDE

  Keep reading for an excerpt from the next Hode’s Hill novel,

  coming soon from Lyrical Underground.

  Learn more about Mae at

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/author.aspx/29541

  Chapter 1

  May 15, 1878

  One-handed, Hollande Moore twisted the door knob. The room was locked from the inside, the same as all the others she’d tried in the long hallway, leaving her nowhere to hide. Behind her, Sylvia plodded down the corridor, the iron fireplace poker lax at her side, droplets of her son’s blood glistening on her face. No rush in her step.

  Dear God, how had it come to this?

  Hollande sagged against the door, pain from her shattered wrist spiking to her head. Dizziness was a luxury she couldn’t afford. A blast of vertigo weakened her knees and made the floor heave beneath her. Perspiration beaded her brow in fat, cold droplets. Gummy with sweat, her palm stuck to the glass knob.

  Pat-tap. Pat-tap.

  Sylvia’s footsteps echoed softly, a harbinger of doom.

  Hollande staggered away, every movement sending a fresh jolt of pain through her butchered wrist. At the end of corridor, the door to Darrin’s study gaped wide—the single room that had been consistently locked throughout her brief tenure. No matter. Anywhere she could hide was welcome.

  Stumbling over the threshold, she fumbled with her good hand to secure the door. The moment her fingers brushed the knob, it came loose in her hand. “No! Please, no!” Someone had battered it repeatedly, making the lock useless.