“My folks aren’t here, but I can get you the money if you need it.”
“No. It goes on the weekly bill. Nothing to worry about.” He looked past her into the house. “You here all by yourself?”
“Only until Heather gets home. She’s got band practice.”
“Well, make sure you tell everyone I said hi, okay?”
She nodded and said her thanks. He noticed the bruises on her arm and her leg and the fact that they looked fresh. They were minor, but they hadn’t been there the day before and if anyone on the planet knew the nature of bruises, it was Patrick Winter.
“Okay, thanks for bringing it by.”
“Melissa? You fall down the stairs again?” He looked pointedly at her bruises.
She flushed and lowered her eyes. “No, I got into a fight after school yesterday.” A lie and he knew it. Still, he let it go. For now.
“Did you win?”
“Of course!” She smiled. She was a scrappy little thing, and very proud of her abilities. At least that was the way she played it off.
He smiled back and nodded. “Good going, tiger.”
He left a moment later, knowing that a child didn’t make the marks. The bruises were too deep.
Patrick took his time after he dropped off his car. He wasn't in anything that even vaguely resembled a hurry, because he knew exactly where he was going. Denny had offered to take him out for a beer, an offer the man made at least once a week. To his knowledge Denny was not a lonely man, but he seemed to think that Patrick was.
In certain ways that was probably true, but there were things he did that made up for the solitude he imposed on himself. He had his hobbies and his fairly regular visits to see the antique store in town, and many lively conversations with Allyson Winston, the owner of the place. He suspected that Allyson worried from time to time that he would take a shine to her, but she wasn’t exactly his type. He didn’t know if he had a type for whatever that mattered.
She was lovely, true, and she was always happy to see him, but he sensed that the mild attraction he felt was no stronger in her and that someone else held her romantic interest. He liked what they had, a friendship. That was rare enough in his life.
Denny probably couldn’t hope to understand that sort of thing. He was not designed to think or feel that way toward a member of the opposite sex. His was a primitive drive, an imperative to procreate.
Patrick cut the thoughts off as he neared the Hollow. He could hear them down below him and knew from their voices and tones that someone was planning to cause grief for one of the students.
For over fifty years he’d done his best to maintain his human guise whenever possible. Living among them was easier when he could almost convince himself that he was one of them. Now, at his mother’s behest, he allowed himself to change for the first time in the life span of most of the people below in the woods.
Patrick stripped off his clothes as quickly as he could, folding them neatly and ramming them into the narrow hole at the base of a birch tree. He wore no jewelry except for his watch and that he set on top of everything else.
When he was fully naked before the animals and plants, Patrick Winter relaxed the hold he had on his own body and felt the flesh fold outward and expand like a wave.
Denny had often wondered where Patrick was from and he normally gave noncommittal answers. The truth was that Patrick had been in the area for a very long time. Unlike his brother Jack he saw no reason to go to other places and unlike his brother Robert he never felt the need to sleep for several centuries.
He’d just learned to hide in plain sight, thus avoiding conflicts with the descendants of the louts who’d murdered him the first time.
He’d died for a good cause.
VII
They were out when she called for them. The brothers were doing as they always did and following their mother’s orders. Jack was off gathering the rare plants she needed for her recipes and spells. Some of them were fairly easy to find and others took tremendous effort. He liked to boast that he did the most for their mother, but then he was the youngest by several hours and considered himself their mother’s favorite.
Robert was gathering wood in the forest, as he planned to build additions to her small house that would allow each of Alvina Bathory’s children to have a room of his own. The winter would be upon them all too soon and they had all grown so much since she’d given birth to them only a year before.
Patrick was trying to take forms other than that of a sheet. There were issues that came with being born without bones, and one of them was trying to manage to stand upright and possibly even mimic the people of Beldam Woods. If he could look like them they would have less reason to fear him.
He never had a chance to finish his practice session before they stormed the small hut he shared with his family. He knew that the people hated his mother and his family in general. He was not a normal toddler of only a year’s age; he was the son of a witch, born to serve her and to protect her from harm.
He, like all of his siblings, came back to her at the first sign of trouble. By the time he arrived, their small hut was a burning ruin, the thatch roof burned away and the walls already falling in on themselves. Four villagers were dead and several more were changing, their bodies wracked and twisted by his mother’s fury.
As old and decrepit as she appeared Alvina Bathory was a powerful witch. Still, most of the men in the village had brought themselves to the woods, including the miserable wretch who’d fathered him. If there was love in Patrick for his mother, there was only rage and disgust for his father. In her fury she cast forth every spell she could manage, hurling lightning from the heavens and other insurmountable agonies upon the foolish. Patrick saw his father scream and watched with a perverse glee as the flesh on his body rotted away in a matter of seconds. Skin blackened and swelled and then wept a rain of bright blood into the soil as the man tried to escape his fate. His death was not kind and as far as Patrick was concerned he deserved far worse.
Patrick killed four of the swine, wrapping himself around their bodies and crushing until the bones hidden within them creaked and then shattered under the pressure. The first of them died quickly, but after that, the fight became a struggle. His body was never meant to generate that sort of force and he was still learning. By the time the fourth of the sorry humans had expired he was exhausted.
He was weak. He failed his mother. She was dragged out of her perch in the trees even as they killed him. In the end they rammed pitchforks into his flesh and cast him into the burning ruins of the only home he had ever known. He died roaring his pain for the world around him, screaming in rage as he withered and burned.
He would surely have died completely had it not been for his brother Jack sneaking in closer and taking him from the fires.
VIII
Patrick shook the thoughts away and then lay down on the ground, letting his flesh liquefy until he could slither across the earth and hide himself in the shadows of the trees. He took the time to place his carefully preserved skull in the hollow of the tree along with the rest of his possessions. Most everything else he could fake, but the skull made it easier. Damned hard to make teeth out of flesh and have them come out looking like they should.
Then he moved closer, listening for the signs that would tell him which of the girls below was the one he was supposed to touch and grant his mother’s blessings.
They had spread themselves out in the area, and already half of them were risking their lives, unaware of the dangers around them. Two of the adults who should have been supervising were hidden behind a copse of small trees, their hands pawing at each other and their bodies eager to rut.
He ignored them; they were not his concern.
Not far away one of the older men was lecturing to seven students who actually listened to him, discussing the dangers of the plants and either pointing or in rare cases touching the foliage with his gloved hands. He had respect for the power of the woods aroun
d him and was doing his best to teach that respect to the children.
Several more students were gathered in a semicircle around their instructor, who was currently scolding one of their number and waving a handful of white moss in the air. Apparently the boy had thought it would be fun to try forcing one of his friends to eat the stuff. The older woman had caught him before the situation could become fatal.
And off to the side, near the Victim Trees, the very plants created by his mother to guarantee the endless suffering of the villagers who’d dragged her from her home, four girls stood together, whispering threats and choosing sides in the battle for who would be allowed to rule among them.
The blonde child he’d seen earlier was holding a mushroom in her hand. The red-headed girl was with her, nodding her approval, as the blonde girl held the mushroom out to the dark-haired one, who was looking very dubiously at the fat fungi. Not just any mushroom had been chosen, but the Witch’s Tongue, a particularly lethal mass with dark skin and red seeping sores.
He slithered closer, listening intently, while the fourth child, a young girl with nervous features and a rapid pulse, kept lookout for the adults who could stop their games.
“He already said they’re dangerous.”
“So? You can eat this, Erika, and prove that you belong here with us, or you can just keep hoping for things to get better.”
“Why don’t you eat it Shannon?”
“All of us have eaten them before, haven’t we?” Patrick could see the lie on the girl’s face. She was crafty, that one, but she was not as sly as she thought she was.
To his surprise the other two nodded their ascent, claiming that they had eaten the Witch’s Tongue, tasted her secrets and lived to tell of it.
The redhead spoke up, her voice calm and cool. “You don’t even have to eat it, Erika. Just lick it.”
The girl who had earlier been surrounded by boys had looked prepared to leave without consuming the toadstool. Now she hesitated, measuring the looks on the other girls’ faces and trying to decide.
Patrick planned to stop her if he had to. He intended to make sure she did not consume any part of the mushroom that he knew was deadly and more toxic than any of them understood.
He shifted himself closer to them moving slowly and quietly, as he stretched into a new shape. There should have been pain involved; he had been a long time hiding his true form from the world. Instead the process was easy.
All it would take would be one swift strike and he could end this without being seen.
“Jesus, what is that stench?” The blonde girl, the one called Shannon, wrinkled her nose in disgust and looked around. “Smells like something died over here.”
Patrick stood perfectly still, aware of the breeze that blew past him. He was the source of the offending odors, of course. Without the stability of one shape his body tended to rot and he had forgotten that little fact.
As if to remind him a second time he felt he burning sensations start in several small areas of his body, signs that the flesh was weaker than he liked to think about and already starting to die.
“What are you children up to?” The woman’s voice was shrill and her face set in a frown of disapproval. The blonde girl quickly tossed aside the mushroom she’d held as an offering, her skin flushing slightly.
“Nothing, Ms. Watkins.” She was quick to recover from her surprise and cast a look at each of the other girls to make sure they agreed with her...or else.
If Patrick had expected the outcast girl to reveal the others’ plans for making her eat a poisonous plant, he was disappointed. She kept her mouth firmly closed.
It was then that the teacher with the girls spotted the two other adults off to the side. Likely she expected to find two of the children locked in an embrace. Her reaction would probably have been no more fearsome.
While she was off and tearing into the two younger supervisors, the girls started to move away from their little spot and over toward the main group of students, who were once again gathering. The end of their excursion was upon them. The girl called Shannon crossed her arms over her chest and flipped her hair out of her face.
“This doesn’t prove anything. You still need to show us you’ve got what it takes to fit in.”
The dark haired girl rolled her eyes and looked toward the sky as if praying for patience.
“Fine. What do I have to do?”
“Come back here tonight and bring proof that you were here.”
“I’m here now, what does it prove?”
“It proves you’re not as stupid as you look.”
“You know what, Shannon? You call me stupid one more time and I’m just going to kick your ass.”
“You and what army?” Shannon was laughing.
“So why don’t you come out here with me tonight and we can get this solved.”
“I don’t have anything to prove.” She spoke fast, but the blonde girl was starting to look a little nervous.
“Chickenshit.” Erika shook her head, disgusted.
Shannon looked back over her shoulder, her eyes narrowed. “Fine. I’ll join you tonight.”
And as he slid along, watching them from the patchy grass, Patrick knew that it would be one of the two who was chosen. Their conflict was intense and personal and their spirits were exactly the sort that would attract his mother’s attention.
IX
The day had been calmer than Lacey expected, and Burt and Teresa were getting along. Her sister had promised a surprise before the end of the night and both of them were waiting patiently for the announcement.
In the meantime it was just nice to relax.
Burt was in a remarkably good mood and that was close to a miracle these days. Just the night before he’d come home in as dark a mood as she’d seen in a while, earlier than expected and angry at some poor schlub who’d had a house fire or was claiming he had, at least. She hadn’t expected him home until after nine, but he made it home in time for dinner and did his best to be good about it.
So he only hit Melissa three times when she brought home the disciplinary report from school for talking in class.
Lacey closed her eyes and forced the thoughts out of her head. She didn’t want to dwell on Melissa crying in her room, when she was out for the first time in weeks and everyone seemed like they were having a good time.
She loved her children. She loved her husband. Sometimes he had to discipline the girls, and maybe more than if he’d had a son, true, but sometimes it happened.
Lacey thought about how it would be when her daughters were allowed to date and felt a tremor in her stomach. Enough. Think of happier things. Don’t ruin this day, damn it all. Don’t you dare go all emotional when he’s finally in a good mood.
Still, she had to chew on her nails, wondering if he was ever going to go too far, wondering why it was that sometimes he took the girls to the cellar and locked the door before he meted out punishment. And that thought, oh my, that thought was enough to make her stomach seethe with acids.
But he was in a good mood, damn it all. And it was so rare to see him when he was happy and smiling and not just waiting for more bad news. It had to be something that she had done, something that was wrong with her. That was the only reason Lacey could imagine for him to be such a (cold-hearted, sadistic little prick!) stern man. It had to be something she had done, and sometimes she wished he would just (keel over and fucking die!) tell her so she could make it right. She did whatever he wanted her to do at home—barring a few times when she got absent minded and forgot to make what he’d asked for in the dinner department—she was a tigress for him in bed, or submissive depending on what he wanted, and she took care of his children, took care of him to the best of her ability.
And God damn you for not noticing or caring!
And she did it because it was the right thing to do, her only way of making his world a better place. Burt deserved that. He’d sacrificed so much to keep her in a good home and to provide for her an
d for the girls.
She watched him sitting nearby and smiled, noticing every detail, from the clean and pressed shirt to the nice slacks, to the way his left foot sat on his knee and shook up and down as he looked at the painting of a seascape above the mantle of Teresa’s fireplace.
He looked at his watch, his dark eyes watching the second hand and it moved, and Lacey hoped he got busy with the surprise soon, before he lost his patience.
Please, God, don’t let him lose his temper. Don’t let him make a scene, because I don’t know how many more of them I can take. I don’t know what will happen if he blows up in front of Teresa.
Teresa knew, of course. You can’t hide things like that for very long. It just isn’t possible. She knew about his temper and about him hitting the kids now and then and even about him hitting Lacey.
She couldn’t prove any of it, because Lacey wasn't dumb enough to let that sort of thing be known in public, but she knew.
And sometimes Lacey hated her sister for that knowledge.
X
Curfew for the Watersford Academy was a simple affair: after dinner you went to your dormitories unless you had extracurricular activities that had been approved. The school prided itself on academic excellence and that meant the students worked their collective asses off.
The security at the academy normally came down to a large stone wall surrounding the private establishment and a few trips through the campus courtesy of the Beldam Woods Constables.
So sneaking off campus was easy enough and so, for that matter was sneaking onto the school grounds.
Denny certainly didn’t plan on taking it any further than that, especially since he had to go to work in only a few hours. He’d been smart this time, however, and picked up the donuts in advance. He wouldn’t disappoint Patrick two days in a row.
No one was more surprised than Denny when he saw the girls leaving the campus. Not one, not two, but a total of five of them. With visions of nubile young things dancing in his head, he followed them.
This is Halloween Page 12
