Feast

by Merrie Destefano

  The name cut through black granite—Audrey Meissner—but it felt like it was cutting through my flesh.

  “My mother’s grave,” I said, my voice soft.

  “I didn’t know,” Jake said. “I’m sorry.”

  I stared at the stone, my feet resting on the grave. This was as close as I had ever been to my mother. “I was just a baby when she died.”

  He nodded. There were no words for this. Only feelings. Only the cold wind gnawing at me and the moon, that ghastly orb, making me crave things, making me want to turn and pull his dreams from him when no one else was around. Where was my human side? Was I only a beast with wings and claws or did I actually have a soul?

  “Sometimes, when I come here, it feels like my mother’s here too,” I confessed. “Like she can hear me and see me. Like I’m the one who’s a ghost and we accidentally traded places. That’s weird, huh?”

  Jake took my hand in his, his skin warm, refreshing.

  “No,” he answered, a strange sound in his voice. “I used to come here all the time, after my grandma died.”

  “You were close to her?”

  He nodded, head lowered. Then he lifted his gaze until he was staring into my eyes. One hand rested on my shoulder. “I won’t tell anyone your secret, Elspeth. You’re safe with me.”

  Then he leaned closer, his scent overwhelming, his thoughts like the wind through the leaves, a wild rushing, his skin like the embrace of the forest. His lips touched mine and I slid my arms around his waist, leaning in to the kiss, suddenly wanting more. I wanted to cast an enchantment, to lead him into sleep, to harvest his dreams. Wanted to walk into a dream with him, to see the hidden world on the other side of his eyelids. Wanted to know everything about him.

  The kiss had only just begun and already I wanted another.

  His arms were around me then, and the winter chill disappeared. In its place, fire crackled through my limbs, from my fingertips to my feet.

  I could see it then, the world inside him. Tender and gentle as a spring morning, the shadows of night lingering at the edge of the wood, a handful of stars scattered across a pale sky. I never knew that humans could be filled with so much magic.

  It was my first hunt and I had chosen my prey wisely.

  We pulled away from each other with reluctance.

  Then he took my hand in his.

  “We should go,” he said, his voice husky. “Can’t let Hunter win the contest.”

  Chapter 58

  The Beating of Wings

  Driscoll:

  I crept down the stairs, suitcase in hand, down two landings until I finally reached the first floor. It felt like I was in another world, another time, as if this gigantic Victorian house with the towering turret was a great woolly mammoth, frozen in the sudden snowstorm. Electric lights gleamed overhead, as if only yesterday the stairway had been lit by flickering gas jets, pristine Persian rugs had covered the polished floors and intricate wallpaper had glittered with metallic inks.

  Time passes. Some things change, some things die.

  The Driscoll mansion creaked and moaned as I walked toward the foyer. Every movement caused a welcome response from this aged beauty, as if it didn’t want to see me go. My fingers trailed the polished wainscoting, moonlight flickered through a wall of stained glass, lace curtains drifted as I passed. If there were ghosts inside these walls, they would be glad to see me. They would nod as I moved through midnight gloom toward destiny.

  They would be glad to see me free, at last.

  The front door opened and I stood on the threshold.

  The wind whistled and howled outside the mansion, carried the beating of wings and the chanting of a thousand voices. A carrion stench filled the air, as if a foul predator had just been loosed, as if it now stalked the perimeter of Ticonderoga Falls. The trees wavered in the strong wind and bent to the side, branches snapping and twigs flying through the sky.

  I stumbled backward, waiting for the magic, waiting for the world to shift, for one of the monsters to come sweeping down from the sky.

  But nothing happened.

  Instead, the October wind whipped leaves and branches and black sky, swept through the doorway with screeching and howling, shook the windows in the dining room and slammed a door shut in the kitchen.

  My legs trembled and I clutched the suitcase to my chest like a shield.

  “They’re gone,” I mumbled, pushing myself forward. “They’re all in the village, flitting from house to house.” Snow stung my face with little bites of cold and I almost slipped on the last porch step.

  But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t.

  I headed toward the carriage house and the car nestled safe inside.

  Toward freedom.

  Chapter 59

  Almost Magical

  Maddie:

  We weren’t alone anymore. Black sky glimmered overhead, low clouds framed a tempestuous moon. I was trying to work out a rough plot outline in my head, only partially aware of the real world as Tucker and I ventured from one glowing jack-o’-lantern to the next, Samwise panting along at my side. I didn’t even realize that we had been swallowed up by another group of trick-or-treaters, some of the kids taller than I was. It wasn’t until I stood on the doorstep of yet another candy-doling bungalow that one of the kids got the courage to talk to me.

  “You’re Mad Mac, aren’t you?” he asked, words whistling slightly through the space where his front teeth used to be.

  I nodded with a smile.

  “We was at your cabin earlier,” another confessed.

  This happened often, especially when I was trying to work on a story. Whether I hunkered down with a laptop in the local Starbucks or scribbled on a yellow legal pad in a Barnes and Noble, I would eventually find myself surrounded by kids and young adults—those who thrived on my stories. It was almost as if they could sense that another tale was about to be created and they would arrive at my doorstep, hungry. Ready to devour my children before they were even born.

  Right now the snow spiraled around all of us in sparkles of white light. It mixed with the fragrance of popcorn balls and caramel apples, combined with the mystery of prepubescent faces concealed behind masks and painted skin. It was as if the children were all hiding from me, yet eager to be found.

  Just like my characters. They hid from me too.

  Until finally one day—after weeks of puzzling through my plot—I’d be tromping from my office to the kitchen for another cup of espresso, when all of sudden, I’d see one of them. Sometimes crouching in the shadow by the stairs, sometimes lounging on the sofa, sometimes lurking in a doorway. As if they had been following me all along, just waiting while I mused over the story. Waiting until I knew too much about them for them to resist me anymore.

  Waiting for me to tell their story.

  I had always figured that it was just my imagination.

  But now I wondered if I had been wrong. Maybe they’d been real all along.

  An exhilarating mood flowed through the streets of Ticonderoga Falls tonight, almost magical, like the current of an underground river. Part of it surged through the ethereal mountain forest. Part of it eddied around the quirky residents. Part of it sprinkled down with the white crystalline snow that continued to drift from the heavens.

  Just then, while the kids were bantering about which house to go to next and how long they had before they should meet for the bonfire, I thought I saw someone familiar emerge from the mists that surrounded us. Outlined in white and silver shadow, his body transparent, he hulked alongside the children, as if they were the best of friends, as if they’d known one another for years. Dangerous, mischievous, the grin of an imp on his face, he lurked behind one of the older boys.

  This can’t be happening.

  It was Pinch. One of the characters from my Shadowland series.

  And there at his side, forming from the mists, was Nick. His dark-skinned partner in legendary crimes.

  The two transparent rascals glanced at me;
one even gave me a wink.

  Then Nick took a swing at the hat one child was wearing, knocked it off his head. At the same time, Pinch shoved another boy.

  “Hey! Why’d you do that?” the first boy cried as he fished his hat from the gutter, soggy now from melted snow.

  “What’d you shove me for? I didn’t do nothin’,” the second boy answered.

  Almost instantly, the two boys were pushing each other.

  Meanwhile, Nick and Pinch laughed. Nick tickled a girl dressed as Uhura, who then elbowed a Wolverine-clad boy beside her in retaliation.

  “Stop it!” Uhura said.

  Wolverine got ready to push her back.

  “Enough, you two!” I said, suddenly feeling like an errant mother. I glared at Nick and Pinch.

  They both cowered, as if ashamed.

  In fact, all the kids looked at me with a mixed expression of surprise and fear. All of them except Tucker. He just gave me a quizzical stare.

  “But Mom, it’s only Nick and Pinch. They always act like that,” he said.

  I should have been astonished. Up until this point, my characters had always stayed inside my head, where they belonged. At least, that was what I thought. But right now I was either suffering from another side effect of that deadly nightshade—or there was definitely something strange and mystical about this town.

  Samwise trotted alongside Tucker. Snow fell, cold bits of sky; it clung to his fur, sloshed wet on his paws. All around us children were laughing and running, wearing strange clothes. He stopped and sniffed the white-sprinkled sky, as if listening. Then the dog cocked his head, yipped.

  “What is it, boy?” I asked.

  Suddenly the dog strained at his leash, dragging me through slippery snow. He seemed to want something across the street. For a moment, it almost looked as if the house on the corner were glowing, as if it were thrumming and humming with words. I thought I saw words drifting down from the sky, like smoke flowing into the house.

  “What is it?” I asked again as I stared at the bungalow that sat on the corner, fenced in by neatly trimmed hedges, flanked by a matching pair of sugar pines. No pumpkins lined the porch, no paper skeletons danced in the breeze. All the shutters were pulled closed and heavy curtains shrouded the front picture window.

  But light peeked out from every crevice and smoke curled from the chimney.

  And now I could feel it too, some unseen force pulling me toward the house, like it had suddenly become the center of the universe.

  “I don’t think they want trick-or-treaters,” I said, trying to convince myself not to cross the street.

  “That’s Joe Wimbledon’s house,” one of the children told me.

  “He loves to tell stories,” another ventured.

  Joe Wimbledon. The man in the vet’s office. The guy Sheriff Kyle told me about.

  “What kind of stories?” I asked, teetering on the edge of the curb. Samwise was already halfway into the street. I hoped a car didn’t come around the corner, this dog was out of control.

  “Creepy stories, about ghosts and shape-shifters and chupacabras.” It was the little boy with the missing front teeth talking.

  “Hey, we gotta go to the bonfire or Hunter will start without us,” a teenage girl dressed like a green-skinned pixie warned. “We’re already late!”

  Suddenly the whole crowd of children pulled away from us, all heading in another direction, half jogging, half running. Tucker stared after them.

  “Mom, let’s go with them. I wanna see the bonfire too,” he said.

  “Not yet,” I answered, as if we saw bonfires every day. “We’re going to one more house first.” Then I grabbed his hand, just in time, because at that moment Samwise lunged with an almost supernatural strength, his chest and back widening, his fur bristling.

  Like a magical sled dog, he pulled all three of us across the street and up the steps.

  Until we all stood right in front of Joe Wimbledon’s front door.

  Part 4

  Those who dream by day are cognizant

  of many things that escape

  those who dream only at night.

  —Edgar Allan Poe

  Chapter 60

  Fire and Smoke

  Thane:

  A chaos of children jostled their way down the street, voices tumbling over one another, all fighting for prominence. Masks and costumes askew, bags brimming with candy, a high level of excitement charged through them. The evening should have been winding down, they should have been heading home soon, but they weren’t. Instead, they veered away from the main streets and ambled toward the edge of town.

  I slumped in a doorway, made sure my scent was still that of wet wood and smoke, then I folded my shape back to what it had been before—a towheaded six-year-old boy. I watched the crowd of children approach, my steady gaze running through their ranks, studying them. I was getting particular now, only wanted a certain type of dream, something heady and strong with dark stormy edges. Meanwhile, River stumbled and sang along the sidewalk. Drunk from feeding too fast, he was now having trouble keeping his disguise focused. He repeatedly slipped from a six-year-old boy to a seventeen-year-old girl.

  It would have been funny except, at that exact moment, I suddenly realized something wonderful was strolling in my direction.

  A young man led the group of approaching children, snickering and boasting—my favorite kind of human, self-possessed and arrogant. I could smell fire and smoke inside the teenager, who carried danger like an explosive weapon.

  I thrilled at the possibilities.

  I held up a hand to silence my brother. “Hold your skin steady,” I muttered.

  “Trying. I am trying.” Then River laughed and his hair spiraled in luminescent tangles.

  “Freeze your shape and do it quick—”

  River’s eyes shrank to dark spots but his visage still wavered.

  I grabbed him by the arm, then yanked him back into the shadows. “I don’t need these humans to feast, you know. I could siphon the dreams right out of you. I could slow down all those children with a Veil and take my time bleeding you dry—”

  “You wouldn’t do that, I’m your blood brother, sure enough—”

  “Wouldn’t I? You almost cost me everything yesterday, brother.” I held him with a strong hand, pressed him against a wall, then watched him for a long, dreadful moment. Finally, I gave River one last warning, “Hold your shape steady and do it quick or I’ll drag you off someplace private and feast on your dreams.”

  “That’s sacrilege,” he answered, a whining tone in his voice.

  “You think I care about Darkling law now that I’ve had a taste of freedom? Do you? Either hold your skin straight or go off into the shadows and stay there until the moon sets—”

  My brother closed his eyes, then gave his skin a fierce shake. For a second he was no more than a blur of color. I glanced over my shoulder at the humans, a mere wingspan away. Fortunately, they were distracted, chattering and laughing amongst themselves. None of them even looked in our direction.

  “I’ve got it, I do,” River said.

  I checked him over, from head to toe. He was an innocent six-year-old boy again, no wavering or distortion or blasts of bright light.

  “See that you keep it, then,” I said as I gave him one last toss against the wall, knocking the wind out of him.

  Meanwhile, the company of adolescents rumbled past, all sparks and glitter and squeals of laughter. I turned with a grin and fell into step behind the last child, listening now to their confident boasts of winning a prize, all the while focusing on the dark-haired beauty that led them like the Pied Piper away from the village.

  Hunter. That was his name. I could smell fire and smoke wafting from his clothes. Danger thudded through the crowd.

  And fortunately, I was the only one who could hear it.

  Chapter 61

  Dark Magic

  Joe:

  I peeked out a side window, watched another group of trick-
or-treaters drift down the street like wanton revelers, shouting, laughing, occasionally tossing a rock at a parked car, lacing windshields with spiderweb cracks. They were heading toward the outskirts of town, to the old junkyard for their traditional Halloween bonfire. But there was something different about this year. I could feel it charging through the air, electric and sharp.

  I almost thought about stepping outside and calling out a warning.

  But three things stopped me. One, they wouldn’t care what I said, nobody listened to me in this town; Two, I didn’t want to take a chance on accidentally inviting a Darkling inside; and Three, a woman, a boy and a dog had just scrambled up my front steps.

  They hadn’t knocked on the door yet. But they would. Soon.

  Meanwhile, the Legend whirled overhead, a tornado of words, tumultuous and quicksilver. It was changing. All legends change as time passes, as the story gets passed from one person to the next, but for the first time I heard a chorus of new voices and names.

  And the ending was wrong. Dreadfully wrong.

  Ash was outside, somewhere nearby. He always stopped by on Halloween, it had become a ritual. I would nurse another beer, fire raging, Ash would come inside—all the doors and windows opened for him, this was his village, his flock, it all belonged to him—and we would spend an hour or two together, me retelling the Legend, while Ash leaned back in a chair, nodding at all the right places, raising an eyebrow if any detail was missed. He sheltered us from the wild Darklings that prowled Big Bear and Lake Arrowhead and all the other little towns in between.

  The curse had been our protection, though neither Driscoll nor Ash saw it that way.

  From Blueridge Mount to the Ticonderoga Waterfall, from Castle Rock to Cedarpine Peak, an invisible hedge of protection wrapped around Ticonderoga Falls and it had from the day Lily died. The curse had protected us as well as the fluorescent lights protected the inhabitants of L.A.