Pull of the Moon

by Sylvie Kurtz

  The walls around her shimmered and shifted. She swiveled her head, searching—for what? Valerie’s hands clamped over her still-sore stomach. Something was wrong. The bed, the storage chest, the rug were all where they’d been when Nick had given her a tour of the mansion, but two blanket tents squirmed on the tic-tac-toe area rug, the beam of the flashlight between them bouncing around the room like a searchlight.

  As if someone had flicked on an old movie projector, a grainy film rolled through her head and into the room.

  “Go fish!”

  The blue lump moved, reaching for a card.

  A girlish giggle exploded from the pink lump. “I win! I win!”

  “No fair! You cheated.”

  “You can’t cheat at Go Fish, Nick.”

  A deck of cards came spewing out from the opening between the tents. “I’m leaving.”

  Nick scrambled to his feet, but with a tug of both hands, Valentina pulled him back down. “No, Nick, stay! Tell me a story.”

  “I don’t know any more stories.” A grumpy Nick fished a Matchbox race car from each pocket of his jeans.

  “Read me a book.” Flinging the blanket behind her like a cape, Valentina raced to the built-in shelves next to her pink-canopied bed and picked out an armful of Dr. Seuss books. She dumped them in Nick’s lap. He yelped, tossing them aside. “Hey, careful!”

  Valentina reached into the fan of books for Green Eggs and Ham. “Start with this one.”

  Nick flung the book away. “I’m not good at reading.”

  Valentina rescued the tome. “Are, too. And your mom said you have to watch me.”

  Reluctantly, Nick spread the book across his lap and read haltingly, but Valentina didn’t seem to notice. Thumb in her mouth, she nestled her head into his shoulder with a satisfied sigh and her lashes soon fluttered shut. He covered her with his blanket, then curled up next to her—a yang to her yin—and puttered with the race cars. Minutes later, he tugged absently at the loose blanket beside him, pulled it over his head and soon fell asleep, a car in each hand, the discarded book pillowing his head. The forgotten flashlight rolled across the floor and under the bed.

  A blurry form stretched across the floor, shadowing the moonlit lumps of the sleeping children, watching. A strong whiff of something sour peeled off the shadow-skewed figure.

  She opened her eyes, blinked and, through the hood of the blanket, searched the monster’s face leaning over her. Tremors rattled through her flesh, numbing her arms and legs. Her clear blue eyes widened, widened. Her mouth opened.

  “Wake up, Nick! Wake up!” she wanted to scream, but the words clogged in her dry throat.

  Then two black hands came toward her….

  A hand clamped around Valerie’s shoulder and she screamed.

  ALTHOUGH HE’D HIRED a nurse to watch over Rita, and although his mother slept nearby, Nick wanted to stick around the mansion in case Rita’s health took a turn for the worse during the night.

  He settled in Rita’s office and went through the pile of papers on her desk, making short work of the business end of things. The invitations to holiday parties—who sent out Christmas party invitations in October?—he left for her until she got better. And she would get better. No bacteria was going to get the best of her when the kidnapping of her child and the death of her husband—the virtual falling apart of her whole world—hadn’t. She was too strong.

  Joe called around ten with an update.

  “Simon Higgins is up to his eyeballs in debt after a dubious investment backfired,” Joe said. “Gossip around the station has it that that’s why he’s so cozy with Bailey Bergeron, a debutante with a hefty trust fund, playing at the working girl game.”

  “You think he’s after her money?”

  “That’s the rumor. From what I gather, Higgins is in tight with Mr. Meadows, too. Cigar and whiskey buddies. Weekends on the yacht type thing. Close enough to find out family secrets the rest of the world might not know.”

  That gave Higgins a handy way of getting all the details correct—the necklace, the dummy’s clothes, the dog left under just the right tree.

  “If Higgins already has his hands on a means to clear his debt with the deb, why bother with the Valentina charade?”

  “He’s ambitious. The station’s ratings have gone down in their market share. Maybe he wants something to raise the ratings. Sweeps are coming. Edmund Meadows is old. He doesn’t have any heirs, except for his niece, Rita. Maybe Higgins figures there’s room for him to move up to being the big boss.”

  “Not when he’s that far in debt.” Valerie was ambitious, too. Had Higgins promised her a promotion to meatier stories in exchange for her cooperation? Was Higgins hoping “finding” Valentina would gain him enough cash to buy himself a chunk of the station should Edmund die or decide to sell and retire?

  “I’m going to keep digging,” Joe said.

  “Have you found Gordon Archer yet?” Nick stood, unable to take the confines of the chair. Outside the crisscross of shadows on the lawn formed jagged prison bars.

  “He’s had three addresses since his stay as a guest of the Florida state prison system last year,” Joe said. “Seems he’s left a trail of complaints behind each. He’s between addresses right now.”

  No surprise. For some people, there was no rehabilitation. Just as a leopard couldn’t change its spots, a man like Gordon rarely changed his modus operandi. What was he building up to with these small cons? Payback?

  “But I hit the jackpot.” Joe clicked his pen in a victorious cheer. “Archer bought a first-class airline ticket from Miami to Manchester. He arrived in New Hampshire two days ago.”

  Same as Valerie. Was there a connection? “Then you need to get back here.”

  “You want me to drop the leads I have on Evan Gardner and Valerie Zea?”

  Nick let out a long breath. “What did you find?”

  “I’ve gotten my hands on past grant applications made by Dr. Gardner. It seems he doesn’t care who butters his bread. He’s accepted money from skeptic organizations as well as from organizations that seek to promote the paranormal.”

  Nick couldn’t decide if that made Gardner more or less suspicious. What would he agree to do to further his quest for data, science and understanding? “What about Valerie Zea?”

  “I’ve got a feeling. I’m heading to the courthouse tomorrow to check into something.”

  “Get back as soon as you can. Any word from your lab guy?”

  “He can get DNA off the cup you sent. It’s going to take a couple more days to get results.”

  “I’ll pay a premium to expedite.”

  “I’ll let him know.”

  Joe’s report had added more questions, but provided no answers. Holding down the fort and seeing that no harm came to Rita was still up to Nick.

  Just as he plugged in his laptop, the phantom baby’s cries arose like mist out of the night. The disquieting warble sounded much too close to the baleful howl that keened inside him. Elbows on the desk, he rested his head in his palms and wished the damning cries away.

  What if ghosts did exist? What if it was Valentina crying every night because he’d failed her when he was the only one who could have saved her?

  He yanked off his tie and hurled it across the desk. What could a skinny, sickly six-year-old have done to stop the black, hulking monster who’d swept his friend away?

  Nick shoved the chair back and paced the room.

  You could’ve cried. You could’ve yelled. You could’ve run for help.

  He growled his frustration, then tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling.

  The only reason the cries wailed tonight was because Gardner had needed the door closed, needed to conjure up the tormenting sounds to measure them and find their root source.

  Nick went back to the desk, tried to concentrate on the analysis he needed to finish for his rescheduled meeting with Emma Hanley and Carter Stokke tomorrow, but the numbers blurred on the screen. “Take a break
. Shake it off.”

  He might as well head up to the tower room and check on Gardner’s “scientific” methods and make sure the root cause wasn’t going to entail an expensive purge.

  As he climbed the tower staircase, the cries stopped. And when he got to the tower room, it wasn’t the sight of Gardner busy twisting dials and adjusting gizmos that met him. It was Valerie, wandering around the room looking like a ghost in her pale pink flannel pajamas and bare feet, her flaxen hair gleaming like liquid platinum in the moonlight. And with that blanket thrown over her shoulders, for an instant, he was assaulted with a powerful punch of déjà vu.

  Nick didn’t drink. Not for any altruistic reasons, but because his father had come up with his craziest ideas under the influence of alcohol. Just watching him, beer in hand, spin his schemes had thrown Nick into an out-of-control reel that made him puke half his meals, keeping him small and weak for his age. And right now, looking at Valerie, that drunk, spun-out sensation prickled through his senses in an acute kind of pain.

  The expression on Valerie’s face, her moonlight-silvered eyes, the way she chewed on her thumbnail transposed themselves onto the faded photographs he carried inside his heart. A tug of memory pulled him into the room. Then an infinite pang of loss stopped him cold.

  She’d never been here. She couldn’t know.

  Then like his father when a scheme boomeranged, he exploded.

  He clamped a hand around Valerie’s shoulder. She screamed.

  He twisted her around to face him. “What kind of sick game are you playing?”

  At the sight of her ashen, petrified face his hand vaulted off her shoulder. What the hell was wrong with him? He was not his father. He was better than that.

  “You were there,” she breathed, eyes bright moon-stones in the room’s thin light. “That night. You were right there on that rug with Valentina.”

  His first instinct was to deny, to defend the scared six-year-old, to move as far away from her as he could. Instead he shifted to trap her body between his and the wall.

  She wrung two handfuls of his shirt. The blue blanket dropped from her shoulders and pooled at their feet. “What really happened to Valentina?”

  His voice sounded odd and hollow, even to him. “You’ve done your research. You tell me.”

  “The research isn’t accurate. You should know.”

  “I was six. I don’t remember anything.”

  “Playing Go Fish with Valentina, reading her Green Eggs and Ham. You both fell asleep on the floor. The research—every single account—said she was taken from her bed.”

  He’d seen things. Seen how cruel people could be, and he hadn’t been able to stop the pain. Every time his father had locked the bedroom door. Every time he’d heard his mother beg. Every time he’d looked at her bruises. He’d felt helpless.

  Until Valentina.

  After Rita had taken him and Holly in, three-year-old Valentina had followed him around the mansion like a puppy. At first, he’d resented her clinginess. But soon he’d fallen for the innocent adoration in her big, blue eyes. Even if he hadn’t deserved it, her childish hero worship had made him feel strong, wanted—needed.

  He wasn’t going to think about the feelings Valerie was trying to stir; he simply refused to get lost that far inside his own head. “That’s a pretty fantasy you’re spinning. How can all those accounts be wrong?”

  Her forehead rucked, then her gaze strayed to the tic-tac-toe rug, and she shuddered. “I—I sense it.”

  “So you’re psychic now?”

  That seemed to knock her out of her trance. Her hands let go of his shirt. She gave a short, rough laugh. “I wish.”

  He took a step toward her, slid a hand up into the soft fall of her hair to prove to himself that it wasn’t as soft as Valentina’s. He leaned in, mouth hovering close to her ear.

  “According to Gardner, there is no paranormal happening here,” Nick whispered. “No orbs, no mists, no apparitions. Seeing ghosts doesn’t wash, Val.”

  “The cries.”

  Because the moonlight spotlighted her lips, because he couldn’t help the mad urge to sample them, he brought his mouth to hers. The jolt was a spike of lightning that bolted straight into his gut. The taste of her so warm, so rich, so impossibly contenting, rushed to his head, leaving him light-headed and longing for more. “Infrasound.”

  Her breath puffed against his cheek. “I heard them.”

  The sweet-and-spicy ginger of her scent wound around his senses, and he hoped to God the hum of satisfaction vibrating against his throat came from her and not him. “Who told you this pretty story, Val?”

  “Nobody.” With a helpless moan, she looped her hands behind his neck. Her lips skimmed the skin of his neck, derailing his logic. “You were there, Nick. What did you see?”

  Fighting for control, his muscles bunched, readying to flee from this unexpected onslaught. Staying the course, tasting her as if she had no effect on him, took all of his will, yet none of it. Her body pliantly yielded to his, her small hands pulled him closer, her heat melded into him. She was the strongest of drinks, the most potent of drugs, the most addictive of substances. His blood boiled with need. His mind turned into a complete and mindless blank.

  “Blood,” Nick rasped in her ear. His fingers tightened in her hair. “Lots of blood.”

  She rubbed her cheek against his. Soft, so soft. “What else?”

  “Dead eyes.” He tasted the rapid pulse at the base of her neck, drank in the strong beat of its life force.

  She sucked in a long, shaky breath. “What else, Nick?”

  He kissed her for a long count of ten, while an internal war burned with fervor. She is not getting to me. I am in control. “A black monster. Is that what you want to hear, Val?”

  Her fingers skimmed his temples. Her gaze, wide and aware, bored into his as if she felt his pain, understood it. “Tell me about the monster.”

  Purge yourself, the siren song of relief called to him.

  “He was dressed in black.” Nick’s arms tightened around her waist, her shoulders, pressing her closer as if he needed her solid presence to hold him up. “He wore a ski mask over his face.”

  He erased the bitter memory of terror with the tang of her tongue. The taste of her clung to him, marked him. And when he pulled away, sweet satisfaction thrummed through him at the sight of her dazed eyes, her unsteady stance and the finger pressed against her lips as if to hold in his kiss. That small unconscious gesture sent his blood churning again. “She’s dead, Val. Valentina is dead. You’re right. I was there. I saw the blood. I saw the dead eyes. And every piece of evidence I’ve collected since then says that she’s dead.”

  Valerie reached a hand out to him, but he stepped back. He’d made a mistake. He’d given her too much, given her a new avenue to exploit. Another weakness. He couldn’t afford to let her touch him. Not when his balance was so precariously on edge. Not when all he wanted was to taste her again, take her, possess her. “Who are you working with? What do you want from us?”

  Baffled, she shook her head. “No, Nick, no.”

  Controlling Valerie’s playing of Valentina to save Rita was one thing. Having himself fall for an imposter was quite another.

  But he was. As impossible as it was, he was falling for her. For the moonlit innocence, the soothing balm of her touch, the electric fire of her kiss. And he could not let her see the hold she’d gained.

  The sound of his voice reported around the hexagonal room like a hail of gunfire. “Then tell me how you know about the cards and the books.”

  A needle of guilt stabbed him when she flinched. But before he could press his advantage, a flash outside caught his attention.

  “What the—”

  He strode to the window. Through the lattice of frost, a phosphorescent figure floated like a ghost across the lawn and into the woods.

  Chapter Nine

  Like the unfortunate Alice of Wonderland fame, in the moonlit tower room, Valerie fel
l into some sort of alternate universe that fogged her mind and turned her world upside down with Nick as her balancing center.

  The intensity of his eyes tugged at her with a pull as inescapable as gravity. Something in them made Valerie want to delve deeper even though every instinct told her to look away before she got sucked into a place she couldn’t escape.

  As if he were purging himself, Nick plundered her mouth once again. Wow, the guy could certainly kiss. This intimate connection reached across time and warmed the cold darkness that sealed her heart. She sighed into him, letting go of all the fears that knotted her mind and body after the disturbing viewing of the long-ago film of Nick and Valentina.

  For a brief moment, secure in his arms, she no longer needed to search. She had found. She was home. Then just as quickly, doubt caught up to her. How could this man she’d never met until two days ago be the one to anchor her into herself?

  The answer couldn’t be that simple.

  The answer couldn’t be him.

  As if to prove her right, Nick moved away. She pressed a finger against her lips, desperately trying to hold on to the fleeting sense of wholeness she’d felt in his arms.

  “She’s dead, Val.” Nick’s voice sliced knife-sharp into the night. “Valentina is dead. You’re right. I was there. I saw the blood. I saw the dead eyes. And every piece of evidence I’ve collected since then says that she’s dead.”

  Heart aching for him, she reached out and found only empty air.

  “Who are you working with? What do you want from us?”

  “No, Nick, no.” She shook her head. He was asking questions meant to paint her guilty of a crime she hadn’t committed. In his eyes, she was a fraud, but in hers, he was suddenly the key to the truth. She needed to make him believe she wasn’t out to hurt the Meadows family, but simply to find answers.

  His voice continued to batter against her brain. The words made no sense.

  “What the—” He rushed by her.

  “Nick?” The room was spinning and she flattened her palms against the wall to hold herself up.