Feast (16 page)

Chapter 56
Moon Magic

Ash:

Fog licked the edges of the forest, met the drifting snow, merged with the villagescape, reminding me of the mountains in Europe, two hundred years ago. I missed the Old World—when humans had whispered legends about me, telling their children dark faery tales just before they drifted off to sleep.

It had been the time of dreams.

And now the scent of moss and juniper sharpened in the frost-filled air. Wearing a skin of dappled shadow and snow, I followed Maddie down a narrow street. I was nearly invisible. If she happened to turn around, I would have looked like a blank spot in the landscape.

A blank spot. How appropriate.

I shouldn’t have been following her. She bore the mark of another. But Thane had been exiled and it certainly wouldn’t be the first time I had broken the rules. Nor the last.

The snow crunched beneath her feet and a cloud of frost surrounded her. The boy and the dog frolicked at Maddie’s side, distracted by the promise of adventure and bite-sized treasures neatly wrapped in plastic.

None of them could see what I saw.

Madeline was encompassed by transparent cogs and circles, every one of them spinning and sparking, an organic legion of ideas that blossomed from the mists. All of her thoughts were being built and fashioned from the ether, fog swirling in tempestuous roiling eddies, patterns that morphed and growled, a womb of cloud and idea that was giving birth as she walked. White spirals, curling tendrils, fog merging with the canvas of imagination—

I drew even closer, watching in awe.

The moon cast down silver beams, touching her, setting the machinery that surrounded her on fire, making it luminescent. It even transformed her skin, making her glow as if filled with stardust. Every move of her hands, every word from her lips caused the great sprockets to turn and twirl and twist.

Moon magic.

On a night like this, anything could happen.

Chapter 57
Shadow-Cast Landscape

Elspeth:

The snow layered in drifts along the edges of the houses and against the cars. Leaves, soggy and heavy, muddled to the ground, broken mementos of the narrow bridge between summer and winter. I pretended that the cold bothered me, like it did the other girls. I stamped my feet, made my nose and cheeks turn red, and kept my hands inside the gloves Jake had given me. So far we had spray painted a barn, let the air out of several car tires and filled mailboxes with gravel.

And now we were playing hide-and-seek in the village cemetery, jumping out and scaring other children that scurried past, all clasping precious bags of candy with white-knuckled fists. Hunter tried to get our group to steal candy from the passing kids, but Jake refused. It was the only time he stood up to Hunter and I wasn’t sure what was going to happen.

Hunter backed down.

I crouched beside Jake now, snow turning his pale hair a frosty white.

The sky shifted above us, black and gray and blue, twisting patterns of cloud and moon. And song.

No, not song. Something else.

I closed my eyes, tried to focus on this new sound that drifted through the night sky. “Do you hear that?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

“What?”

I lifted my head, certain I could hear someone calling my name, far away. It was my name, certainly it was, soft as the snow, but growing stronger.

“What do you hear?” Jake asked again.

Then I realized what it was and why he couldn’t hear it. None of the humans could hear it. It was the Legend, rippling through the heavens, twisting its way between the branches, circling ever downward toward the earth. But it was suddenly different tonight.

For the first time I could hear my own name in its midst.

A wrought-iron fence guarded the tiny cemetery, corralled all the tombstones and withered flowers, kept them safe from the gnarled oaks that grew on the perimeter, twisted branches weaving in the October wind, casting shadows that traveled across crypt and tomb. Hunter left his hiding place, sauntered forward to the center of the old churchyard like a vengeful ghost. Flask raised above his head, he called out to his followers.

“Time for a contest,” he announced. The others gathered around him, though Jake and I stood at a distance. “Split up into teams, see how many kids you can get to join your group. Then we’ll all meet over at the old junkyard in an hour for a bonfire.”

Some of the younger kids cheered at this point. The older ones kept silent. They seemed to knew what was coming.

“The winner will be the one with the most followers. He’ll get to choose this year’s dare. Better get goin’!” His gaze met Jake’s. “And you know I plan to win this year, so be ready.”

The crowd broke up into clusters, all whispering and excited.

I didn’t want to leave. Not yet. I meandered through the shadow-cast landscape of weathered stone and tarnished angels, searching. Jake watched me silently for a few moments, then he pulled out a flashlight and handed it to me. Together we walked, side by side, fog curling between the gravestones as I swept the light across the names carved in marble. Finally, I paused to run my fingers along the top of one of the tombstones.

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.