The Awakening (10 page)

She brought her hand up, stroked his cheek. “You're incredible.”

“Of course,” he teased, then added seriously, “but only when I have you.”

“That's sweet,” she murmured, then turned quickly, seeing that Morwenna was waving wildly to her from her chair.

They hurried to the table. Morwenna had definitely worked some kind of magic because the moment they sat down, plates appeared in front of them. Good old American cuisine. Two sizzling steaks, baked potatoes, green beans.

“Terrific, thanks so much, what timing!” Megan complimented.

“And the steaks do look great,” Finn said. He cut into his meat. “And rare. Very rare. Bloody rare, my favorite.”

He didn't like his meat all that bloody, Megan thought, and wondered if he was being sarcastic. But when she glanced at him, he was looking at Joseph, really appreciating the order that had been put in for them.

“Yes, they're just great,” Megan said.

“Good, I'm glad. Now, the two of you don't worry about talking—just eat! Of course, chew slowly, we don't want you choking or anything,” Morwenna said.

“Look, here comes a goblin or some other wretchedly costumed thing,” Joseph muttered. “You'd think they'd let you eat.”

“It's all right,” Megan said, jumping up. She wasn't sure how she recognized the person in the shredded dark robes and zombie mask, but she did. It was Darren Menteith.

“Darren! It's great to see you,” she said, reaching out a hand as he came forward.

He stopped in his tracks. “You know it's me?” he said, tremendously disappointed.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

Finn had risen as well.

“They are trying to have dinner,” Joseph muttered.

“Sit, Megan, finish. I'll take Darren over for a CD. And be right back.”

Megan sat back down. “Finn, I can go—”

“I can wolf down a rare steak in two seconds,” Finn told her. “You take your time.”

“Hey, I am sorry, I should have waited to say hello,” Darren said.

“No problem, we're just glad to see you,” Finn told him. “Come on, let me give you a disc.”

As the two walked away, Megan noted uneasily that both Joseph and Morwenna watched them go.

“I didn't realize that you knew Darren,” Morwenna said, realizing that Megan was staring at her.

“We don't really know him. We met him today in the park. I didn't know that you knew him,” Megan said.

She shrugged. “Small town, that's all. Hey, come on, eat up. By the way, honey, that one number you two did—dynamite.”

“Thanks.”

“It's just too bad that . . .” Morwenna began, then broke off with a shrug, looking at Joseph.

Joseph cleared his throat. “Great number,” he muttered.

Megan set her fork down. “Both of you! Pay attention. I respect everything about you. I love you both. But I don't believe that Finn is dangerous to me. I do not believe that he is evil in any way. Get this straight—I had a nightmare the other night. A dream. And woke up screaming. And I made him look really, really, bad—especially with the way rumor seems to travel around here. And he's taken it really, really well. So don't go acting as if we're not a steady thing, as if our marriage isn't going to work. Got it?”

Morwenna looked down at the table.

“I didn't say a thing, Megan. I know you love him.”

“Right,” Joseph agreed.

She wanted to hit them both. There was pity in their voices. They both believed there was something wrong with Finn, that it would come out—that she would see there was evil in him, or that he couldn't really be decent, and that in a matter of time—he would be gone.

Maybe it wasn't just pity. It might have been more.

Pity laced with . . .

Fear?

Neither of them said such a thing. Neither was speaking. They were just looking at her. And yet she felt as if someone had shouted the words in her head.

An uncomfortable silence fell between the three of them. It became unbearable. Megan cut her meat, but was afraid she wouldn't be able to chew.

“Hey, it's gone,” Joseph said.

He was frowning, looking toward the stage.

“What's gone?”

“That stupid monster thing that was catching everyone's hair.”

Megan looked around. It was true. Someone had removed the monster with the branch-like fingers.

“Good riddance,” Morwenna said.

“I'll have to agree,” Megan said, glad that the silence had been broken. “I think I have a bald patch on the back of my head.”

Morwenna laughed softy. “I don't see any bald spots, but I'm glad they got rid of the thing. It really was dangerous. You got caught in it, and Finn got caught in it. Better check him out tonight—he may have a bald spot.”

“The man has no patience,” Joseph told her. “He didn't wait for any detangling assistance, just ripped right away.”

“I'll check him out tonight,” Megan said. She could chew and swallow. The world was seeming normal again.

Finn came back to the table and sat. “Steaks are delicious,” she said.

“And here's my beer,” Finn said, sliding one around her at the table, and lifting the bottle of Michelob in front him in the air toward Joseph. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure,” Joseph acknowledged.

“You'd better eat—we've only got a few minutes left,” Megan warned him.

“I'll be chewing away in two seconds, I promise,” he said, setting the beer down and starting to cut his meat as well. He could eat quickly—he had learned that trick while waiting tables himself. A bad habit, actually. Megan had always heard that it was best to eat slowly. But Finn was usually a little too impatient to eat slowly.

Joseph pointed out the fact that the dangerous, hair-pulling monster was gone.

“Probably a good thing,” Finn said, washing down his food with another swig of beer. “The hotel probably saw a few hairless customers walking by and got frightened of a lawsuit.”

“Could be,” Morwenna agreed cheerfully.

Break time was up. Finn thanked Morwenna and Joseph as he drew Megan from her chair. They both nodded happily.

On stage, Finn slid into another of their own songs, a dance number, and their last set of the evening, then proceeded to pack up quickly. Most of the tables were still filled when they finished. Finn gave Megan a thumbs-up sign as he immediately started to cover their equipment for the night and following day.

She was going to help him but Morwenna and Joseph came over to say good night.

Morwenna whispered to her, “You know . . . your husband really is quite incredible.” Despite her words, she sounded hesitant.

She whispered back, though Finn was at some distance. “That's not what you said when you did the reading.”

Morwenna stared at Finn, and looked uneasy. “I know . . . I don't understand. He's wicked good-looking. Sexy, talented . . . and he dotes on you. But according to the Tarot, he's . . . I don't know, cards can be interpreted differently. It looked as if he offered you some terrible danger, but then . . . maybe it's just that you're so in love with him, your heart or soul is at risk, or something. I should do another reading.”

“No! Thank you. I do adore him, and our marriage is going to work. Your cards would have me offing him in the middle of the night or something!”

“Never!” Morwenna protested.

There was a tap on her shoulder. She jumped and turned around. But it wasn't Finn, only Darren, minus most of his costume's headgear. He had come to thank her for the CD and offer his enthusiasm for the evening's entertainment. She thanked him for his support.

When she finished speaking with him, she saw that Morwenna and Joseph had gone on out, heading home, she assumed.

Finn was almost done with the equipment, and the room was clearing out. When she would have stepped forward to give token assistance, he smiled and waved a hand, telling her to relax, he'd be ready in a minute.

She stood at the foot of the stage, waiting. Something drew her eyes to one of the balcony exits.

Andy Markham was there.

Staring at her.

His gaze was unnerving. Not because he looked at her in any manner that might be construed as dangerous.

But because he seemed to be watching her with pity, as if a great danger was headed her way, and he was powerless to stop it.

As if he knew that she was . . .

A cold trembling seized her. Ice raced through her veins. She might have been standing atop a ragged tor in the October wind, naked, entirely vulnerable, with the wind bringing shadows of whipping, screaming, darkness closer and closer . . .

He nodded to her gravely and turned, disappearing out the balcony door.

“Ready?”

She nearly jumped a mile when Finn's hand landed on her shoulder.

“Ready,” she assured him, forcing a smile.

Finn frowned. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said quickly, and knew how false she sounded. She shrugged. “I don't know. Something silly. I just had shivers, you know, like the expression—someone walking over your grave. But I'm fine. Really.”

“You sure?” He seemed skeptical.

“Yep. Just tired.” It was late. Nearly two in the morning.

She must have assured him at last. He offered her a slow smile, and his suggestive whisper caressed her earlobe. “How tired?”

An honest grin replaced her forced smile.

“Tired enough to get out of here—and into a closed room. Alone. Well, alone with you, of course.”

With an arm around her shoulder, he led her toward the main exit, thanking the fellow who had manned the cashier's station for selling their CDs. A few minutes later, they were in the car, and heading out.

Despite the shift between them, Megan moved close and rested her head against his shoulder. “It was a really great night, huh?” she said.

“Fantastic. Everything went well,” he agreed.

“So it was smart to come here,” she said, and wondered if she was trying to convince him, or herself.

“Well, great until now,” he murmured.

“What's the matter?”

“No parking spaces,” he said.

“That is a problem, once you get into town. You know, Huntington House is a big place. They should have spots right on the property, and not make their ‘guests' have to park out on the street.”

“Right—especially if they're going to have a Mr. Fallon on the property,” Finn said lightly.

“We should have stayed at the hotel—they offered us a decent rate,” Megan murmured.

“Ah, but Huntington House sounded so much more intriguing,” Finn said.

“There's a lot around the corner with extra parking. Mr. Fallon did tell me about it. I'd forgotten. It says that it's a tow-away zone, but that's because the property belongs to Huntington House.”

“Sounds good. It won't be much of a walk back.”

Finn rounded the corner. The lot wasn't really that convenient. It was small and behind a row of colonial houses that had been altered in the Victorian period so that they were adorned with “gingerbread” latticework that had been so popular at the time. They parked and exited the car. The night seemed eerily silent. It had been clear when they'd been driving.

Now, a thick fog was rising.

Pea soup thick. Megan felt as if she were stepping into a swamp as she crawled out of the car.

“Wow, will you look at that? All of a sudden,” Finn said.

“Hey, it's New England. Like they say, if you don't like the weather, it will change in a few hours. Unfortunately, it doesn't change for the better all that often.”

“Come here while I can still see you,” Finn told her.

He walked toward her and she hurried for his outstretched arm.

“Creepy, hm?” she murmured.

“But it's keeping you nice and close.”

“You can barely see the street lamps.”

“True. Let's just hope we're walking in the right direction.”

Megan looked up to the sky. Through the haze, she could see the moon. Not quite full, but it appeared that it was. The full moon this year was projected, aptly, for Halloween.

“‘By the light of the silvery moon!'” she quoted from the song.

“Um. Well, so far, that is sidewalk beneath us.”

“Right. And we're not even a block away.”

“I can see the sign ahead.”

Megan was glad. She couldn't explain the terror that seemed to be seeping through her, just like the dampness of the fog. And then, she thought she heard something coming from behind them.

It wasn't the sound of footsteps.

It seemed to be a strange whispering sound. As if something flew, or floated just above the ground. Something like a cold, dark wind with a scratchy human voice. She swallowed hard and started walking faster.

“Hey, what's the matter?” Finn demanded. “You don't want to trip on anything.”

“Yeah, sorry. I just don't like it out here tonight.”

“I'm with you.”

She was silent, guiltily feeling as if his presence might not be enough to ward off the danger coming toward them.

“It's just . . . a mugger could pop up from anywhere.”

“I did take some classes in martial arts,” he reminded her.

“Muggers carry guns. And knives.”

“I haven't heard that Salem has a huge violent crime rate.”

“You never know.”

“Hey, a mugger would have to be as blinded as we are.”

She didn't think that this particular “mugger,” the one becoming more and more real in her mind with every second that passed, was blinded by the fog. Rather, he saw better in the fog. Darkness was his forte.

And his weapons weren't conventional. No knives, no guns.

And Finn, for all his determination and prowess, didn't have the power to fight him.

Terror was becoming panic. She felt her breath coming more quickly each time she inhaled and exhaled. Her flesh was beginning to creep. That feeling was coming over her again. She was naked against a cold, dark wind that whispered . . .

“There's the sign for Huntington House,” Finn said.

“Beat you there!” she told him.

And she started to run.

“Megan, you're going to kill yourself!” he cried.

She didn't care. She ran. She heard him pounding after her. A few moments later, she was on the porch. He was there behind her. “Meg, you could have tripped over that step, and broken your neck.”

“Get your key out, please, quick—it's freezing out here,” she said.

He slipped his key into the door, and in her mind, entered too slowly behind her. Once he was in, she pushed past him, closing and locking the main entry door with the speed of light.

“What on earth is the matter with you?” he queried, looking both concerned and impatient.

“Nothing—I'm just cold.” She brought a finger to her lips. “Sh. Don't want Fallon coming out to tell us that we're disturbing the entire place again. Let's get to our room, okay?”

He nodded, his gaze still curious and skeptical.

To Megan's annoyance and unease, it seemed as if some of the fog had crept into the house. Of course, only night-lights were on to guide the guests through the house to their respective rooms. The night-lights were muted and an eerie yellow.

They passed from the entry through the dining room and down the hall to their own quarters, opposite from the rest of the guest rooms. Their own wing. Private, special.

She wished that they were surrounded by tourists. By kids. People. Even crusty old Fallon would be good now.

They entered their own room. Finn switched on the light. It blazed, and she felt better. Actually, she suddenly felt as if her fear had been ridiculous. It fell from her as if she had doffed a cape from her shoulders.

Megan didn't want Finn reading the relief she felt from her face. “Running into the shower,” she murmured briefly.

In the bathroom, she turned the shower on hot and lingered beneath the spray, letting the warmth and confidence seep into her, just as the cold and fear had seemed to do earlier. She scrubbed herself studiously, as if she could wash away the remnants of any unease. At last, she turned off the spray, and wrapped herself in one of the B and B's heavy terry towels.

When she emerged, she saw that the drapes to the balcony were open and fluttering inward on a gentle breeze. She walked over to the open French doors and slipped on out. Finn was at the short, Victorian-intricate railing, looking out at the night.

“Look,” he said.

She stared out. She saw the sloping lawn and the street beyond. Trees, becoming denuded of their brilliant autumn covering. Buildings at a small distance, cloaked in the gentle shadows of night.

“What am I looking at?” she asked.

“The fog is gone,” he said briefly.

“Yeah, well . . . New England,” she murmured.

He turned and gave her a brief kiss. “I'm hopping in the shower. Be right out.”

He was gone. She stood on the balcony alone, looking out.

The fog was gone. Completely.

And yet, as she stood there . . .

She felt as if she were being watched. The moon, so nearly full, rode overhead. With the fog gone, it, combined with the muted glow of street lamps, gave the area a surreal look. As if the houses weren't really solid, as if the ground didn't really lie still.

The breeze shifted, wafted, soft, and gentle . . .

She thought she heard her name whispered. The wind, nothing but the wind, air moving through dry and brittle leaves.

Her fingers tightened around the railing.

They were there, somewhere. The eyes that watched her. They came out of the shadow, they watched her every movement, knew her fear, knew . . .

“Megan?”

Once again, she nearly jumped a mile. And yet, she knew it was Finn. He was hot, still emanating a shower-warmth from beneath his bathrobe. His hands rested on her shoulders. And then, she felt that brush of his fingers against her nape, sweeping her hair aside, a touch that was so totally Finn. He set his lips against the skin bared by the movement of her hair, and they were warmer still, a touch that seemed to send the slow heat, a liquid shimmer, down the length of her spine. His fingers were long, instinctive and practiced, moving over her shoulder blades, kneading and brushing, pulling her back tautly against the length of his body.

“Tired?” he murmured.

“Um.”

“How tired?”

She turned into the circle of his arms. “I suppose I could be persuaded to stay awake a little longer.”

He touched her face. She loved the simple feel. Thumb caressing her chin, long forefinger stroking over her cheek. He gazed at her for a long moment, rueful grin sliding into place as he pressed closer against her, a subtle movement that was endearing and erotic, locking them more intimately together, and allowing the tension of his length to seep into hers, along with the more obvious intrusion of the hard rise of his sex. His mouth covered hers then, encompassing, molding first, then the tease of the tip of his tongue, and something more forceful as it slipped between her lips, invasive, hungry, awakening whatever desire might not have been evident in the simple magic of his hold. Megan clung to him, still awed by the explosive sweep of longing he could create, the surge in her blood, the simmer, then the surge of sheer physical urgency he had the power to create. It had been like this from the beginning . . . the touch, and everything that was known was new; she was shaky and trembling, hot and breathless . . . as desperate as ever.

He drew back for a moment. “Think I can keep you awake a few minutes?” he asked softly.

She pushed away from him, doing her best to offer a casual shrug. She cast her head back with a pretend yawn, and went walking slowly back into the bedroom. But once there, she kept her back to him, letting the robe slip from her shoulders to puddle to the floor. And there she waited.

And he came. A subtle, sensual assault from such a position, once again, his fingers at her nape, and then his lips, and then just the touch of his kiss, the brush of his tongue, slowly down the length of her spine. Mercilessly slow, far too quickly . . . but then his hands, upon her hips, and the sudden shift of her body, him on his knees, hair soft against the tender flesh of her abdomen, and then his lips, tongue . . . caressing all over again . . . until her fingers were entangled in his hair, and the world seemed to spin. Any fog was silver, any thought was purely carnal, and her words were whimpers and pleas, then warnings that she would fall.

He was up, and ever the romantic, sweeping her up into his hold, and carrying her the few steps to the bed. There was a brief touch of laughter as he nearly tripped flat over his own shoes in his effort to kill the light, but then they were falling, and the sheer heat, rippled power, length and breadth of his body blanketed her, and a moment later, they were entangled as one, and she knew what she had missed when they were apart, and she didn't think she could ever bear to think they could stay apart, that he might not be hers forever, that
this
might not be hers . . .

She cried out, and tried to twist into the pillow to silence her own sound.

“Fallon!” she whispered with alarm.

But Finn, arms braced, hair tousled, features taut, had a quick reply.

“Damn Fallon!” he swore, voice low and ragged, a sound that swept into her, and ignited even more excitement.

She half smiled, until she was swept up into the urgency of another wet, sloppy, liquid kiss, and the sear of his body within her own, and . . .

The hunger.