Vampire - The Awakening Part 21

He was startled to see her look distraught, and somewhat ashamed. She looked down for a moment, as if confused herself.

"No, I don't intend to be a home wrecker. And as to what you're going to do... I don't know... exactly. But you should leave.

There's just something about you... I don't... there's some thing over the two of you. There you are, nice and tall, broad shouldered, sleek and wiry, exuding that he-man, masculine aura! And there's your perfect blond Barbie-doll wife." She cleared her throat, losing her air of confusion. "Isn't it scary sometimes, being so f.u.c.king perfect?"

"We're far from perfect-"

"Have you hurt her yet? Is that why she's away from you?"

He started past her, not willing to listen to any more. She caught his calf as he tried to walk by. "If you realize that you do need help, I'll be around." The fingers curled around his calf suddenly stroked up his thigh. She jerked her hands away, as if she hadn't touched him on purpose. "You're an a.s.shole. You should leave."

He felt a strange p.r.i.c.kling at the back of his neck. It was exactly what he wanted to do, no matter how sanity and logic fought against it.

But enough was enough. So much for being eternally polite just to get along with everyone for Megan's sake.

"Sara, leave me the f.u.c.k alone, will you?"

"I wish I could," she murmured, her words almost incoherent. Then she stared at him hard. "Sure, you should stay. Like I said, when you realize you're in way over your tough, inflated, macho head, come see me."

He stepped over and walked out of the back, listening as the beaded curtain crashed around him. Morwenna was behind the counter. He lifted his hand, waving good-bye.

He couldn't get out to the street fast enough.It wasn't until he had walked far down the street that he realized he still had the book in his hand.

Chapter 9.

"So what do you think of him?" Mike Smith asked, a certain wry amus.e.m.e.nt in his voice.

"He's certainly... evil enough looking," Megan replied.

She wasn't sure what had brought her back to the new museum where Smith was curator. She had avoided Morwenna's shop because she didn't want to start telling her cousin any of her problems. So she had wandered, seen the museum, and found herself hesitating in front of it. Then the same young girl who had been at the ticket counter the day before had spied her, and greeted her with tremendous enthusiasm, telling her that her own dream was to become a professional singer. Soon, Mike had come out, and told her that she had to see the new exhibit they were preparing.

The next thing she knew, she was walking through a door that said "Museum Staff Only," and viewing their new display on the seventh-century vision of the devil and witchcraft.

The "devil" was big. About eight feet tall. Blood red with black markings. A forked tongue was just visible, and a long, arrow- shaped tail was fully evident. The eyes were truly creepy, seeming to follow the observer, and naturally, the creature came complete with horns in the temple.

It gave her a little jolt, reminding her of something very uncomfortable. She knew it had something to do with the nightmare that had so violently disturbed her in her sleep, but for the life of her, she could no longer remember much about the dream.

"I wouldn't want to be locked in here with him, that's for sure," Megan added, grinning.

Mike studied the larger-than-life creature with a grin, then looked at Megan. "Can you believe that people really thought this guy came down and forced people to sign pacts? We've come a long, long way, thank G.o.d!"

"Right. Thank G.o.d."

"A great deal of the problem in the colonies, of course, stemmed from the European background. This was really serious. And, whether legal or not, torture was widespread. You should read some of the confessions from the cases in Europe. But then again, you torture someone long enough, and they don't just confess, they get garrulous and creative. Once one person had confessed and given his or her tormenters a story, others were sucked in. But people did confess to relations.h.i.+ps with the devil. They confessed to wild parties, kissing the b.u.t.tocks of such a creature, dancing naked in the moonlight-and much worse, of course. Now, to our educated senses, it's easy to realize that someone being racked, burned, or broken would admit to almost anything to stop the pain.

But back then... they just believed that they were forcing the truth from their pathetic victims."

"The power of suggestion is very strong," Megan murmured.

Mike looked at her, frowning. "Are you all right?"

"Oh, yes, of course," she said quickly. "I've just noticed that during the last few days... well, people talk about monsters, and then you dream about them. You know, you see a particularly eerie jack-o'-lantern, or some such thing, and then you put it into dreams."

Mike laughed. "Well, that's true. Mine are usually a bit different. I was watching a game show before I went to sleep one night, and I had the greatest dream in the world. I'd won millions of dollars. The dream was incredibly real. I was heartbroken when I woke Previous Top Nextup and finally had to force myself to realize that I wasn't rich."

Megan laughed. "Well, dreaming that you're rich isn't a nightmare, anyway."

"Right. Waking up and realizing that you're not rich is the nightmare. But, hey, I love what I do, so I don't need to be rich."

"That's the real payoff, isn't it?" Megan agreed.

"So we're both lucky."

"Very," she murmured.

"Hey, I'm due a break. Want to get some coffee or something?"

"Sounds great," Megan agreed.

They left the museum, walking onto the main strip in the center of the old-town tourist section. They tossed a coin to choose between two coffeehouses, and laughed, since they both called heads, but forgot which side of the street was "heads." One of them boasted the best hot mocha in the world, so they decided on it.

Once seated with two large mochas topped with whipped cream, they talked casually, Megan telling him how sorry she was when he shrugged and told her that his mom had died of cancer soon after he'd graduated high school, and he'd lost his father just two years ago to heart failure. "I think he missed her too much," Mike said. "Anyway, they're together. What about your folks?"

"Alive and well in Maine," she told him.

"Good for them. Of course, I see your Aunt Martha all the time, and she's still just as ornery as ever."

"Ornery?" Megan protested.

Mike laughed. "Okay. Opinionated. Actually, I like her a lot. She's a no-nonsense kind of lady, all down to earth and practical.

You should see some of the town meetings around here. The Wiccans are all up in arms about the trashy display of green women riding on broomsticks in certain advertis.e.m.e.nts, and Martha is always there to remind them that there is a percentage of the population that likes to have fun with Halloween and all. This remains a small community. Of all types. And she's like the voice of stern sanity at all times."

"Good for her."

"I thought she and Morwenna were going to come to blows, once."

"What happened?"

"It was a silly argument over a decal someone wanted to sell. And bless her, Morwenna backed down rather than punch out Aunt Martha. Who knows-Martha might have been the one to deck her, she is one feisty lady."

Megan laughed and moved her stirrer through her mocha. "What's the story with Andy Markham?"

Mike lifted a brow. "The story? Well, he tells stories. That's how he survives."

"He seems to believe them."

"Hey, you know what? People around here can convince you of almost anything. It's how they make a living. Megan!" he murmured suddenly, setting his hand upon hers. "It really does sound as if you're letting some of this get to you. Kid-you come from these parts! This stuff has been going on all your life, and you should remember it, even if you moved away for a while. You've got to remember that this place can be great-there's nothing as beautiful as autumn in New England. It's great that you're here, and I've never seen such a total community success as you and Finn have been, playing at the hotel. Relish the triumph! Savor it. Don't let the creepy-crawlies get into your dreams. Watch game shows before you go to sleep-even Huntington House offers dozens of cable channels these days. Cartoons-whoops, maybe not Once, I dreamed I was the Road Runner and Wily E. Coyote was after me."

Megan laughed again, remembering how she had always liked Mike, even in his ultraserious and academic moods. He had a nice, wry way of looking at the world, and could find humor in almost any situation.

She hesitated, then admitted, "Mike, I'm telling you, I've had such bad nightmares that Finn has suggested we just up and leave."

He digested her words, watching her, and answering carefully, "Megan, it's really a small, tight area, like I said. And we do remember the old families, and the past. You're basically a native child. To some people, your husband is still a Confederate, a Rebel-certainly not good old Yankee stock. You're loved-he's under suspicion. But you two are a great pair. Don't let other people dictate your lives, or ruin something that is going great for you both. You spoke earlier about the power of suggestion. I'm dead serious. Make sure that any power of suggestion that's around you before you go to sleep is totally good, and then you'll have nice, sweet, dreams. You could wake up ruing the fact that your life is great but you're still broke, but that will be better than waking up in cold sweats and terror."

"You're right. I told Finn that I wasn't going to give in to any kind of idiotic suggestion and run. And still..."

"He's not the one having the nightmares, huh?"

"He doesn't wake up screaming. But... I think we're both sleeping... weirdly."

"Weirdly?"

She didn't want to explain that her husband didn't even remember intimacy when he woke up in the morning. That was too personal-as much as she did like Mike, and feel really comfortable about being with an old friend.

"Restlessly, I guess."

"A different bed," Mike said sagely, wiggling his brows.

She smiled. "Maybe. Except that we're both pretty good on the road. You have to get accustomed to different beds when you're musicians."

"Listen, everyone knows that you two had split, and gotten back together not all that long ago. So here you are-your hometown.

Naturally, you're both going to be uneasy. Even though you're the loved one here, you're worried about his reactions to your hometown. He's worried about what people think of him, because he knows they all love you. I had to take a fair amount of psychology to get out of school with my doctorate, you know."

Megan leaned back, smiling. Mike had a nice, neat ability to put the world into perspective. Yet, as she sat back, she glanced out the window, and found herself frowning.

Finn was there.

Just outside, staring in. She could see his face over the gla.s.s where a large cup of steaming coffee had been painted on it.

She froze for a moment.

It didn't look like Finn. It was Finn, but...

She suppressed a little s.h.i.+ver, aware that his eyes were on her, and for a fleeting moment, they appeared to be red again.

Fiery red, like those eyes she had seen in her dream... And his features... they were taut, so strained that he appeared almost skeletal. And the look he was giving her was filled with rage, menace, and...

Evil.

Evil. The word kept coming to her mind, in so many ways now, so very often.

She blinked, and swallowed. She'd imagined it all...

No, she hadn't. Finn was indeed there. But his eyes were their customary color, and his face wasn't pinched or taut at all. He'd donned one of his favorite coats, a black leather railroad jacket, and it fell nicely from his shoulders to his ankles, somehow very nicely emphasizing his height and the breadth of his shoulders and the clean lean lines of his waist, hips, and long legs. His hair was clean, a little s.h.a.ggy, giving him an ever so slight rough-around-the-edges quality that was very appealing. He wasn't smiling; he looked a little grim, but not at all evil. In fact, she felt a little chill of excitement at the sight of him. Finn was, beyond a doubt, s.e.xy.

He walked in.

"Finn!" she acknowledged.

He bent from behind, kissed her cheek, stood tall again, and nodded to Mike. "Hi, there. Nice to see you."

The words were spoken with even civility. It was still clearly evident, to Megan at least, that Finn wasn't in the least pleased to see Mike.

Mike rose, offering Finn a hand. Finn took it-then let go of it quickly, drawing over an empty chair from the table beside theirs, and straddling it. "Break time from the museum?" Finn queried.

"I take a break when I choose," Mike said pleasantly, as if he didn't notice in the least the note of hostility in Finn's voice. "h.e.l.l, I put in about eighty hours a week. That buys me the right to take a break whenever I choose. Hey, you guys were great last night."

"Thanks. I didn't see you there," Finn said.

"Oh, well, what the h.e.l.l. When in Rome, you know. I wore a costume. And I'm not big on makeup, or fussing around in a way that takes a lot of time. Masks are the way to go for me."

"Still!" Megan said. "You need to come up to the stage and say hi!"

"Next time, I will," Mike promised.

"Do," Finn said. His fingers had curled around Megan's empty cup. She thought that if it hadn't been made of thick ceramic, it would have crushed beneath the tension in his fingers. "Did you two run into one another in the street?"

"No," Mike said.

"Yes," Megan began. Finn arched his brows. "In a way," Megan continued. "I was just out walking, one of the young museum employees saw me, Mike saw us... we went in to see a new exhibit going up, and came out for coffee then."

"New exhibit?" Finn said.

His voice was ba.s.s deep. Hard.

"I planned it, and I really think it's one of my best," Mike said, still being friendly and polite. How could he not hear the menace in Finn's voice? Megan wondered. She longed to kick Finn under the table, but oddly, she was afraid if she did so, he'd go straight for Mike's throat.

Or her own."What people don't grasp today about the situation in 1692 is just how serious the majority of the people considered the crime of witchcraft to be-and what they believed witchcraft to be. Remember, this is the same general time when young boys could be hanged for stealing loaves of bread-and before we hanged horse thieves in the American West with little thought of due process of law. So-"

"I'm sure it's a great exhibit," Finn said.

Mike was perplexed by the interruption, but he still didn't seem to realize that while he was being friendly, Finn had suddenly decided to act like a horse's a.s.s.

"Is it all set up?" Finn asked pointedly.

"Still in the process."

"I can't imagine how you're tearing yourself away from it."