The 13th (27 page)

The best part of a nightmare is waking up.

And the best part of waking up, for David, was waking up next to Brenda.

For the past few days, every morning had beamed through the window like a light sent specifically to illuminate the pink strand of her hair that invariably sprawled across their shared pillow like a stain of bliss.

But this morning, that bliss was gone.

David rubbed a fist in his eyes and tried to focus. “Brenda?” he called.

Since the night that they had left the old hotel behind, she had stayed with him at his aunt’s house. Elsie hadn’t returned from the hotel; neither had a bunch of people. And considering that the entire police force of Castle Point had been wiped out there, nobody was booking suspects or pressing charges.

The two of them had come back here to the tiny house and pretty much held on to each other without askance. They were still, somewhat, in shell shock. She told him what she could remember about being held in the room at Castle House Lodge, and he told her about looking for her.

“You really looked for me?” she said, when he talked about going back to the bar and interviewing people at the grocery to find out where she’d gone after the night of their fateful meeting.

“Yeah,” he confirmed. “I figured you owed me money. Wasn’t I buying the Guinness that night?”

“You wish,” Brenda said. “I think you owe me at least three rounds.”

Something creaked at the far corner of the room and David pulled the sheets around his neck. The air streaming in through the screens from the backyard was crisp and cool in the summer dawn, and he took a deep breath as he craned his head to look for the source of the noise.

It was Brenda, stepping out of the tiny bath adjoining his room.

“Okay?” he asked, hardly even meaning it. But she didn’t give him the easy answer.

“No,” she said.

Brenda wore only a pair of panties; pink ones, which David totally appreciated. Her breasts sloped low and tired in the morning light, but all he wanted to do was kiss them. He thought of the night before, as she’d let him do just that, but then had begged him to stop pressing her for more and simply hug her tight.

“What’s the matter?”

She held out a thin paper strip in her hand, and he looked confused as he saw two pink lines at its end.

“What are you showing me?” he asked.

“I’m pregnant,” she said. Her voice was barely audible in the quiet of the room.

“But, it can’t be mine,” he instantly said, and instantly regretted it.

Her voice was sharp. “I didn’t say it was.”

“Rockford’s?” he asked, a knife of jealousy coming out of nowhere as he pictured the doctor’s body pinning hers to the bloody basement of the old hotel.

“I don’t think so,” Brenda said, sinking to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Well then…”

Brenda thought of the cold thrusting between her legs on Rockford’s impromptu altar, as the air flamed around her like an explosion of lust.

“It’s not over ’til it’s over,” she said.

“What do you mean?” he said, reaching up to press a hand on the cool flesh of her belly. It twined beneath his hand like a snake.

“I mean, that something happened at the hotel that I can’t explain,” she finally said. “Something horrible.”

“What do you mean?” David asked, hands turning to ice as he held her waist and silently prayed.

“I mean something happened,” she said. “Something that made me…”

“Made you what?”

Brenda put her hands on David’s shoulders and closed her eyes as she leaned against his head.

“Made me the Thirteenth,” she whispered. “The demon is here, inside me.” She pressed his hand to her belly, and inside, again, he felt motion…which was impossible at this early stage. Only a few days had passed since they’d escaped the nightmare.

Brenda bent to kiss his lips, one long strand of pink hair falling over his cheek to tickle him, before she leaned away, tears coursing down her cheeks. His hand still tingled with the motion from inside her, a movement that was unnatural…but undeniable.

“Kill me, David,” she begged. “Before it’s born, kill me. Please.”

She pressed the cold steel of a butcher’s knife into his hands, and David felt his throat close as the tears of hopelessness welled up in his eyes. “No,” he whispered, but Brenda grasped him by the wrist and pulled him closer, for a final, fatal embrace.

David closed his eyes against her shoulder, and prayed for a dream to wake him.

Bars are great places to write; you settle in for a night in a cozy booth, people bring you Newcastle when you’re dry, and if the DJ knows best, there are no distractions. This novel started at a Chicago shot-and-a-beer joint called Trinity tended by a perky girl named Christy. It spent a couple nights brewing at Fado’s in Washington, D.C., and Chicago, enjoyed an artist-in-residence stand at Dublin Square in San Diego, unveiled a few key scenes at The Liberties and Johnny Foley’s Irish House in San Francisco, and wrapped at Quigley’s and Rizzo’s in my hometown of Naperville. If only my publishers had picked up the tabs!

Special thanks to Don D’Auria and Dave Barnett for supporting this twisted vision, and to Geri and Shaun for indulging my world tour of Irish bars. Thanks to Bill Breedlove, Bill Gagliani, and Rhonda Wilson for improving my besotted command of the English language; and to my “first fans” Kathy Kubik and Paul Gifford who have never failed to inspire and encourage. Thanks to my Street Team for so much help—you guys are amazing! Thanks to my Polish connection, Robert Cichowlas, Mateusz Bandurski, and Alina Ciejka for helping my words cross the ocean and a language barrier.

Thanks for constant encouragement to my Dark Arts “Sirens” Loren, Maria, Bel, Christa, Jade, Martel and Whitney; and to Dave Benton, Audrey Shaffer, Jen Vickers, TigerLady, Terri Beirness, Sheila Halterman, Jess Kaan, Peg Phillips, Sheila and Joan, Lauren and Brenda, John Palisano, Louise Bohmer, and Giovanna Lagana.

This Dark Dream is for you!

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