The Sign of Seven Trilogy (8 page)

Her heart squeezed with pity. So young, so sweet, she thought as she made herself approach it. Who could have done such a thing?

For a moment, the dead, staring eyes of the fawn cleared, shone as gold as its hind. It looked at her with such sorrow, such wisdom, tears gathered in her throat.

The voice came now, not through the whipped air, but in her mind. The single word:
devoveo
.

Then the trees were bare but for the ice that sheathed trunk and branch, and the silver moonlight turned gray. The path had turned, or she had, so now she faced a small pond. The water was black as ink, as if any light the sky pushed down was sucked into its depths and smothered there.

Beside the pond was a young woman in a long brown dress. Her hair was chopped short, with the strings and tufts of it sticking out wildly. Beside the black pond she bent to fill the pockets of her brown dress with stones.

Hello!
Quinn called out.
What are you doing?

The girl only continued to fill her pockets. As Quinn walked closer, she saw the girl's eyes were full of tears, and of madness.

Crap. You don't want to do that. You don't want to go Virginia Woolf. Wait. Just wait. Talk to me.

The girl turned her head, and for one shocked moment, Quinn saw the face as her own.
He doesn't know everything,
the mad girl said.
He didn't know you.

She threw out her arms, and her slight body, weighed heavy with her cache of stones, tipped, tipped, tipped until it met the black water. The pond swallowed it like a waiting mouth.

Quinn leaped—what else could she do? Her body braced for the shock of cold as she filled her lungs with air.

There was a flash of light, a roar that might have been thunder or something alive and hungry. She was on her knees in a clearing where a stone rose out of the earth like an altar. Fire spewed around her, above her, through her, but she felt none of its heat.

Through the flames she saw two shapes, one black, one white, grappling like mad animals. With a terrible rending sound, the earth opened up, and like the waiting mouth of the pond, swallowed everything.

The scream ripped from her throat as that maw widened to take her. Clawing, she dragged herself toward the stone, fought to wrap her arms around it.

It broke into three equal parts, sending her tumbling, tumbling into that open, avid mouth.

She woke, huddled on the lovely bed, the linens tangled around her legs as she gripped one of the bedposts as if her life depended on it.

Her breath was an asthmatic's wheeze, and her heart beat so fast and hard it had her head spinning.

A dream, just a dream, she reminded herself, but couldn't force herself—not quite yet—to release her hold on the bedpost.

Clinging to it, she let her cheek rest on the wood, closed her eyes until the shaking had lessened to an occasional quiver.

“Hell of a ride,” she mumbled.

The Pagan Stone. That's where she'd been at the end of the dream, she was certain of it. She recognized it from pictures she'd seen. Small wonder she'd have a scary dream about it, about the woods. And the pond…Wasn't there something in her research about a woman drowning in the pond? They'd named it after her. Hester's Pond. No, pool. Hester's Pool.

It all made sense, in dream logic.

Yeah, a hell of a ride, and she'd die happy if she never took another like it.

She glanced at her travel alarm, and saw by its luminous dial it was twenty after three. Three in the morning, she thought, was the dead time, the worst time to be wakeful. So she'd go back to sleep, like a sensible woman. She'd straighten the bed, get herself a nice cool drink of water, then tune out.

She'd had enough jolts and jumps for her first day.

She slid out of bed to tug the sheets and duvet back into some semblance of order, then turned, intending to go to the adjoining bath for a glass of water.

The scream wouldn't sound. It tore through her head like scrabbling claws, but nothing could tear its way out of the hot lock of her throat.

The boy grinned obscenely through the dark window. His face, his hands pressed against the glass bare inches away from her own. She saw its tongue flick out to roll across those sharp, white teeth, and those eyes, gleaming red, seemed as bottomless and hungry as the mouth of earth that had tried to swallow her in her dream.

Her knees wanted to buckle, but she feared if she dropped to the ground it would come crashing through the glass to latch those teeth on her throat like a wild dog.

Instead, she lifted her hand in the ancient sign against evil. “Get away from here,” she whispered. “Stay away from me.”

It laughed. She heard the horrible, giddy sound of it, saw its shoulders shake with mirth. Then it pushed off the glass into a slow, sinuous somersault. It hung suspended for a moment above the sleeping street. Then it…condensed, was all she could think. It shrank into itself, into a pinpoint of black, and vanished.

Quinn launched herself at the window, yanked the shade down to cover every inch of glass. And lowering to the floor at last, she leaned back against the wall, trembling.

When she thought she could stand, she used the wall as a brace, quick-stepping to the other windows. She was out of breath again by the time all the shades were pulled, and tried to tell herself the room didn't feel like a closed box.

She got the water—she needed it—and gulped down two full glasses. Steadier, she stared at the covered windows.

“Okay, screw you, you little bastard.”

Picking up her laptop, she went back to her position on the floor—it just felt safer under the line of the windowsills—and began to type up every detail she remembered from the dream, and from the thing that pressed itself to the night glass.

 

W
HEN SHE WOKE, THE LIGHT WAS A HARD YELLOW
line around the cream linen of the shades. And the battery of her laptop was stone dead. Congratulating herself on remembering to back up before she'd curled onto the floor to sleep, she got her creaky self up.

Stupid, of course, she told herself as she tried to stretch out the worst of the stiffness. Stupid not to turn off her machine, then crawl back into that big, cozy bed. But she'd forgotten the first and hadn't even considered the second.

Now, she put the computer back on the pretty desk, plugged it in to recharge the batteries. With some caution—after all, it had been broad daylight when she'd seen the boy the first time—she approached the first window. Eased up the shade.

The sun was lancing down out of a boiled blue sky. On the pavement, on awnings and roofs, a fresh white carpet of snow shimmered.

She spotted a few merchants or their employees busily shoveling sidewalks or porches and steps. Cars putted along the plowed street. She wondered if school had been called or delayed due to the snow.

She wondered if the boy had demon classes that day.

For herself, Quinn decided she was going to treat her abused body to a long soak in the charming tub. Then she'd try Ma's Pantry for breakfast, and see who she could get to talk to her over her fruit and granola about the legends of Hawkins Hollow.

C
AL SAW HER COME IN WHILE HE CUT INTO HIS
short stack at the counter. She had on those high, sharp-heeled boots, faded jeans, and a watch cap, bright as a cardinal, pulled over her hair.

She'd wound on a scarf that made him think of Joseph's coat of many colors, which added a jauntiness with her coat opened. Under it was a sweater the color of ripe blueberries.

There was something about her, he mused, that would have been bright and eye-catching even in mud brown.

He watched her eyes track around the diner area, and decided she was weighing where to sit, whom to approach. Already working, he concluded. Maybe she always was. He was damn sure, even on short acquaintance, that her mind was always working.

She spotted him. She aimed that sunbeam smile of hers, started over. He felt a little like the kid in the pickup game of ball, who got plucked from all the others waving their arms and shouting: Me! Me! Pick me!

“Morning, Caleb.”

“Morning, Quinn. Buy you breakfast?”

“Absolutely.” She leaned over his plate, took a long, dramatic sniff of his butter-and-syrup-loaded pancakes. “I bet those are fabulous.”

“Best in town.” He stabbed a thick bite with his fork, held it out. “Want a sample?”

“I can never stop at a taste. It's a sickness.” She slid onto the stool, swiveled around to beam at the waitress as she unwound her scarf. “Morning. I'd love some coffee, and do you have any granola-type substance that could possibly be topped with any sort of fruit?”

“Well, we got Special K, and I could slice you up some bananas with it.”

“Perfect.” She reached over the counter. “I'm Quinn.”

“The writer from up in PA.” The waitress nodded, took Quinn's hand in a firm grip. “Meg Stanley. You watch this one here, Quinn,” Meg said with a poke at Cal. “Some of those quiet types are sneaky.”

“Some of us mouthy types are fast.”

That got a laugh out of Meg as she poured Quinn's coffee. “Being quick on your feet's a strong advantage. I'll get that cereal for you.”

“Why,” Cal wondered aloud as he forked up another dripping bite of pancake, “would anyone willingly choose to eat trail mix for breakfast?”

“It's an acquired taste. I'm still acquiring it. But knowing myself, and I do, if I keep coming in here for breakfast, I'll eventually succumb to the allure of the pancake. Does the town have a gym, a health club, a burly guy who rents out his Bowflex?”

“There's a little gym down in the basement of the community center. You need a membership, but I can get you a pass on that.”

“Really? You're a handy guy to know, Cal.”

“I am. You want to change your order? Go for the gold, then the treadmill?”

“Not today, but thanks. So.” After she'd doctored her coffee, she picked up the cup with both hands, sipping as she studied him through the faint rise of steam. “Now that we're having our second date—”

“How'd I miss the first one?”

“You bought me pizza and a beer and took me bowling. In my dictionary, that falls under the definition of date. Now you're buying me breakfast.”

“Cereal and bananas. I do appreciate a cheap date.”

“Who doesn't? But since we're dating and all…” She took another sip as he laughed. “I'd like to share an experience with you.”

She glanced over as Meg brought her a white stoneware bowl heaped with cereal and sliced bananas. “Figured you'd be going for the two percent milk with this.”

“Perceptive and correct, thanks.”

“Get you anything else?”

“We're good for now, Meg,” Cal told her. “Thanks.”

“Just give a holler.”

“An experience,” Cal prompted, as Meg moved down the counter.

“I had a dream.”

His insides tensed even before she began to tell him, in a quiet voice and in careful detail of the dream she'd had during the night.

“I knew it was a dream,” she concluded. “I always do, even during them. Usually I get a kick out of them, even the spooky ones. Because, you know, not really happening. I haven't actually grown a second head so I can argue with myself, nor am I jumping out of a plane with a handful of red balloons. But this…I can't say I got a charge out of it. I didn't just think I felt cold, for instance. I
was
cold. I didn't just think I felt myself hit and roll on the ground. I found bruises this morning that weren't there when I went to bed. Fresh bruises on my hip. How do you get hurt in a dream, if it's just a dream?”

You could, he thought, in Hawkins Hollow. “Did you fall out of bed, Quinn?”

“No, I didn't fall out of bed.” For the first time, there was a whiff of irritation in her voice. “I woke up with my arms locked around the bedpost like it was my long-lost lover. And all this was before I saw that red-eyed little bastard again.”

“Where?”

She paused long enough to spoon up some cereal. He wasn't sure if the expression of displeasure that crossed her face was due to the taste, or her thoughts. “Did you ever read King's
Salem's Lot
?”

“Sure. Small town, vampires. Great stuff.”

“Remember that scene? The little boys, brothers. One's been changed after they snatched him off the path in the woods. He comes to visit his brother one night.”

“Nothing scarier than kiddie vampires.”

“Not much, anyway. And the vampire kid's just
hanging
outside the window. Just floating out there, scratching on the glass. It was like that. He was pressed to the glass, and I'll point out I'm on the second floor. Then he did a stylish back flip in the air, and poofed.”

He laid a hand over hers, found it cold, rubbed some warmth into it. “You have my home and cell numbers, Quinn. Why didn't you call me?”

She ate a little more, then, smiling at Meg, held up her cup for a top-off. “I realize we're dating, Cal, but I don't call all the guys I go bowling with at three thirty in the morning to go: eek! I slogged through swamps in Louisiana on the trail of the ghost of a voodoo queen—and don't think I don't know how that sounds. I spent the night, alone, in a reputedly haunted house on the coast of Maine, and interviewed a guy who was reported to be possessed by no less than thirteen demons. Then there was the family of werewolves in Tallahassee. But this kid…”

“You don't believe in werewolves and vampires, Quinn.”

She turned on the stool to face him directly. “My mind's as open as a twenty-four-hour deli, and considering the circumstances, yours should be, too. But no, I don't think this thing is a vampire. I saw him in broad daylight, after all. But he's not human, and just because he's not human doesn't make him less than real. He's part of the Pagan Stone. He's part of what happens here every seven years. And he's early, isn't he?”

Yeah, he thought, her mind was always working and it was sharp as a switchblade. “This isn't the best place to go into this any deeper.”

“Say where.”

“I said I'd take you to the stone tomorrow, and I will. We'll get into more detail then. Can't do it today,” he said, anticipating her. “I've got a full plate, and tomorrow's better anyway. They're calling for sun and forties today and tomorrow.” He hitched up a hip to take out his wallet. “Most of this last snow'll be melted.” He glanced down at her boots as he laid bills on the counter to cover both their tabs. “If you don't have anything more suitable to hike in than those, you'd better buy something. You won't last a half mile otherwise.”

“You'd be surprised how long I can last.”

“Don't know as I would. I'll see you tomorrow if not before.”

Quinn frowned at him as he walked out, then turned back as Meg slid her rag down the counter. “Sneaky. You were right about that.”

“Known the boy since before he was born, haven't I?”

Amused, Quinn propped an elbow back on the bar as she toyed with the rest of her cereal. Apparently a serious scare in the night and mild irritation with a man in the morning was a more effective diet aid than any bathroom scale. Meg struck her as a comfortable woman, wide-hipped in her brown cords and flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up at the elbows. Her hair curled tight as a poodle's fur in a brown ball around a soft and lined face. And there was a quick spark in her hazel eyes that told Quinn she'd be inclined to talk.

“So, Meg, what else do you know? Say about the Pagan Stone.”

“Buncha nonsense, you ask me.”

“Really?”

“People just get a little”—she circled her finger at her ear—“now and again. Tip too much at the bottle, get all het up. One thing leads to another. Good for business though, the speculation, if you follow me. Get plenty of flatlanders in here wondering about it, asking about it, taking pictures, buying souvenirs.”

“You never had any experiences?”

“Saw some people usually have good sense acting like fools, and some who got a mean streak in them acting meaner for a spell of time.” She shrugged. “People are what people are, and sometimes they're more so.”

“I guess that's true.”

“If you want more about it, you should go on out to the library. There's some books there written about the town, the history and whatnot. And Sally Keefafer—”

“Bowling Sally?”

Meg snorted a laugh. “She does like to bowl. Library director. She'll bend your ear plenty if you ask her questions. She loves to talk, and never found a subject she couldn't expound on till you wanted to slap some duct tape over her mouth.”

“I'll do that. You sell duct tape here?”

Meg hooted out another laugh, shook her head. “If you really want to talk, and get some sense out of it, you want Mrs. Abbott. She ran the old library, and she's at the new one for a spell most every day.”

Then scooping up the bills Cal left, she went to refill waiting cups at the other end of the counter.

 

C
AL HEADED STRAIGHT TO HIS OFFICE. HE HAD
the usual morning's paperwork, phone calls, e-mails. And he had a morning meeting scheduled with his father and the arcade guy before the center opened for the afternoon leagues.

He thought of the wall of fire across Main Street the night before. Add that to two sightings by Quinn—an outsider—and it sure as hell seemed the
entity
that plagued the town was starting its jollies early.

Her dream troubled him as well. The details—he'd recognized where she'd been, what she'd seen. For her to have dreamed so lucidly about the pond, about the clearing, to have bruises from it, meant, in his opinion, she had to be connected in some way.

A distant relation wasn't out of the question, and there should be a way to do a search. But he had other relations, and none but his immediate family had ever spoken of any effects, even during the Seven.

As he passed through the bowling center, he sent a wave toward Bill Turner, who was buffing the lanes. The big, burly machine's throaty hum echoed through the empty building.

The first thing he checked in his office was his e-mail, and he let out a breath of relief when he saw one from Gage.

Prague. Got some business to clear up. Should be back in the U.S. of A. inside a couple weeks. Don't do anything stupider than usual without me.

No salutation, no signature. Very Gage, Cal thought. And it would have to do, for now.

Contact me as soon as you're Stateside
, Cal wrote back.
Things are already rumbling. Will always wait for you to do the stupid, because you're better at it.

After clicking Send, he dashed another off to Fox.

Need to talk. My place, six o'clock. Got beer. Bring food that's not pizza.

Best he could do, for now, Cal thought. Because life just had to keep rolling on.

 

Q
UINN WALKED BACK TO THE HOTEL TO RETRIEVE
her laptop. If she was going to the library, she might as well use it for a couple hours' work. And while she expected she had most, if not all, of the books tucked into the town's library already, maybe this Mrs. Abbott would prove to be a valuable source.

Caleb Hawkins, it appeared, was going to be a clam until the following day.

As she stepped into the hotel lobby she saw the pert blond clerk behind the desk—Mandy, Quinn thought after a quick scroll through her mental PDA—and a brunette in the curvy chair being checked in.

Quinn's quick once-over registered the brunette with the short, sassy do as mid to late twenties, with a travel-weary look about her that didn't do anything much to diminish the seriously pretty face. Jeans and a black sweater fit well over an athletic build. Pooled at her feet were a suitcase, a laptop case, a smaller bag probably for cosmetics and other female necessities, and an excellent and roomy hobo in slick red leather.

Quinn had a moment of purse envy as she aimed a smile.

“Welcome back, Miss Black. If you need anything, I'll be with you in just a minute.”

“I'm fine, thanks.”

Quinn turned to the stairs and, starting up, heard Mandy's cheerful, “You're all checked in, Miss Darnell. I'm just going to call Harry to help with your bags.”

As was her way, Quinn speculated on Miss Gorgeous Red Bag Darnell as she climbed up to her room. Passing through on her way to New York. No, too odd a place to stop over, and too early in the day to stop a road trip.

Visiting relatives or friends, but why wouldn't she just bunk with said relatives or friends? Then again, she had some of both she'd rather not bunk with.

Maybe a business trip, Quinn mused as she let herself into her room.

Well, if Red Bag I Want for My Very Own stayed more than a few hours, Quinn would find out just who and what and why. It was, after all, what she was best at.