"Just read," Sara said.
But he frowned again. The pages were handwritten. The language was indeed archaic.
"I can't understand this. It seems to be about… items needed for a strange stew or something. In fact… it almost reads like a kid's Halloween book. 'Eye of newt' and all that."
"There's no eye of newt in there," Sara said impatiently. She pointed down the lines, and read aloud.
"Thou shalt take the greatest care; the blood of the anointed must be mixed with that of the sacrifice; and the hair that is taken must not be cut, but torn from the head. Of all that is needed, these three are of the greatest and utmost importance—the blood of the sacrifice, the blood of the anointed, the hair of the anointed. And as these come together, as there has been life, there will be death, and where there has been the sleep of the dormant like dead, there will be life. And to all who would honor He who is the God of Darkness, remember that All Hallow's Eve, that which falls upon a full moon, is a night when the elements of the spirits and those who roam the nether world are strongest, and therefore, it can be as well, the Time of The Coming.' "
Finn looked at Sara, and then at Eddie. "I'm sorry. I don't see where any of this means anything. This man, Cabal Thorne, was a devil worshiper who came to Massachusetts at a time when he was… what?
Left alone, because people were still ricocheting from all the horror that the craze had created. But… lots of people have written things. That doesn't make them real."
"Hey, Morwenna found this text, and she wanted you to see it," Eddie said with a shrug.
"Well, thank you," Finn said, still lost. He rose, "I appreciate the time—and your faith in me even holding something so old, and surely rare."
"Finn!" Sara said, rising.
"I've got to go," he told her. "Thanks. Thanks for the concern." He was feeling that strange sense of friction within himself again, looking at Sara. An urge to reach for her… and God knew just what exactly he wanted to do to her. He needed distance right now. Real distance. Away from Sara, and this bookstore, and even normal-looking, guy-next-door Eddie.
"I have to do some things before tonight," he rushed out. "Sound check," he lied. He started out. "But thanks… thanks, both of you."
He made it back to the street. Kids in costume were in abundance. He wanted to shout at them all. One little kid crashed into him, and he fought the urge to pick him up, and throw him far from himself.
He made it back to Huntington House, giving a quick wave and ignoring the fact that Sally and John were in the parlor, sipping tea, and wanting him to join them.
He made it to his and Megan's room. His room now; Megan was gone. And everyone around them was crazy.
He threw himself on the bed, grating his teeth. Damn, he could use a drink. That would be just great. He could play drunk—and confront Megan in the same shape.
He reached for the pillow at his side, needing something to punch.
He touched something else.
It was the book he had inadvertently stolen from Morwenna's shop. The one written by the woman in
New Orleans who had gotten both local and national coverage.
He halfway sat up, grabbing it to draw it closer. He pushed it off the bed instead. Swearing, he rolled over and stuck his head over the edge of the bed to see just where it had fallen.
Right in front of him. It had fallen open. On the left side was an old etching of a horrible, fire-breathing, horned creature and the chapter tide "The Known Demons."
On the right, the chapter began. He read the heading and jerked up, throwing the book from him.
He laid back on the pillow, breathing hard.
He'd imagined it. Power of suggestion.
He forced himself to rise and go for the book. It still lay open, on the same page. He looked at the heading again.
Bac-Dal.
Chapter 12
In New Orleans, a Thursday night poker game was growing tense, despite the fact that it was hardly a high stakes game and was a weekly game as it had been for over a year, since the DeVeaus had moved to New Orleans from Charleston to be nearer their close friends, the Canadys. There were sometimes others involved in the game, good friends all, but tonight, it was just the DeVeaus and the Canadys.
"I'll see your quarter, and bump you fifty cents," Lucian DeVeau said, tossing the money into the pot. He leaned forward, dark-haired, menacing, dark eyes holding a touch of a fiery sizzle over the kill he was certain he was about to make.
Sean Canady, blue eyes equally as hard and bright, leaned inward to the table as well, ready to meet the challenge. He ran his fingers through dark hair with just a touch of silver, and offered his nemesis a grim smile. "I'll just see your fifty cents, and bump you another fifty cents," he announced.
"Let's see 'em!" Lucian said.
"Excuse me, want to wait a minute? Jade and I are in this game as well."
Both men paused, looking to the end of the table. Maggie Canady, even in jeans and a T-shirt, had the ability to appear elegant with her sweep of dark auburn hair and riveting hazel eyes. She spoke imperatively, reproachful and chastising as she demanded attention.
Jade DeVeau, at the other end of the table, burst into laughter and reminded her husband and Sean,
"She's right you know. You two seem to have this game down to some kind of a macho thing."
"Don't be ridiculous," Sean argued. "We would never get macho over a friendly poker game, right?"
"Or take it too seriously," Maggie mused lightly.
"Never," Lucian said dryly. "So. Sorry, we forget to let you follow. What is it, Maggie, are you in?"
Lucian asked.
"No, I fold."
"There, you see," Sean said, shaking his head. "Maggie folds."
"She folds, but I don't," Jade told him.
"Throw your money in," Lucian told her. Jade did so. "What've you got?" Lucian demanded of Sean.
"Full house," Sean said, laying them out.
Lucian grinned with relish. "Four fours." He started to rake in the pot.
"Excuse me!" Jade said.
The men paused and looked at her. "Four tens."
"Two four-of-a-kinds!" Sean said with disgust. "Who dealt that mess?"
"You did, my love," Maggie said complacently.
"Oh."
Jade started to rake in her haul of quarters. As she did so, two-month-old Gwyneth, the newest edition to the Canady household, began to cry, the sound coming to them from the little speaker box on the kitchen counter. And as Maggie rose, Jade's cell phone went off.
Lucian leaned back in his chair, his eyes on his wife's. "This is going to be him," he said.
Jade looked at him a little skeptically. "One time, you may be wrong," she said softly.
"Yes, one time I may be," he said flatly, "but this isn't going to be it."
Jade rose, going to her purse to rummage through it for her cell phone. "I'll be right back," Maggie murmured.
"Will you check on Aidan while you're up there?" Jade asked, referring to her adopted son, nearly two years old now, and going through the hell-on-two-feet stage when awake, but an angel baby at night. He always slept a solid twelve hours, but nevertheless, Jade looked in on him constantly. As she spoke, she gave half her attention to her search, and half to Maggie.
"Naturally—and if you intend to leave him with me for a few days, you're going to have to trust in the fact that I will look in on him!" Maggie reminded her.
"I can go check on them both," Sean said, obviously still disgusted over the loss of what he had considered an incredible hand, and still, equally curious as to the phone conversation.
Maggie shook her head.
"Hello?" Jade said, staring at Lucian. He arched a dark brow.
"Yes, it's Jade DeVeau," she said. She glanced across the table at Lucian. "Of course, I remember you."
She listened for another few minutes, then said softly, "If you don't mind, I think you need to speak with my husband."
She turned the phone over to Lucian, who switched to speaker phone so that they could all hear what the man on the other end was saying. He had a deep, resonant voice, with just a hint of his Southern upbringing. Easy to remember, he was tall, on a par with Lucian's six feet, three inches, deceptively long and lean in appearance, as his height somewhat hid the breadth of his shoulders. She'd been impressed with his talent, drive, and professionalism; Lucian had been disturbed by something about the man, tense since they had met, certain that something was lurking behind the fellow's strong chiseled features and direct gaze. While Jade had felt that his love and admiration for his wife had been evident and charming, Lucian had again felt something else. Something that was brewing… smoldering, there, just beneath the surface. To Jade, they had been almost picture perfect. Megan Douglas was blond, feminine, beautiful, and had a voice that bordered on the heavenly. They were Barbie and Ken in a nutshell, almost too perfect to be believed.
"Actually, I'm not sure exactly why I'm calling you. I've just been hearing some of the most absurd stories, and I happened upon your wife's book, and since we had just met recently… this is ridiculous. I mean, it's not as if I can call 'Ghost Busters,' right? And I haven't been seeing ghosts or anything like that.
But the book mentioned that you like to know about the unusual. There are some… unusual things happening here."
"Really? Well, you're in Salem, Mass, and it is approaching Halloween," Lucian said. He stared across the room at Jade, then Sean. "But what a coincidence. My wife and I were considering a trip to Salem for the weekend. She'd like to do an after-the-event piece. And naturally, we'd like to meet with you.
Find out whatever we can on just exactly whatever it is that's bothering you."
"I wish I knew exactly." They could all hear the caller hesitate. Then he cleared his throat and spoke clearly and directly. "I'm a musician. I don't know what… well, what you charge for assistance or whatever in… well, whatever. I suppose that what I really need is information. I don't believe in the occult… things that go bump in the night. But I do believe that bad tilings can happen, brought on by people with motives of their own. Everyone up here swears that Wiccans can't wish harm upon others, but… hey, like I said—bad things happen. I don't understand what's going on. Maybe we're being drugged somehow. You can't imagine the dreams, and what's worse, I don't even know just whose dreams they are at times. God, I'm not making a lot of sense. And as I was saying… I'm afraid that we're not wealthy."
