The Awakening
Page 32

"I see," he murmured.
"You're going to insist that you haven't had weird dreams? I'm the one who might have awakened screaming, but the other night… you don't even remember making love."
Finn stared at the ceiling. "At least I didn't imagine you as some kind of wicked beast or awful, hideous creature."
"The power of suggestion. I'd seen a statue of a beast of some kind, and therefore I dreamed it up. So…
I'm not even going to take a good look at a well-carved jack-o'-lantern from here on out. Lucy and Desi, Family Ties, Cheers! That's it from now on."
Finn tried to tell himself that maybe he should be grateful to Mike Smith.
If not grateful, he should at least manage to be decent around the guy. Trust had been a big issue between him and Megan, helping to break them apart before. If he had half a brain in his head, he'd quell the temper and jealousy that kept rising in him.
"Want me to write Mike Smith a thank-you note?" he queried.
"No." Megan's toe moved over his calf.
"So…"
"When you see him, I just want you to be polite."
Her toe moved up to his thigh. Her fingers crawled down his chest.
Hallelujah. What had died seemed to be rising again.
"I can be very polite," he assured her huskily.
Megan was agile. Her toe and fingers collided.
"There are times to be polite…" she purred, her whisper heating his ear, "and times, you know, when you should just be downright friendly."
"Very friendly," he agreed, and decided they had talked enough.
He could be incredibly agile as well.
Darkness fell in deep soft blues. They were immune to the slow spiraling ground fog and the strange mist that surrounded the rising moon.
It was a deep blue orb as it rose high over the old cemetery.
There was no form of communication that could be trusted, except that of meeting alone. And so the two came together.
The woman arrived first, and as she waited, she ran her fingers over the weathered marble of her idol, knowing every angle and curve of the structure. She touched it lovingly, as tenderly as if it were flesh.
In time, her protege arrived. She was not pleased with the tardiness of his arrival, and of course, he was aware of that fact when he saw the way she gazed at him. Once, he would have felt a sense of shame, that he had served badly, and a sense of fear as well.
But in the days past, he had tasted his own power. And he knew that she was just a servant of the master, no greater than himself.
Except that… well, she would be greater.
"You should fall to your knees in the presence of the Master!" she said angrily.
He knew how to pay homage, and did not need her tell him how. He kissed cold marble, and felt a trembling in the coldness of the stone, and a surge of strength and vigor within himself.
"You didn't need to summon me," he said coldly. "I know my business, and I have been about it well."
"Not well enough," she said sharply. "You have obtained much of what we need… but you know that there is more. You can delay no longer. What is necessary must be acquired now. We have but days left.
And at the proper moment, the chalices must be full."
"I told you, I know what I'm about," he said. "You!" He pointed a finger at her. "You see to it that all is in readiness when the moment arrives. There can be no one there who lacks faith in His power, no one who will falter. The number must be complete."
"I have known what I'm about for a very long time," she said quietly. "You mustn't hesitate any longer.
You must move. Not soon—now."
He nodded curtly to the woman; as he had surely told her quite plainly, he knew the business he was about, knew his responsibility. He acknowledged the idol again, lips hot against stone, and closed his eyes and savored the strength and power that seemed to rip and tear into his center and his limbs, like bolts of lightning, electric and shattering.
Without another word, he turned and left.
Below the moonlight, she watched him leave, and she closed her own eyes, envisioning the majesty of what was to come. She stretched her hand before her, beneath the deep blue cast of the night sky, and smiled. She stared at her arms, and dreamed of what would be. The differences that would change the world, her world.
She had planned so carefully. For so very long.
The Time of Darkness was coming.
Coming so soon.
Above her, blue clouds roiled, and she luxuriated in the feel of the misty ground fog that was slowly spiraling as if kissed by a strange wind, rising… soon to encompass the night.
And create a new day.
They were two sets into the night, and everything was still going wonderfully when Megan had the run-in with the man at the bar.
Like usual, Morwenna and Joseph were there, clapping enthusiastically after every number, supporting them completely. Darren Menteith had come, minus Lizzie, and with a number of friends from the college.
Megan hadn't felt so good since they had arrived in New England. But tonight… Finn, again, looked incredible, clad in another outfit from Morwenna's shop. She liked her own outfit as well, with the delicate, slit silk sleeves, tight bodice, and flowing skirt. Finn had really seemed to be getting along with Joseph. He hadn't hedged his conversation, as if afraid that every word would somehow relate to witchcraft. They had talked soccer and beer. She and Morwenna had laughed about incidents during their childhood. They had talked about friends from school.
She wished that Mike Smith would have approached them. Finn would have been as easy with her old friend, she was certain. But if Mike was there—which he very well could be—he was in costume, and not about to let himself be known.
Well, Finn had acted like an ass.
"Hey, honey, let me buy you a drink."
She turned. The man in question was medium tall, in a brown cape, with brown makeup. He had on prosthetic makeup as well, giving him an enlarged forehead and a huge nose. If she were to run into him again on the street, she'd surely never recognize him again. Except for maybe his voice. It had a high, whining quality to it.
Of course, that might be due to the amount of alcohol he had already consumed. Or he might have even been putting on the voice.
"Thanks," she said lightly. "But I'm just drinking water with lemon, and I have a new one here. Right in front of me."
He edged closer.
"One drink won't kill you, honey. It could be wicked good for you."
She felt Finn come up behind her. "Hey, I think the lady said that she was fine. Thanks for the offer, but no thanks."
He spoke pleasantly enough, just an edge of warning in his voice.
"Think you're a big shot, huh, buddy, just because you're up on that stage with her."
Finn still held his temper. "I think that the lady is with me, because she's my wife."
For a moment, it looked as if the man was going to challenge Finn anyway. Then he shrugged and backed off. Finn took the seat next to her, grinning. "Was I okay? Assertive, but not aggressive, firm, but not impolite?"
She laughed, setting a hand on his arm.
"You were quite perfect Although, you know, I can defend myself against a drunk."
"Probably true," he said philosophically. "But did you really want to have to deck the asshole?"
"You've a point. Might have ruined the costume."
"His, or yours?"
"Mine, of course. It's borrowed finery."
Finn sat back, frowning. Megan's attention was drawn down the bar. The drunk was now hitting on another woman. It was the pretty young woman who worked at Mike's new museum, manning the ticket booth. She had introduced herself as Gayle Sawyer.
She wasn't wearing a costume—at least, Megan didn't think it was a costume. She was in a black knit dress that hugged her compact but well-shaped body. Tonight, there were a number of studs and rings in her ears, a silver stud above her left eyebrow, and a tiny diamond in her nose. She was nursing an amber-colored cocktail, and had been talking with another girl, very slim and blond, also in black, at her side.
The drunk had come between them. Gayle was obviously his target.
"Swallow it down, and I'll buy you another," the man encouraged her.
"I'm good with this," Gayle said, impatient that her conversation had been interrupted.
"I'm really good-looking beneath this makeup. And rich," the drunk said.
"Look! Fuck off—I don't want another drink!" Gayle told him, completely irritated then.
The drunk gripped her by the arm, dragging her off the bar stool. She fell against him, and struggled to straighten herself. The drunk slipped his arm around her, holding her close.
"So you wanna dance!" he laughed gleefully.
"Let me go!"
The man wasn't listening. He started to pull her out onto the floor.
"Hey!"
Finn stepped forward at that, striding toward the pair. He set his arm on the drunk's shoulder. "Buddy, she wants to be left alone."
The man looked around—his putty nose starting to descend a bit. "Hey, what are you, the dating police?"
he growled to Finn.
"You need to go home," Finn said.
"This ain't your wife, your girl, or your concern," the man said angrily.
"Common courtesy. She doesn't want to be with you. Let her alone."
At that, the drunk dropped hold of Gayle Sawyer. He'd been holding her so tightly that she staggered back. Finn went to support her, and the drunk swung violently at Finn.
Finn ducked the blow with a second to spare. When he straightened, the drunk swung again. Finn blocked the blow, but lost patience and control. He swung back, catching the fellow dead square on the jaw, and the drunk fell like an axed oak.
"Oh, man, thank you!" Gayle Sawyer gushed out, flinging herself at Finn, hugging him tightly around the neck.
"Hey, it's all right," Finn murmured awkwardly, trying to disentangle himself and get down on the floor to check on the offender. By then, Sam Tartan was heading through the crowd. He didn't look so thankful.