Suddenly, a bubble floated into vision, traveled to the water’s surface, and popped.
Meagan inhaled sharply.
“That was it!” Katelyn shouted. “That’s what I saw!”
“A bubble,” said Meagan.
There was a beat of comprehending silence. Then, together, they exclaimed “Mr. Lehrer!”
Chapter Seventeen
The dancers formed a circle around Logan and her partner, shifting back and moving out, their eyes never wavering as the stranger moved Logan to the very center of the masquerade floor.
The music began once more. It was slow and tender, the melody of a single, sad violin. The stranger took Logan’s hand and placed it meaningfully upon his chest just beneath his shoulder.
Logan swallowed. He felt hard and unyielding beneath the black material of his clothing.
He took her other hand and wove it with his own, his fingers curling over hers as he held her hand aloft. His other arm, he slid around her waist. That flame that had sparked inside Logan now erupted into a blaze hot enough to rival the bonfire that shed light over the masquerade ball.
Her heart rate sped into overdrive, and a soft sound escaped her lips. But it went unheard, as the tempo of the music increased slightly, and the single violin was expertly joined by other instruments.
The stranger moved her. A gentle tug here, a sweeping pull there, and she was dancing.
I’m dancing, she thought. It was an odd thought, but she was on autopilot now, and her thoughts were random and uncontrolled. She was no longer in the lead, in more ways than one.
The other dancers joined in, each couple sliding out onto the dance floor and back into their swaying, swirling routine one after another.
The stranger smiled down at her. There was something not right about that smile. She just knew there was. It was so beautiful, though. Perfect, really. It was bright and white and sharp and charming and dangerous….
But she could barely pay these spiky niggles of doubt any heed. It seemed the world was receding, like it had tunnel vision that was focused upon the midnight pair as they moved with inhuman grace at the center of the crowd.
Inhuman?
She heard the swishing of gowns and the clicking of feet around her, and color moved on the outskirts of her vision. She pulled her eyes away from his, only just managing it, and looked to the right. A dancing couple eyed her for a moment, the woman with a touch of obvious jealousy. Then, together, they nodded at her, slowly, respectfully. And she had no idea why.
Logan looked to her left. Mabel and Henry watched her from the sidelines, their hands clasped, their eyes bright. She knew it was them despite their masks. Mabel wore a mauve and brown dress, more concealing and less conspicuous than those of the younger women. And Henry wore matching finery, having gone through a sort of transformation from whittling cook to straight-backed and regal dance partner, no matter his age. But he’d been right about needing to carve himself a new mask; the one he wore now was admittedly worn and faded. It was time for a new one. Silly old man.
Logan’s brow furrowed. What’s wrong with me?
She was thinking of the Harvesters as if she’d known them forever. As if they were friends, or even family members. Like they were her children.
That wasn’t right – was it? The questioning voice inside her was so distant, so far away, she felt giddy. She felt more than giddy.
She felt trapped in a magnificent dream.
“Tell me your name,” the stranger commanded gently. It was a request, and it was also a command.
His words wrapped around her, and squeezed her words from her lips. “Logan,” she replied softly. “Logan Wright.”
“Logan,” he repeated.
Oh no, she thought. She was doomed. She had never heard a sound sweeter than her name on his lips.
“You’re a bard,” he said. It wasn’t a question. It was just that he already seemed to know.
She nodded.
“I covet bards,” the stranger said, smiling that deadly smile again.
If ever there had been uttered a double entendre, this was most certainly it. That fire spread, coursing up her chest and into her neck to force a blush across her upper body. She was grateful for the mask, but the low neckline of the gown hid little else.
He swept her around, spun her, and drew her back in, moving through the crowd in perfect synchronicity as if he had danced to this music a thousand times. “The words of a bard renew our spirits and breathe life into the substance-less form of our everyday existence.”
Logan listened, transfixed. They did? She did that? Her words did that?
Tell me more, she thought hopelessly. Make me feel like I matter.
As if he could hear her thoughts and was all too happy to comply, he went on. “A bard is a key that unlocks doors to a million worlds.” He dipped her, leaned in close, and slowly raised her once more. “Your words bring salvation to those searching for escape.”
Funny, she thought. That was why she wrote, too. To escape. She never would have imagined that the same obsession that gave her an out from her own world did so for others as well.
“Will you be gracing us with a story tonight, Logan Wright?” His tone had lowered, become more personal.
And she had no idea what to say. Her mind was spinning as quickly as her skirts were. But she recalled what Henry and Mabel had told her about the bonfire and something about a story time after the masquerade dance.
If he knew about that story time, then he’d clearly been here before. Possibly many times. Suddenly, it was obvious to Logan that she was the newcomer here, not the “stranger.”
And that realization cooled a bit of the fire in her, popped the bubble that her head had become over the last few minutes, and raised her guard – just a notch.
Is he playing me? she wondered. And then she almost kicked herself. Oh, he was most definitely playing her. The real question was whether she minded.
In the end, no matter how gorgeous or insightful he may be, she would not be used. She was Logan Wright. She was a bard. Like he’d said – she was powerful.
And tonight she knew it.
“I’ve given you my name,” she countered, choosing to ignore his question in favor of one of her own. “Now I would like yours.”
The tempo of the music changed, catching a crescendo of sorts. The stranger’s smile gleamed, and Logan caught a hint of incisors that seemed longer than before. She hadn’t noticed before…. Or maybe she had and she’d just been too wrapped up to care.
Suddenly, he was leaning, and she gave a sharp intake of breath when he grasped her by the waist and lifted her, turning her in a circle as every man on the dance floor did the same to his partner. The sky blurred by, the candles, the bonfire, and Logan smiled in surprise. She couldn’t help it. A flurry of flying colors fanned out around the women as they spun in the air and were lowered once more.
When Logan’s feet again touched down, she was lightheaded, and that giddy feeling was back full force. The stranger’s dance skill was graceful beyond measure. He knew how to move her, where to move her, and when. He was in complete control, his eyes never leaving hers, his body commanding their every move.
Her every thought.
“Please,” she found herself whispering breathlessly. “Who are you?”
The stranger’s gray eyes were darker than before, as if a storm had built – and lightning crisscrossed their mysterious depths, brightening their inherent glow. They were mesmerizing beyond measure.
The music slowed. He pulled her closer. Logan didn’t resist. She couldn’t have if she’d wanted to.
She felt the air still in her lungs as he leaned in to place his lips beside her ear. “I’ll give you a hint,” he said.
Then he pulled back and held up his hand. Between his fingers he held a perfect rose, its stem long and straight, its petals black as night.
Memories flooded Logan. Without thinking, she reached up and took the rose’s stem between h
er own fingers. A thorn instantly pricked her flesh, drawing blood. As if in a dream, she stared down at the well of life liquid. It quickly gathered deep and dark, and then fell to the masquerade floor to splatter in a flower-like bloom across the gold-veined marble.
“In my realm,” said the stranger, “when a woman pricks her finger on the rose a man gives her, it means she belongs to him.”
Logan looked up.
He wasn’t smiling now.
The dancers had all stopped once more. The world held completely still.
Logan watched in stark fascination and budding certainty as the stranger slowly, gracefully pulled the black mask from his handsome face.
It took a moment for her to fully realize, for her to accept what she was seeing as real. But only a moment. And when she did, her knees flooded with weakness, and her ears began to hum with a deafening rush of blood.
Logan had never seen him before. And yet she had.
She’d seen him in her dreams. She’d seen him in the darkness behind her closed lids. She’d seen him in the fog of her imagination when she wasn’t seeing anything. He was the core of every character she had ever created. He was the reason she’d turned to words to begin with.
She knew now. She understood.
She remembered.
She knew every strong, chiseled angle, every curve, every feature of his beautiful visage as if she’d been born with an imprint of him upon her soul.
Because she had. Because that soul had been promised to him hundreds upon hundreds of years ago. In another time, in another place.
In the only whisper Logan could manage, she finally acknowledged him for who he was – for who he really was.
“Samhain.”
Chapter Eighteen
The masquerade had come to a full stop now. Samhain didn’t bother responding. Instead, he reached down and took Logan’s hand with its pricked finger and raised her wound to his lips.
The brush of his lips against her flesh was so soft, and yet so powerful, Logan closed her eyes. She felt his lips encircle her fingertip, felt the brush of his tongue, knew he had tasted her blood. She opened her eyes again as he removed her finger, but yet held her hand, his eyes burning like quick silver.
You were made for that dress, came his voice in her head.
Now Logan knew where the thought had originally come from. Now everything made sense.
Even Henry and Mabel….
She glanced over at the couple where they huddled with the mass of other Harvesters. She met their orange and violet gazes. Their smiles were hopeful.
They were nothing but architects for the Lord of the Dead.
A thought occurred to her quite suddenly, and Logan reached up with her free hand to feel her décolletage. It was bare.
The Celtic life pendant was gone.
Logan’s wide eyes met Mabel’s, and knowledge passed between them. The old woman must have removed it when she was helping Logan get dressed.
The deception had been incredible. Logan had never even noticed.
And the Harvesters? They were his creations. This masquerade, this bonfire, the stories told around its hopeful flames – all Samhain’s pastimes, his miniscule escapes from the drudgery that was his passing existence. And they would all do anything for him. He was their lord.
His words struck a meaningful chord now. The words of a bard renew our spirits and breathe life into the substance-less form of our everyday existence.…. Your words bring salvation to those searching for escape.
Logan even understood the hint of jealousy she’d seen in the female Harvester’s eyes as she’d looked upon Logan dancing with Samhain. No doubt every single being here longed for the slightest bit of approval from the powerful, indomitable man who amounted to their master.
Logan touched her fingers to her forehead. She felt hot. This was all too much.
“Come,” said Sam softly.
Logan looked back up. Sam was offering her his free hand.
“Come with me, Logan. It’s time for a story.”
She hesitated. He now had full-fledged fangs behind those perfect lips. He no longer bothered to hide them. But he wore them well, and when he smiled, it was a gentle smile, almost sad. “I ask only for your company, Logan. I can bring you no end here. Not unless you wish it.”
He waited for her. Everyone waited.
He leaned forward now, and again placed his lips beside her ear. She was painfully aware of the proximity of his teeth to her neck – and she knew he was as well. But she couldn’t help closing her eyes as his breath caressed her flesh. “You know this,” he finished.
And it was true. She did know. He couldn’t make her his queen, not unless she bid him to. She had to give herself over to him, she had to surrender. It was simply how it was done.
It must have been Ciara that gave her this knowledge. She saw October Land in all of its depths now, as if she’d spent a thousand years here, and she knew Sam much the same way. Because a part of her had been here for a thousand years. Two thousand years, in fact.
When she felt Sam withdraw, she opened her eyes and took a deep, shaky breath. Then, with one final glance at the masquerade floor, its Harvesters with their eyes on her, its musicians with their instruments stilled, and its bonfire crackling patiently, she looked back up at the Death Lord and placed her hand in his.
*****
The town seemed to be deserted. All that remained of any sign of life were the fact that the village was well maintained and the lit oil lamps lining the sides of the cobbled stone street. All was deathly quiet as Dominic made his way through the town. The sound of his boots on the stones was too loud. It made him feel self-conscious, so he walked slower.
He’d lost all sign of Logan’s passage a while back and had no way of being certain that she’d come here. The path had given way to stones, and stones left little to no trail that could be followed. But it made sense that she would be here. It was the only sign of civilization for what must be miles in any direction.
The forest had seemed to go on forever for Dominic, and he was growing frustrated to the point of swearing vehemently and fluently. But then, finally, the town had appeared. All at once, the forest thinned, he topped a hill, and he was looking down at a clearing full of houses with smoking chimneys.
And night had fallen.
That was strange, but he was taking this realm in stride and learning that “strange” was more or less the modus operandi.
The moon was full and enormous in the night sky, illuminating any part of the village not touched by the lights of the candles in windows and the oil lamps on the road. But other than these flickering flames, there was no movement in the town. There were no people.
Maybe they’re all asleep.
But it was more than that. It didn’t feel like they were asleep. Every single light in every single house was dark. Wasn’t there the odd late worker? Or early riser? Or some poor bastard suffering from insomnia?
It didn’t have that sleeping feel to it. It was more like the town had been evacuated.
But just to be sure, Dom squared his shoulders, walked up to the first house on the left, and used his fist to knock heavily on the door. Only after he’d done so did he notice the knocker attached to the door’s center. He rolled his eyes.
Nothing moved beyond the door, or at least he couldn’t hear anything moving. He leaned in, turning his ear to the wood. Nothing. Then he leaned over toward the window. Nothing stirred. But he blinked and moved in closer to the glass when he saw something familiar glimmer on the tabletop.
It was silver and round.
A Celtic life pendant! He knocked on the door again, this time using the knocker, which was shaped like a jack-o’-lantern.
There was still no answer.
One of the good and not-so-good things about being a male teenager, a member of a band that liked to spend time in garages and basements drinking and playing, and a guy who had no mother to disappoint and who lived in a relatively small
and relatively boring town, was that sooner or later, you learned how to pick a lock.
In Dom’s case, it had been the lock on the front door of his own house because his father had locked him out to teach him a lesson. That lesson being that he didn’t need a mother to teach him the difference between wrong and right.
So, Dominic stepped back from the cottage door for a moment, weighed his options, glanced over his shoulder at the apparently deserted town, and then made a decision. He was fully prepared to break and enter. He wanted that pendant. He couldn’t help but wonder where it had come from… he couldn’t help but think it had something to do with Logan.
And this was October Land. It wasn’t like the cops had tasers here.
He was prepared to accept responsibility for what he was about to do.
What he wasn’t prepared for was an unlocked door.
But that’s what he found the moment he turned the handle and the massive wooden structure simply swung soundlessly inward.
Dom let his surprise roll over him and pushed through it, moving quickly inside to snatch the pendant from the table and rush back out again, closing the door behind him. He hastily slid the pendant into his pocket, and again looked both ways up and down the street. Not a thing moved. No one had seen or heard him.
No one’s here.
The silver was cold, hard, and certain between his fingers. Despite the eeriness of the situation, Dom suddenly felt less afraid.
He looked back at the house he’d just robbed one last time before he stepped off the cottage’s porch and moved steadily down the single road that split the town in half. He would have tried other houses, but having just stolen something from one of them, he decided against it and kept walking.
Eventually, he could hear the sound of water trickling. He neared the massive fountain at the center of the village. It was an enormous tree with what looked to be pumpkins hanging from its branches. Within the pumpkins were more flickering lights.