Cusp of night, p.3
Cusp of Night, page 3
This man didn’t look anything like them—or the lechers who thought the entrance fee to her aerial act bought a free grope on the side. Put her visitor in an audience and he’d stand out like a sleek crow in a flock of cowbirds. Fancy frock coat, weathered face, hair and eyes as black as the coal her brothers dug from the Blind Boy Mine. Odd sort. He might have been as old as her pap or as young as Anton, the Strongman.
“You ain’t answered me.” She hadn’t liked people staring at her when she was a kid and wouldn’t tolerate it now. She wasn’t a freak, no matter what her kinfolk said. “Who are you?”
He didn’t hesitate. “A man who finds you extraordinary.”
“That so?” She snorted. Indelicately. “Well, that uppity accent don’t impress me none, so you best skedaddle ’fore I holler for Burt and have him bend you fifty ways backward. I ain’t unarmed, you know.” She groped through the silks, feathers, and tinted creams on her dressing table. “I got a knife.”
“I don’t. I’m not armed, dear lady.”
“Lady?” She’d never heard the word attached to the likes of her. Charmed, she shoved a curtain of black hair from her shoulder and eyed him openly. “You got a strange way of talking. I bet you’re a snoop, huh? This ain’t no fleece or racket joint, mister. Oliver’s Emporium and Traveling Show is on the up-and-up. Just ’cause we pull up stakes after a spell don’t mean—”
“You’re wasted here.”
She clamped her mouth shut. Even soaring through the air, the ground a death trap below, she remained in control. But this man threw her off balance with his bold comments. Dumb slug. Didn’t he realize what she was? Didn’t he have eyes?
“There ain’t nowheres else for me.” She’d known the truth every time her ma held her down and scrubbed her skin till it bled. Every time her pap cuffed her and called her Hades-spawned. When she was twelve, a preacher slathered her in whitewash while her pap watched stonily and her ma prayed for her deliverance. Lucy had run off that same night, stumbling over Ollie’s traveling circus two days later. She’d never regretted her decision in the eight years she’d called the carnival home.
Raising her chin, she stood her ground. “Ollie takes good care of me.”
“Yes. It must be gratifying to go from backwater town to backwater town, eking out a meager existence.” The man’s voice lowered, his cultured accent crisp with reproach. “Do you enjoy the way men leer at you? The barbs women toss behind your back, labeling you devil-witch and daughter of demons?”
Lucy stiffened. Pious folk were the worst. Hiding behind crosses and Bibles, as if the Good Lord loved her any less because of her appearance. Maybe Ollie traded on her unusual looks, but he treated her like family. Far more than her own blood kin.
“You need to leave.” She hated being reminded of what she was.
The man’s expression softened. “Child, I don’t see you as any of the ignoble names you have been called. I see you as special. Do not be ashamed of your exotic beauty.” Looming over her, he turned her fingers toward the light. The kindness in his voice almost made her believe she was attractive.
Until she looked at her hand and saw the same damning color that covered every inch of her body—blue.
Tears threatened her eyes. Crying was a weakness she hadn’t embraced in years.
“I see the pain on your face.” The man tightened his long fingers around her hand. “Memories of cruel taunts and unjust words. Leave here with me, and you will never be ashamed of your lovely blue skin again.”
Oh, to believe!
She stared into his eyes. There was something hypnotic about his gaze, the rich timbre of his voice. Even his touch spoke to her, his palm not smooth as she’d expected, but lined with calluses earned by a life on the road. “Who are you? What do you want?”
He smiled, his eyes flashing with lightning and promise.
“My name is Simon Glass. I want to make you famous.”
* * * *
Present Day
It was nearing eleven when Maya said good-bye to Ivy and headed home. Her brownstone wasn’t located that far from the Fiend Festival, and the night was perfect for a leisurely stroll. As always, the walk would do her good. By the time she left, the gathering was winding down. The big event—announcing the winner of the Fiend contest—had taken place shortly after the band finished their last set.
The winner more than deserved the victory, his period clothing impeccable, artful face paint worthy of a Hollywood makeup artist.
She already planned to return to the festival the next night, looking forward to the local color. As she walked south on River Road, the noise of the fair faded behind her, blending with the hum of distant traffic crossing the North Bridge. The flow of the Chinkwe River over rock created a softer backdrop. Old-fashioned street lamps positioned every half block enhanced the ambient light of a sickle moon and scattershot stars. It wasn’t until the festival was several blocks behind that she grew unsettled by a growing sense of isolation.
With traffic rerouted from River Road for the fair, a void existed at the south end of town. Sometimes in the darkness, she relived that terrifying March night when her world changed—the fog and rain-slick road, oncoming headlights, the squeal of tires and the sickening crunch of metal. The other driver, an inexperienced teen, had crossed lanes. He’d walked away with a broken arm and bruised sternum. She’d suffered a punctured lung and internal injuries to her spleen and liver. In the long run, overcoming the physical limitations had been easier than the psychological ones. She had no memory of being treated at the scene or of being airlifted to the hospital.
But there were moments of darkness and light, of hovering somewhere in a world composed of shadows. She’d been impatient, eager to leave. But something held her tethered in place. Voices murmured in her ears, whispers without words, a sense of others gathered in the Aether. Later, she learned her heart had stopped beating. For two minutes and twenty-two seconds, she’d been clinically dead.
Now, surrounded by the eerie silence of an empty street, that creeping sense of unseen others returned. The prickling fear of something lurking in the shadows. Maybe it was nothing more than a night of watching cloaked figures in devil masks, but she quickened her pace, anxious to be home.
At least her path kept to the main road. Even if it did intersect with a few alleys, those cross points were brightened by three-globe street lamps. With the lack of traffic and city sounds, surrounded by old buildings and cobbled sidewalks, it was easy to imagine herself in Charlotte Hode’s era.
“Ugn…”
The groan prickled the hair on the back of her neck. She froze at the mouth of an alley, primed for flight. Her pulse pounded in her ears.
“Who’s there?”
The croak came again, sluggish and low, the unmistakable sound of someone in pain. Maybe it was some stupid kid playing a game.
“This isn’t funny.”
“H-h-help.”
Her stomach lurched to her throat. If someone really was hurt and she did nothing, she’d never forgive herself. It was a passing motorist who’d called for help when her car had careened off the road.
Cautious, she inched closer to the mouth of the cutaway. The illumination from the nearest street lamp only carried a few feet, barely edging into the dark maw. “Is someone there?” Slipping her hand into her pocket, she felt for her cell phone. One call to 911 would bring help or keep her safe if the situation deteriorated. A few steps more and she could discern a man slumped against the side of a building.
“Sir, are you hurt?” God help her if he was drunk. She kept a safe distance, and activated the flashlight on her phone.
The man shifted, angling toward her. He groaned. Something large loomed up behind him, a shadow rising from the ground. It took Maya a moment to realize the thing had been squatting there all along, silent in the nightscape—a monstrosity shrouded in black with a pulpy head and eyes that burned like white cinders.
She screamed.
The creature ran, deft as a whistle of air, swallowed by the bloated shadows of the alley. Trembling from head to foot, Maya tried to catch her breath. Her gaze sliced back to the man on the ground.
“Call for help.” His voice quavered with the effort of speech. “T-tell them Leland Hode has been attacked.”
* * * *
Maya glanced at her watch. Twenty-three minutes after midnight and she was far from exhausted. If it weren’t for Detective Gregg’s questions, she’d be pacing rather than sitting. When she finally made it home and the events of the night caught up with her, she planned to crash into bed and sleep until noon.
“Can I get you more coffee?” The detective’s voice jarred her back to the moment. Restless, she shifted in the wooden chair drawn close to his desk. The station was quiet, every available officer engaged in combing the streets for Leland Hode’s assailant. She didn’t have to be a cop to know there would be a media storm when word leaked of Hode’s attack.
“No, thanks.” The coffee had pumped her jittery adrenalin higher. Glancing down at the disposable cup in her hand, she felt her stomach sour. The dark liquid looked oily and cold, a few air bubbles clinging to the outer rim. “Do you know how badly he was hurt?”
The scene replayed in her head; the ambulance and police arrived almost simultaneously. By the time help arrived, Leland had passed out. A uniformed officer hustled her aside while two EMTs went to work. She didn’t remember the officer’s name, only that she’d relayed the circumstances as best she could. Through it all, she’d tried to see past his shoulder to Leland.
Stupid details stuck in her head. A squashed Coke can butted up against the curb. The scrape of the officer’s pencil across a notepad. The glimmer of lamplight trapped in his wedding ring as he’d scratched out her statement. The whole thing had seemed surreal, a nightmare of red emergency strobes and harsh radio chatter. Within minutes, Leland was whisked to a hospital, and she was passed from the officer to a man who arrived in an unmarked car. Detective David Gregg. The next thing she knew, she was at the police station giving an official account of the events.
“No word on Leland’s condition yet.” Gregg looked at her from across his desk.
He wasn’t unattractive, a fortyish man with rugged features and black hair generously favored with silver in the front. The gray appeared premature, contrasted by dark brows above amber eyes. She couldn’t tell if the scruff of beard lining his jaw was there by design or the result of long shifts.
He rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger then refocused on the statement he’d taken, holding it in two hands. “You said you didn’t see the attack.”
“No. Just the…” She hesitated, recalling the nightmarish face in the alley. “Creature.”
“You mean the attacker?”
“Yes.”
Gregg set the paper down. He rested his forearm on his desk. “You saw him?”
“I did.” Edgy, she stood and paced behind him.
The station had an old quality to it, keeping with the integrity of the town. Heavy wooden desks and chairs, a beamed ceiling with squat pendant lighting rather than fluorescents, corner molding, and a brick-colored tile floor. The captain’s office—at least, Maya believed it belonged to someone of higher authority—was partitioned from the main room behind a wall of glass. Overhead lights revealed framed plaques and commendations, a bookcase stuffed with thick binders, and a whiteboard with scribbled notations. She studied the board, but it was the face in the alley she saw.
“The thing was just squatting there. Behind Mr. Hode. Like it was resting. I know that sounds crazy, but I don’t know how else to describe it. I didn’t even see it at first, it blended with the darkness so well.”
“You keep saying ‘it’.
“What?” She turned to face him. They were the only two people in the room. Occasionally, a door closed down the hall or a murmur of voices intruded as someone passed by.
“What makes you think it was a creature?” His voice was even, but his gaze challenged the idea. “You’d just come from a festival where over two dozen people were roaming around in Fiend get-ups.”
“That’s true. But this thing was so large.” How could anything of that bulk be human? Her fingers tightened around her cup. “I know it sounds silly. It makes sense someone would try to take advantage of the anonymity of a disguise—especially with the festival going on—but it felt real.”
“Of course it did. Dark alley. Isolated surroundings. Someone calling for help. Your take is normal, given the circumstances, but I think we can safely eliminate the subject of an urban legend.”
She wandered back to her chair. “Robbery?”
“Nothing was taken.”
“What if I interrupted the attempt?”
“Unlikely. You said the attacker was squatting behind Hode like he’d been there for a while.”
Releasing an exasperated breath, she sank back into the chair. “I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.”
“You’ve been very helpful, Ms. Sinclair.” Gregg slid her statement across the desk. “Do you want to read over this again before signing?”
She shook her head and took the pen he offered. She’d already read it twice. “I understand from a friend that Leland Hode has a few people who might wish him ill.” She scribbled her name at the bottom of the report and returned the paper. She knew little about Hode, but since gripping his hand as he’d slipped into unconsciousness, she’d become entangled in his welfare. “There was a man at the festival who was angry with Leland’s son.”
“I’m aware of that. Dante DeLuca.” Detective Gregg tossed the report into a tray on the corner of his desk. “I’ll be talking with Mr. DeLuca at the first opportunity tomorrow. Officer Anders, who was on duty at the festival, has already been in touch about what happened.”
She wished the officer were there to add his impression of what had taken place. Could DeLuca’s rant about Pin Oaks be tied to the attack on Leland? She felt like a failure, unable to recall details of the attacker, all because she’d been overcome by the hysteria of an archaic legend.
“I wonder what Leland was doing in that alley.”
“Yeah. I wonder, too.” Standing, he switched off his desk lamp. “It’s late. I’ll give you a ride home.”
“Thank you.” She hadn’t looked forward to the walk.
He took her coffee cup. “By the way, what’s your impression of your neighbor, Len Kovack?”
The abruptness of the question caught her off guard. “Who?”
“Len Kovack.”
The name sounded familiar but she couldn’t place it. “I’m sorry. I just moved in two weeks ago. The only neighbor I know is the woman next door, Mrs. Bonnifer.”
“Formerly DeLuca.”
“What?”
His mouth tightened. “Imelda Bonnifer is Dante DeLuca’s aunt.”
* * * *
It was after ten the next morning when Maya finally wandered downstairs to make a cup of coffee. She’d slept restlessly, awakened now and again by a strange creaking sound she couldn’t place, but too exhausted to investigate. Her dreams had been plagued by a hulking creature who materialized from the fog on a rain-slick road and sent her car spiraling out of control. She’d dreamed of the Aether, the place where she’d lingered between the worlds of the living and the dead after her accident. The nightmares left her tired, feeling despondent. She’d splashed water on her face, brushed her teeth, and dragged a brush through her hair, but had bothered with little else. The circles beneath her eyes were nearly as black as the loose waves of hair brushing her shoulders.
In the front parlor, she settled into a low-backed chair with a view of the Chinkwe. The water looked darker this morning, tinged with brown as if a storm had chased mud downstream. She must have slept through the rain. Or maybe it had wormed into her dreams, at fault for conjuring the wet, foggy road of her nightmares.
Sipping her coffee, Maya surfed through the e-mail on her cell phone—a recipe she’d wanted from her sister, a notice her bank statement was available online, and promotional offers from various stores and retailers. The final message was from Ivy.
Thought you’d like to see these. A few photos were attached.
Maya grinned at several selfies of them with arms looped around each other, beaming up at the eye in Ivy’s cell phone. The night had been fun. Too bad it ended with Leland Hode in an ambulance.
Clicking off the phone, she headed down a narrow hallway to the kitchen. A peninsula snack bar separated the cupboards and appliances from the breakfast area where she’d added a small dinette table. The formal dining room, facing the front of the house, was currently empty but for an assortment of boxes. Ivy was due around noon to help her sort through them. Maybe she’d been foolish to rent such a large home when all she really needed was a living room, office, kitchen, and place to sleep.
Pouring the remnants of her coffee down the sink, she glanced out the window in time to see Mrs. Bonnifer stroll down Chicory Street.
Dante DeLuca’s aunt.
Imelda had introduced herself two days after Maya moved in, showing up at her door with a platter of homemade cookies.
“It might be old-fashioned, welcoming someone with baked goods,” the woman had said as she’d stood on the stoop, the plate balanced on her open palm. “But there are only six of us at this end of town, and I make it a point to know my neighbors. Especially anyone who moves in next door.”
Maya had invited her in, and they’d chatted for ten or fifteen minutes. Imelda plied her with questions—Where was she from? Did she have family in the area? Where was she working?—all asked discreetly, but with enough finesse to make an investigative reporter proud.
