Finn stepped forward, delighted by the woman. She was quick spoken, matter-of-fact, and charming with her twinkling blue eyes. She made him forget his discomfort.
He kissed her on the cheek. "We will be by to see you tomorrow."
"Indeed, you will, young man. You've married our little songbird. You will have to abide the family, and actually, I'm a marvelous storyteller—and an excellent cook. I'll see you for lunch, and that's that."
"Absolutely. We run a little late here."
"Two o'clock will be lovely."
"We'll be there."
Martha turned and walked away. She was a small woman, trim and compact for her age, and walked as she spoke with a quick, no-nonsense strut.
"Finn!"
He turned. Joseph was calling him from the other direction. He hadn't changed for the party. He was dressed as he had been earlier, long black cape over black trousers and black shirt. He grinned, ready to compliment Finn on the music. "You two are great together—I've got to hand you that. Morwenna always said that Megan was a little nightingale, and that's true, but I've never seen her better. You do something special for one another."
"Thanks, thanks a lot," Finn said. Had he misjudged Joseph? Or was he simply so ready to have his ego stroked that he didn't realize he was being nose-butted, tasted, by some kind of a shark?
"I saw that you met Aunt Martha."
"Yes. Lovely woman."
Joseph shrugged. "Opinionated as all hell—and not at all averse to expressing those opinions, I guarantee you. But that's okay. I think she means well—but she's hell on me, and Morwenna. We love her anyway."
"Well, I'm forewarned. I'm going to have lunch with her and be the best I can be—Megan loves her a lot."
"That's true. Hey, need any help?"
"What? No, I, sorry—all set. I was just replacing a string when I met Martha. We do a couple of things without the sound boxes. Guitar and voice, that's it. Had a bad string. It's all set now."
"How long do you break?"
"Twenty minutes."
"Why don't you come to our table? Get something to eat."
"We're already down to about thirteen minutes left, no time, but thanks."
"Come over to the table, order for Megan and yourself, and your food will be there for your next break."
Finn hesitated. Joseph's invitation made sense. Meeting Martha had made him feel more comfortable. But now that she was gone, he felt the touch of a lingering sense of unease. He wanted Megan away from all these people.
Stupid. People were being great. They were playing terrifically. It wasn't even an old place, it was brand new. No ghosts. Just ribs, fries, steaks, drinks, dancing, laughing, a good old time. They were making great money. It's what he had wanted. The college student working the register, Corey Vale, wearing a black cape over his white tailored shirt and jacket—the former looking like a garment required for his position at night during the Halloween season—had stopped by to tell him that he'd already sold a number of boxes of their CDs. He couldn't have asked for better. Finn thanked him, and told him he was more than welcome to one himself.
He wished to hell he wasn't here.
"Finn, you okay?"
"Yeah, Joseph, I'm fine, just thinking. Sure, I guess your invitation is a great one. Just don't let them put our meals on your check—dinner for the two of us is part of the gig."
"Don't worry. Morwenna has a talent for barely glancing at a dinner bill as if she couldn't possibly conceive of a server making a mistake. But trust me—she reads it like a hawk in the two seconds she glances it over."
"Terrific," Finn murmured. He stood, then hesitated again and tried to sound casual. "Who else is with you two tonight?"
"No one. Just Morwenna and I. We left the place with others tonight. They're closing down and trying to set the shop to rights after so many people have been going through it handling everything. And hey—
how's the hand?"
The hand hurt. Like hell. But Finn shrugged. "It'll heal."
"You playing okay with it? Dumb question—you sound great."
"It's just the palm. It's all right."
"I'll buy you a beer—unless alcohol is part of the gig?"
Finn shrugged with a rueful grin. "Nope. You can buy me a beer."
"We're right over there."
"Megan's on her way back here with something liquid at the moment. I'll come as soon as she returns."
"She can't miss us—we're on the way back to the stage."
"All right, then I'll join you now."
Finn set down his guitar. He followed Joseph toward the table, then found himself suddenly pulled back as if a giant hand had reached down to grasp him by the hair at the top of his head. He winced, pulling back, then swore softly as he saw that he had been accosted by the same stupid prop that had snagged Megan.
Joseph must have heard his quick, startled curse. He turned back. "Dumb thing—I've seen people caught up by that monster all night. Here, I'll give you a hand."
Finn didn't want a hand. He was feeling irate again, unreasonably so, and less than gracious. "It's all right, I got it," he said, curbing his temper, and stupidly ripping out a good handful of hair in his haste to prove that he was free from the thing.
"Poor baby!" Morwenna cooed as he reached the table. She halfway stood, rubbing the top of his head.
That irritated him even more. Somehow, he kept his cool. He was sure he ground through half the enamel on his teeth.
"It's all right."
"The steaks are great, "Joseph said.
"So Wiccans aren't vegetarian?" Finn said.
"Some are," Joseph said with a shrug.
"Great, then," he said, determined that come hell or high water—or every stupid prop or piece of scenery in the place—he was going to get along here. Megan was his wife; he loved her. No asinine Tarot reader was going to make him blow this in any way. "Steaks sound good. I guess I'll go ahead and order for Megan, too. She likes a good steak."
"We'll see to it that they arrive for your next break," Morwenna assured him.
"Thanks." He peered through the room. Fog machines were keeping a constant, low mist going. At first, he couldn't see her. Then, through a sudden clearing gust of air from an overhead vent, he caught sight of her through a milling group of friends in all forms of bizarre fashion. She was standing dead still, listening to someone. A frown knit her brow.
Finn shifted around, trying to see the person who had her so engrossed in conversation.
"It's just old Andy Markham," Joseph said.
"Markham?" He looked at his cousin-in-law sharply. "Isn't that the old geezer who was telling the
'haunted' stories the other night?"
"Andy is harmless. Once upon a time, way back, he ventured to Boston and did some Shakespeare on stage. You know, good enough actor to get a few jobs, not good enough to make a real living. So he tells tales really well." Morwenna said. She inclined her head. "You know that I don't personally approve of any of the hokum they do around Halloween. Even for those really dedicated to concepts of organized religion, it's supposed to be a holy day. But we have all kinds of ghoulish creatures—pulling peoples' hair out!—and stories about the spirit world and evil that seeps through time and such rot. But hey—they make a living out of it here."
Finn hadn't quite realized that he'd stood until he saw that Morwenna was then frowning up at him.
"Honestly, Finn, Andy is harmless."
"Sure," Finn said. He wanted badly for his tone to be light. "It's just that the last time Megan listened to him, she had the worst nightmares I've ever seen. I think I'll just go rescue her."
"Nightmares, of course," he heard Morwenna murmur as he started from the table. Once again he gritted his teeth. Hard.
There was just something in her tone.
She pretended to sympathize.
But her words came out as a far different shriek of accusation in his head.
Wife beater.
He was going to hurt Megan…
He was bad for Megan. So said Sara, the palm reader.
Before he could reach Megan, he paused, fighting again to control the waves of fury that came crashing over him.
He could make it. They were in Salem for a week. He was paranoid because their being back together now was still so fragile.
Hell or high water, he reminded himself.
Or every demon in the place.
He was going to be decent. A good guy.
The perfect husband.
"Smoke!" Andy Markham was saying. Maybe the simple word sounded so sinister coming from his lips because he was just so darned… ancient. Even his wrinkles had wrinkles, Megan thought, and wished she could smile inwardly at least at the observation. His eyes—so pale a blue they seemed colorless—
were all but sunk into the deep caverns of their sockets. Only a few wisps of snow-white hair remained on the top of his head. He resembled a living, breathing crypt keeper, the great puppet on the television show. His skin was almost translucent. He was more than skinny, he was a pile of bones with not nearly enough flesh stretched over them.
He wasn't in costume. He didn't need to be.
"Smoke," she said politely in reply. She wasn't at all sure what he'd been talking about so far, only that he'd seemed desperate, and then, strangely hypnotic. He'd said something about nightmares, and nightmares being projections of the past, and of the future. She'd thought at first that he'd heard about her dreams and come to apologize because he'd done his job so well that he'd scared her half out of her wits.
But he hadn't come to apologize.
He stopped her, in the middle of the floor, to warn her.
"Don't you understand? Always, where there's smoke, there's fire beneath. Subtle. But smoke is a warning. Oh, there are so many stories, of course. But myth and legend always have root in fact. You're not one of them. Doesn't matter."