Nora Roberts - The Pagan Stone

He was alone with his own fear and fury. The thing that surrounded him roared in a sound of greedy triumph. Whatever sliced out at him carved a burning gash across his chest. The pain all but swallowed him whole.

Staggering, he tried to drag Cybil away. Her eyes flickered open, latched on to his. “Do it now. You have to do it now. There’s no other choice.”

He leaped toward the Pagan Stone, fell painfully against it. And he grasped the burning bloodstone atop it in his bare hand. With it closed in his fist, with its flames licking between his clenched fingers, he plunged with it into absolute black.

There was nothing, there was nothing, there was nothing but pain. Then he lay on the Pagan Stone as its fire consumed him.

He clawed his way back, head ringing, nausea a wretched churn in his belly. Swiping blood from his nose, he looked into Cybil’s glassy eyes. “So much for slow and easy.”

IT DIDN’T TAKE MUCH OF A PUSH TO CONVINCE Cybil to throttle back to research mode for a few days. They’d have to look again, she and Gage, but she couldn’t claim to look forward to the experience.

Had she seen Gage’s death? Had she felt her own? The question played through her mind over and over. Had it been death, or another kind of end when the black had dropped around her, leaving her blind. Had the screams she’d heard been her own?

She’d seen herself at the Pagan Stone before, and every time she did, death came for her there. Not life, not like Quinn and Layla, she mused, no celebration. Only the blood and the black.

She’d have to go back, she knew. In vision and in reality. Not only to seek answers, but to accept them. When she did, she had to go back strong. But not today. Today was a holiday with red, white, and blue bunting, with marching bands and little girls in sparkling costumes. Today’s Memorial Day parade was, in her opinion, a little slice of the Hawkins Hollow pie, and sampling it helped remind her why she would go back.

And the view from the steps of Fox’s office building was one of the best in the house.

“I love a parade,” Quinn said beside her.

“ Main Street, U.S.A. Hard to resist.”

“Aw, look, there’s some of the Little League guys.” Quinn bounced on her toes while the pickup carting kids in the back inched by. “Those are the Blazers, proudly sponsored by the Bowl-a-Rama. Cal ’s dad coaches, too. They’re on a three-game streak.”

“You’re really into all this. I mean, seriously into small-town mode.”

“Who knew?” With a laugh, Quinn snaked an arm around Cybil’s waist. “I’m thinking of joining a committee, and I’m going to do a discussion and signing at the bookstore. Cal ’s mom offered to teach me how to make pie, but I’m dodging that. There are limits.”

“You’re in love with this place,” Cybil observed. “Not just Cal, but the town.”

“I am. Writing this book changed my life, I guess. Bringing me here, realizing I was part of the lore I was researching. It brought me to Cal. But the process of writing it-beyond the hard stuff, the ugly stuff we’ve faced and have to face-it pulled me in, Cyb. The people, the community, the traditions, the pride. It’s just exactly what I want. Not your style, I know.”

“I’ve got nothing against it. In fact, I like it very much.”

She looked out over the crowds lining the sidewalks, the fathers with kids riding their shoulders, long-legged teenage girls moving in their colorful packs, families and friends hunkered down in their folding chairs at the curbs. The air was ripe with hot dogs and candy, spicy with the heliotrope from the pots Fox had stacked on his steps. Everything was bright and clear-the blue sky, the yellow sun, the patriotic bunting flying over the streets, the red and white petunias spilling out of baskets hanging on every lamppost along Main.

Young girls in their spangles tossed batons, executed cartwheels on their way toward the Square. In the distance she heard the sound of trumpets and drums from an approaching marching band.

Most days she might prefer the pace of New York, the style of Paris, the romance of Florence, but on a sunny Saturday afternoon while May readied to give over to June, Hawkins Hollow was the perfect place to be.

She glanced over when Fox held out a glass. “Sun tea,” he told her. “There’s beer inside if you’d rather.”

“This is great.” Looking over his shoulder, she lifted an eyebrow at Gage as she sipped. “Not a parade fan?”

“I’ve seen my share.”

“Here comes the highlight,” Cal announced. “The Hawkins Hollow High School Marching Band.”

Majorettes and honor guards twirled and tossed silver batons and glossy white rifles. The squad of cheerleaders danced and shook pom-poms. Crowd favorites, Cybil thought as cheers and applause erupted. And with the pair of drum majors high-stepping, the band rocked into “Twist and Shout.”

“Bueller?” Cal said from behind her, and Cybil laughed.

“It’s perfect, isn’t it? Just absolutely.”

The sweetness of it made her eyes sting. All those young faces, the bold blue and pure white of the uniforms, the tall hats, the spinning batons all moving, moving to the sheer fun of the music. People on the sidewalk began to dance, to call out the lyrics, and the sun bounced cheerfully over the bright, bright brass of instruments.

Blood gushed out of trumpets to splash over the bold blue and pure white, the fresh young faces, the high hats. It splat-ted from piccolos, dripped from flutes, rained up from the beat of sticks on drums.

“Oh God,” Cybil breathed.

The boy swooped over the street, dropped to it to dance. She wanted to cringe back, to cower away when its awful eyes latched on to hers. But she stood, fighting off the quaking and grateful when Gage’s hand dropped firmly onto her shoulder.

Overhead the bunting burst into flame. And the band played to the cheers of the crowd.

“Wait.” Fox gripped Layla’s hand. “Some of them see it or feel it. Look.”

Cybil tore her gaze away from the demon. She saw shock and fear on some of the faces in the crowd, paleness or puzzlement on others. Here and there parents grabbed young children, pushed through the onlookers to drag them away while others only stood clapping hands to the beat.

“Bad boy! Bad boy!” A toddler screamed from her perch on her father’s shoulders. And began to cry in harsh, horrible sobs. Batons flamed as they spiraled in the air. The street ran with blood. Some of the band broke ranks and ran.

Beside her, Quinn coolly, efficiently snapped pictures.

Cybil watched the boy, and as she stared, its head turned, turned, turned impossibly on its neck until its eyes met hers again. It grinned madly, baring sharp and glistening teeth.

“I’ll save you for last, keep you for a pet. I’ll plant my seed in you. When it ripens, when it blooms, I’ll cut it from you so it can drink your blood like mother’s milk.”

Then it leaped, springing high into the air on a plate of fire. Riding it, it shot toward her.

She might have run, she might have stood. She’d never know. Gage yanked her back so violently she fell. Even as she shoved to her feet, he was planted in front of her. She saw the thing burst into a mass of bloody black, and vanish with the horrible echo of a boy’s laughter.

Her ears rang with it, and with the brass and drums as the band continued its march up Main Street. When she pushed Gage aside to see, the buntings waved red, white, and blue. The sun bounced cheerfully off the instruments.

Cybil stepped back again. “I think I’ve had enough of parades for one day.”

IN FOX’S OFFICE, QUINN USED HIS COMPUTER TO load and display the photographs. “What we saw doesn’t come through.” She tapped the screen.