Nora Roberts - Blood Brothers

Quinn debated catching her eye, trying a wave. She could ask Red Purse to join her for dinner. After all, who didn’t hate to eat alone? Then she could pump her dinner companion for the really important details. Like where she got that bag.

Even as she charged up her smile, Quinn saw it.

It slithered across the glossy planks of the oak floor, leaving a hideous trail of bloody ooze behind it. At first she thought snake, then slug, then could barely think at all as she watched it slide up the legs of a table where an attractive young couple were enjoying cocktails by candlelight.

Its body, thick as a truck tire, mottled red over black, wound its way over the table, leaving that ugly smear on the snowy linen while the couple laughed and flirted.

A waitress walked briskly in, stepped in and through the sludge on the floor, to serve the couple their appetizers.

Quinn swore she could hear the table creak under its weight.

And its eyes when they met hers were the eyes of the boy, the red gleam in them bright and somehow amused. Then it began to wiggle wetly down the skirt of the tablecloth, and toward the brunette.

The woman stood frozen in place, her face bone white. Quinn pushed to her feet and, ignoring the surprised look from the waitress, leaped over the ugly path. She gripped the brunette’s arm, pulled her out of the dining room.

“You saw it, too,” Quinn said in a whisper. “You saw that thing. Let’s get out of here.”

“What? What?” The brunette cast shocked glances over her shoulder as she and Quinn stumbled for the door. “You saw it?”

“Sluggy, red-eyed, very nasty wake. Jesus. Jesus.” She gulped in the raw February air on the hotel’s porch. “They didn’t see it, but you did. I did. Why is that? Fuck if I know, but I have an idea who might. That’s my car right there. Let’s go. Let’s just go.”

The brunette didn’t say another word until they were in the car and Quinn was squealing away from the curb. “Who the hell are you?”

“Quinn. Quinn Black. I’m a writer, mostly on the spooky. Of which there is a surplus in this town. Who are you?”

“Layla Darnell. What is this place?”

“That’s what I want to find out. I don’t know if it’s nice to meet you or not, Layla, under the circumstances.”

“Same here. Where are we going?”

“To the source, or one of them.” Quinn glanced over, saw Layla was still pale, still shaky. Who could blame her? “What are you doing in Hawkins Hollow?”

“I’m damned if I know, but I think I’ve decided to cut my visit short.”

“Understandable. Nice bag, by the way.”

Layla worked up a wan smile. “Thanks.”

“Nearly there. Okay, you don’t know why you’re here, so where did you come from?”

“New York.”

“I knew it. It’s the polish. Do you love it?”

“Ah.” Layla combed her fingers through her hair as she swiveled to look back. “Most of the time. I manage a boutique in SoHo. Did. Do. I don’t know that anymore either.”

Nearly there, Quinn thought again. Let’s keep calm. “I bet you get great discounts.”

“Yeah, part of the perks. Have you seen anything like that before. Like that thing?”

“Yeah. Have you?”

“Not when I was awake. I’m not crazy,” Layla stated. “Or I am, and so are you.”

“We’re not crazy, which is what crazy people tend to say, so you’ll just have to take my word.” She swung onto Cal’s lane, and aimed the car over the little bridge toward the house where lights-thank God-glowed in the windows.

“Whose house is this?” Layla gripped the front edge of her seat. “Who lives here?”

“Caleb Hawkins. His ancestors founded the town. He’s okay. He knows about what we saw.”

“How?”

“It’s a long story, with a lot of holes in it. And now you’re thinking, what am I doing in this car with a complete stranger who’s telling me to go into this house pretty much in the middle of nowhere.”

Layla took firm hold on the short strap of her bag, as if she might use it as a weapon. “The thought’s crossed.”

“Your instinct put you in the car with me, Layla. Maybe you could follow along with that for the next step. Plus, it’s cold. We didn’t bring our coats.”

“All right. Yes, all right.” With a bracing breath, Layla opened the door, and with Quinn walked toward the house. “Nice place. If you like isolated houses in the woods.”

“Culture shock for the New Yorker.”

“I grew up in Altoona, Pennsylvania.”

“No kidding. Philadelphia. We’re practically neighbors.” Quinn knocked briskly on the door, then just opened the door and called in, “Cal!”

She was halfway across the living room when he hurried in. “Quinn? What?” Spotted Layla. “Hello. What?”

“Who’s here?” Quinn demanded. “I saw another car in the drive.”

“Fox. What’s going on?”

“The bonus-round question.” She sniffed. “Do I smell fried chicken? Is there food? Layla-this is Layla Darnell; Layla, Cal Hawkins-Layla and I haven’t had dinner.”

She moved right by him, and walked toward the kitchen.

“I’m sorry, I think, to bust in on you,” Layla began. It passed through her mind that he didn’t look like a serial killer. But then again, how would she know? “I don’t know what’s happening, or why I’m here. I’ve had a confusing few days.”

“Okay. Well, come on back.”

Quinn already had a drumstick in her hand, and was taking a swig of Cal’s beer. “Layla Darnell, Fox O’Dell. I’m not really in the mood for beer,” she said to Cal. “I was about to order some wine when Layla and I were disgustingly interrupted. Got any?”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

“Is it decent? If you run to jug or twist caps, I’ll stick with beer.”

“I’ve got some damn decent wine.” He yanked a plate out, pushed it at her. “Use a plate.”

“He’s completely Sally about things like that,” Fox told her. He’d risen, and pulled out a chair. “You look a little shaken up-Layla, right? Why don’t you sit down?”

She just couldn’t believe psycho killers sat around a pretty kitchen eating bucket chicken and debating wine over beer. “Why don’t I? I’m probably not really here.” She sat, dropped her head in her hands. “I’m probably in some padded room imagining all this.”

“Imagining all what?” Fox asked.

“Why don’t I take it?” Quinn glanced at Layla as Cal got out wineglasses. “Then you can fill in as much of your own backstory as you want.”

“Fine. That’s fine.”

“Layla checked into the hotel this morning. She’s from New York. Just a bit ago, I was in the hotel dining room, considering ordering the green salad and the haddock, along with a nice glass of white. Layla was just coming in, I assume, to have her own dinner. I was going to ask you to join me, by the way.”

“Oh. Ah, that’s nice.”

“Before I could issue the invite, what I’d describe as a sluglike creature thicker than my aunt Christine’s thigh and about four feet in length oozed its way across the dining room, up over the table where a couple happily continued their dining foreplay, then oozed down again, leaving a revolting smear of God-knows-what behind it. She saw it.”

“It looked at me. It looked right at me,” Layla whispered.

“Don’t be stingy with the wine, Cal.” Quinn stepped over to rub a hand on Layla’s shoulder. “We were the only ones who saw it, and no longer wishing to dine at the hotel, and believing Layla felt the same, we booked. And I’m now screwing my caloric intake for the day with this drumstick.”

“You’re awfully…blithe. Thanks.” Layla accepted the wineglass Cal offered, then drank half the contents at one go.