She shrugged. "Why not? You put on a good facade in the shop, but you really think we're a bunch of idiotic pagans anyway."
"I just don't believe in casting spells or any of that mumbo-jumbo," he said. "It's a free country, and freedom of religion is guaranteed. I am a big believer in the Constitution. May I see the book?"
She handed it to him. He turned it over. There was a picture of a very attractive woman on the back. The author photo was a casual shot, taken in Jackson Square, right in New Orleans. Naturally, he recognized Jackson Square. But he realized that he recognized the woman as well.
"Jade Deveau," he murmured.
"An old girlfriend?" Sara asked.
He shot her an irritated glance, and decided not to reply. He didn't know why he was surprised that a book written by the woman might be in a Salem store. The author acknowledgment had stated that she was… what? Into the occult? Or intrigued by stories about things that went bump in the night?
It just seemed strange that a woman he'd met recently should—in a roundabout way—reenter his life twice within a few hours.
"You wouldn't like the book," Sara said. "Trust me, you'd think it was a bunch of bunk!"
"Have you read it?"
Sara shrugged. "She has some strange ideas, certainly." She sighed. "All right, maybe you would actually like the book. She feels that anything out of the ordinary needs to be inspected more deeply. In other words, she isn't of the opinion that all witchcraft is benign. By the way—where's your wife today?"
"Seeing some sights," he muttered.
"So… did you let her out on her own, or did she trust you on the prowl?"
"Sara, being married doesn't mean that you're glued together."
"No, it doesn't, does it?" she said huskily. Then added a quick, "So where do you think she is? And with whom?"
"I think she's shopping, and maybe saying hello to a few friends."
Sara nodded. He wanted to walk right by her, but he kept staring at her. He could feel his jaw tightening, his teeth clenching. At the same time, he found himself noticing that she'd left a number of the buttons on her sweater undone and that she was almost spilling over the wool.
"You should leave, you know," she said.
"I'm going."
She shook her head. "Not the shop. Massachusetts."
"Why? You go into some silly trance and tell me that I'm going to hurt my wife. I love my wife. You tell me I'm dangerous, but you also seem to have your claws out, as if you'd jump me if you could. What the hell is it with you, and what do you think I'm going to do? Or would breaking up a marriage just make you happy as hell?"
He was startled to see her look distraught, and somewhat ashamed. She looked down for a moment, as if confused herself.
"No, I don't intend to be a home wrecker. And as to what you're going to do… I don't know… exactly.
But you should leave. There's just something about you… I don't… there's some thing over the two of you. There you are, nice and tall, broad shouldered, sleek and wiry, exuding that he-man, masculine aura! And there's your perfect blond Barbie-doll wife." She cleared her throat, losing her air of confusion.
"Isn't it scary sometimes, being so fucking perfect?"
"We're far from perfect—"
"Have you hurt her yet? Is that why she's away from you?"
He started past her, not willing to listen to any more. She caught his calf as he tried to walk by. "If you realize that you do need help, I'll be around." The fingers curled around his calf suddenly stroked up his thigh. She jerked her hands away, as if she hadn't touched him on purpose. "You're an asshole. You should leave."
He felt a strange prickling at the back of his neck. It was exactly what he wanted to do, no matter how sanity and logic fought against it.
But enough was enough. So much for being eternally polite just to get along with everyone for Megan's sake.
"Sara, leave me the fuck alone, will you?"
"I wish I could," she murmured, her words almost incoherent. Then she stared at him hard. "Sure, you should stay. Like I said, when you realize you're in way over your tough, inflated, macho head, come see me."
He stepped over and walked out of the back, listening as the beaded curtain crashed around him.
Morwenna was behind the counter. He lifted his hand, waving good-bye.
He couldn't get out to the street fast enough.
It wasn't until he had walked far down the street that he realized he still had the book in his hand.
Chapter 9
"So what do you think of him?" Mike Smith asked, a certain wry amusement in his voice.
"He's certainly… evil enough looking," Megan replied.
She wasn't sure what had brought her back to the new museum where Smith was curator. She had avoided Morwenna's shop because she didn't want to start telling her cousin any of her problems. So she had wandered, seen the museum, and found herself hesitating in front of it. Then the same young girl who had been at the ticket counter the day before had spied her, and greeted her with tremendous enthusiasm, telling her that her own dream was to become a professional singer. Soon, Mike had come out, and told her that she had to see the new exhibit they were preparing.
The next thing she knew, she was walking through a door that said "Museum Staff Only," and viewing their new display on the seventh-century vision of the devil and witchcraft.
The "devil" was big. About eight feet tall. Blood red with black markings. A forked tongue was just visible, and a long, arrow-shaped tail was fully evident. The eyes were truly creepy, seeming to follow the observer, and naturally, the creature came complete with horns in the temple.
It gave her a little jolt, reminding her of something very uncomfortable. She knew it had something to do with the nightmare that had so violently disturbed her in her sleep, but for the life of her, she could no longer remember much about the dream.
"I wouldn't want to be locked in here with him, that's for sure," Megan added, grinning.
Mike studied the larger-than-life creature with a grin, then looked at Megan. "Can you believe that people really thought this guy came down and forced people to sign pacts? We've come a long, long way, thank God!"
"Right. Thank God."
"A great deal of the problem in the colonies, of course, stemmed from the European background. This was really serious. And, whether legal or not, torture was widespread. You should read some of the confessions from the cases in Europe. But then again, you torture someone long enough, and they don't just confess, they get garrulous and creative. Once one person had confessed and given his or her tormenters a story, others were sucked in. But people did confess to relationships with the devil. They confessed to wild parties, kissing the buttocks of such a creature, dancing naked in the moonlight—and much worse, of course. Now, to our educated senses, it's easy to realize that someone being racked, burned, or broken would admit to almost anything to stop the pain. But back then… they just believed that they were forcing the truth from their pathetic victims."
"The power of suggestion is very strong," Megan murmured.
Mike looked at her, frowning. "Are you all right?"
"Oh, yes, of course," she said quickly. "I've just noticed that during the last few days… well, people talk about monsters, and then you dream about them. You know, you see a particularly eerie jack-o'-lantern, or some such thing, and then you put it into dreams."
Mike laughed. "Well, that's true. Mine are usually a bit different. I was watching a game show before I went to sleep one night, and I had the greatest dream in the world. I'd won millions of dollars. The dream was incredibly real. I was heartbroken when I woke up and finally had to force myself to realize that I wasn't rich."
Megan laughed. "Well, dreaming that you're rich isn't a nightmare, anyway."
"Right. Waking up and realizing that you're not rich is the nightmare. But, hey, I love what I do, so I don't need to be rich."
"That's the real payoff, isn't it?" Megan agreed.
"So we're both lucky."
"Very," she murmured.
"Hey, I'm due a break. Want to get some coffee or something?"
"Sounds great," Megan agreed.
They left the museum, walking onto the main strip in the center of the old-town tourist section. They tossed a coin to choose between two coffeehouses, and laughed, since they both called heads, but forgot which side of the street was "heads." One of them boasted the best hot mocha in the world, so they decided on it.
Once seated with two large mochas topped with whipped cream, they talked casually, Megan telling him how sorry she was when he shrugged and told her that his mom had died of cancer soon after he'd graduated high school, and he'd lost his father just two years ago to heart failure. "I think he missed her too much," Mike said. "Anyway, they're together. What about your folks?"
"Alive and well in Maine," she told him.
"Good for them. Of course, I see your Aunt Martha all the time, and she's still just as ornery as ever."
"Ornery?" Megan protested.
Mike laughed. "Okay. Opinionated. Actually, I like her a lot. She's a no-nonsense kind of lady, all down to earth and practical. You should see some of the town meetings around here. The Wiccans are all up in arms about the trashy display of green women riding on broomsticks in certain advertisements, and Martha is always there to remind them that there is a percentage of the population that likes to have fun with Halloween and all. This remains a small community. Of all types. And she's like the voice of stern sanity at all times."
"Good for her."
"I thought she and Morwenna were going to come to blows, once."
"What happened?"
