A Desolate Hour. Mae Clair

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СКАЧАТЬ favorable sign when the forest blessed his work.

      He plucked them free, then hunkered to gather leaves and twigs for kindling. When he had enough, he lit a small blaze in the center of the pentagram. A kettle went over the flames. Old and pitted, it had seen better days but would suffice for the task at hand.

      Casting a hasty glance over his shoulder, Obadiah strained to listen. An owl hooted in the distance and a small animal scurried through the underbrush. Safe from prying eyes, he breathed easier.

      It wasn’t discovery he feared so much as failure. Practitioners of the dark arts were shunned, but he would risk that and more to slaughter the demon responsible for his wife’s death.

      Turning back to the cauldron, he dragged a hand across his forehead. The air was sticky and close, unusual for fall. Squatting, he added a handful of herbs to the bubbling kettle. Most of the plants were used in healing, but moldy mushrooms and rotting seeds altered the properties of the brew from light to dark. Grimacing, he dug a bloody mass from the rucksack at his waist. The heart was still warm; the carcass of the stray dog he’d lured with a piece of boiled pork attracting flies and scavengers half a mile behind.

      He chanted as the old woman had taught him, spitting sounds that made his skin crawl. Flushed and dripping with sweat, he lowered the heart into the pot.

      A twig snapped.

      Obadiah spun.

      Jonathan Marsh stood frozen behind him. A young man, barely twenty-two, he’d been gone several days, scouting for signs of Indian unrest to the north. With a single glance, he took in the crudely etched pentagram and the witch’s pot. Blood drained from his face and his eyes widened with horror.

      “Obadiah. What have you done?”

      He’d heard. Surely he’d heard the incantation.

      Obadiah’s heart skipped a beat.

      Jonathan took a faltering step forward. “For the love of Heaven, what evil have you summoned?”

      Obadiah gripped the knife clipped to his belt. He would kill tonight after all.

      Chapter 1

      July 1982

      Point Pleasant, West Virginia

      Do you believe in curses?

      Quentin Marsh dropped his forehead against the steering wheel, his hands clasped at two and ten o’clock. Why the hell had he said yes? If he’d written Penelope’s ramblings off as crazy, he’d be home in Rhode Island instead of sitting in the parking lot of the Parrish Hotel. His sister had a way of wheedling him into doing almost anything and her pregnancy-induced emotions hadn’t helped.

      Twins in the Marsh family had rarely fared well through the generations. He was proof of that jinx, right down to the ugly scars on his hand. No matter how much physical therapy he did, he’d never regain the dexterity to play concert halls.

      The Marsh curse in action.

      Leaning back in the seat, he listened to the soft patter of rain against the windshield of his Monte Carlo. Twilight had preceded him into Point Pleasant, the bulk of the old hotel standing out starkly against a cloud-swollen sky. Three stories high with a sprawling covered porch and ornate double-door entry, the solid brick building dominated the square of Main Street. Bright blue awnings shaded the windows of the two upper stories, an addition that would look cheerful on a sunny afternoon, but now carried a dismal air with rain dripping from the corners. At least it wasn’t pouring—yet.

      Quentin popped the door, then headed to the trunk for his luggage. Overhead a flash of lightning warned of a coming storm.

      Do you believe in curses?

      Hell, yes.

      The problem was breaking them.

      * * * *

      A distant flash of lightning made Sarah Sherman pause as she packed a stack of papers into the large plastic carton on her desk. Rain drummed on the roof of her rented trailer. Already the wind kicked up, an eerie moan that made her bite down on her bottom lip. Instinctively, she clutched the opaque blue stone suspended from a silver chain around her neck.

      Run from the thunder,

      Run from the rain,

      Lightning can’t hurt you,

      The wind is in vain.

      The rhyme had been her mantra since childhood, a verse she’d clung to ever since the night her parents’ car careened off a slippery road in the TNT. Neither her mother nor father lived to see the sunrise, but her mother’s necklace and the singsong stanza acted as a safety net whenever her fear of storms churned to the surface.

      Shuffling her anxiety aside, she moved the carton to the floor. Most of the contents amounted to old documents and photos, but there were a few random items tucked among the hodgepodge of history that belonged to Shawn Preech. Sarah had found a small Bible with a faded list of family milestones—births, deaths, weddings—and a 1920s hymnal that had once belonged to Gertrude Preech, Shawn’s mother. There was also an oblong wooden case etched with strange symbols. She loathed touching it, but still had to pack it away.

      She’d be glad to get rid of everything, especially the case.

      Suzanne Preech had given her the entire kit-and-caboodle months ago, hiring her to delve into Shawn’s ancestral tree. She’d made a fair amount of headway, her passion for genealogy fueling her research before Suzanne’s marriage recently imploded. Afterward, Suzanne had told her to dispose of the documents as she saw fit. She had no intention of ever speaking to Shawn again unless it was through her lawyer.

      For his part, Shawn was clueless Suzanne had even found the carton in their attic. He’d often bragged his family roots could be traced back to the time of Fort Randolph, but Sarah doubted he had any true knowledge of, or even interest in, his lineage. More likely, the claim was something repeated in his family through generations, a boast that had become gospel.

      The intrusion of the phone startled Sarah from her thoughts. She wasn’t certain if it was the storm or the box with the odd markings that had her on edge.

      Snatching up the receiver, she dropped into a seat behind her desk. “Hello.”

      “Hi, Sarah. It’s Eve.”

      Her oldest friend. “Hello, Mrs. Flynn.” She smiled, glad to focus on something pleasant as the name rolled off her tongue. “Are you still floating on the joy of being a newlywed?”

      A soft chuckle. “Sheer bliss, but Caden’s on patrol tonight.”

      “One of the downsides of being married to a sheriff’s sergeant.” Eve had snagged a wonderful husband in Caden Flynn.

      “Fortunately, I can arrange my shifts at the hotel to match Caden’s for the most part,” Eve said into her ear. “That way we’re off together.”

      “Hmm. A perk of being the owner.” The Parrish Hotel had been in Eve’s family for as long as Sarah could remember. Her friend had returned to Point Pleasant last summer after a fifteen-year absence, taking СКАЧАТЬ