"Sounds good. It won't be much of a walk back."
Finn rounded the corner. The lot wasn't really that convenient. It was small and behind a row of colonial houses that had been altered in the Victorian period so that they were adorned with "gingerbread"
latticework that had been so popular at the time. They parked and exited the car. The night seemed eerily silent. It had been clear when they'd been driving.
Now, a thick fog was rising.
Pea soup thick. Megan felt as if she were stepping into a swamp as she crawled out of the car.
"Wow, will you look at that? All of a sudden," Finn said.
"Hey, it's New England. Like they say, if you don't like the weather, it will change in a few hours.
Unfortunately, it doesn't change for the better all that often."
"Come here while I can still see you," Finn told her.
He walked toward her and she hurried for his outstretched arm.
"Creepy, hm?" she murmured.
"But it's keeping you nice and close."
"You can barely see the street lamps."
"True. Let's just hope we're walking in the right direction."
Megan looked up to the sky. Through the haze, she could see the moon. Not quite full, but it appeared that it was. The full moon this year was projected, aptly, for Halloween.
"'By the light of the silvery moon!'" she quoted from the song.
"Um. Well, so far, that is sidewalk beneath us."
"Right. And we're not even a block away."
"I can see the sign ahead."
Megan was glad. She couldn't explain the terror that seemed to be seeping through her, just like the dampness of the fog. And then, she thought she heard something coming from behind them.
It wasn't the sound of footsteps.
It seemed to be a strange whispering sound. As if something flew, or floated just above the ground.
Something like a cold, dark wind with a scratchy human voice. She swallowed hard and started walking faster.
"Hey, what's the matter?" Finn demanded. "You don't want to trip on anything."
"Yeah, sorry. I just don't like it out here tonight."
"I'm with you."
She was silent, guiltily feeling as if his presence might not be enough to ward off the danger coming toward them.
"It's just… a mugger could pop up from anywhere."
"I did take some classes in martial arts," he reminded her.
"Muggers carry guns. And knives."
"I haven't heard that Salem has a huge violent crime rate."
"You never know."
"Hey, a mugger would have to be as blinded as we are."
She didn't think that this particular "mugger," the one becoming more and more real in her mind with every second that passed, was blinded by the fog. Rather, he saw better in the fog. Darkness was his forte.
And his weapons weren't conventional. No knives, no guns.
And Finn, for all his determination and prowess, didn't have the power to fight him.
Terror was becoming panic. She felt her breath coming more quickly each time she inhaled and exhaled.
Her flesh was beginning to creep. That feeling was coming over her again. She was naked against a cold, dark wind that whispered…
"There's the sign for Huntington House," Finn said.
"Beat you there!" she told him.
And she started to run.
"Megan, you're going to kill yourself!" he cried.
She didn't care. She ran. She heard him pounding after her. A few moments later, she was on the porch.
He was there behind her. "Meg, you could have tripped over that step, and broken your neck."
"Get your key out, please, quick—it's freezing out here," she said.
He slipped his key into the door, and in her mind, entered too slowly behind her. Once he was in, she pushed past him, closing and locking the main entry door with the speed of light.
"What on earth is the matter with you?" he queried, looking both concerned and impatient.
"Nothing—I'm just cold." She brought a finger to her lips. "Sh. Don't want Fallon coming out to tell us that we're disturbing the entire place again. Let's get to our room, okay?"
He nodded, his gaze still curious and skeptical.
To Megan's annoyance and unease, it seemed as if some of the fog had crept into the house. Of course, only night-lights were on to guide the guests through the house to their respective rooms. The night-lights were muted and an eerie yellow.
They passed from the entry through the dining room and down the hall to their own quarters, opposite from the rest of the guest rooms. Their own wing. Private, special.
She wished that they were surrounded by tourists. By kids. People. Even crusty old Fallon would be good now.
They entered their own room. Finn switched on the light. It blazed, and she felt better. Actually, she suddenly felt as if her fear had been ridiculous. It fell from her as if she had doffed a cape from her shoulders.
Megan didn't want Finn reading the relief she felt from her face. "Running into the shower," she murmured briefly.
In the bathroom, she turned the shower on hot and lingered beneath the spray, letting the warmth and confidence seep into her, just as the cold and fear had seemed to do earlier. She scrubbed herself studiously, as if she could wash away the remnants of any unease. At last, she turned off the spray, and wrapped herself in one of the B and B's heavy terry towels.
When she emerged, she saw that the drapes to the balcony were open and fluttering inward on a gentle breeze. She walked over to the open French doors and slipped on out. Finn was at the short, Victorian-intricate railing, looking out at the night.
"Look," he said.
She stared out. She saw the sloping lawn and the street beyond. Trees, becoming denuded of their brilliant autumn covering. Buildings at a small distance, cloaked in the gentle shadows of night.
"What am I looking at?" she asked.
"The fog is gone," he said briefly.
"Yeah, well… New England," she murmured.
He turned and gave her a brief kiss. "I'm hopping in the shower. Be right out."
He was gone. She stood on the balcony alone, looking out.
The fog was gone. Completely.
And yet, as she stood there…
She felt as if she were being watched. The moon, so nearly full, rode overhead. With the fog gone, it, combined with the muted glow of street lamps, gave the area a surreal look. As if the houses weren't really solid, as if the ground didn't really lie still.
The breeze shifted, wafted, soft, and gentle…
She thought she heard her name whispered. The wind, nothing but the wind, air moving through dry and brittle leaves.
Her fingers tightened around the railing.
They were there, somewhere. The eyes that watched her. They came out of the shadow, they watched her every movement, knew her fear, knew…
"Megan?"
Once again, she nearly jumped a mile. And yet, she knew it was Finn. He was hot, still emanating a shower-warmth from beneath his bathrobe. His hands rested on her shoulders. And then, she felt that brush of his fingers against her nape, sweeping her hair aside, a touch that was so totally Finn. He set his lips against the skin bared by the movement of her hair, and they were warmer still, a touch that seemed to send the slow heat, a liquid shimmer, down the length of her spine. His fingers were long, instinctive and practiced, moving over her shoulder blades, kneading and brushing, pulling her back tautly against the length of his body.
"Tired?" he murmured.
"Um."
"How tired?"
She turned into the circle of his arms. "I suppose I could be persuaded to stay awake a little longer."
He touched her face. She loved the simple feel. Thumb caressing her chin, long forefinger stroking over her cheek. He gazed at her for a long moment, rueful grin sliding into place as he pressed closer against her, a subtle movement that was endearing and erode, locking them more intimately together, and allowing the tension of his length to seep into hers, along with the more obvious intrusion of the hard rise of his sex. His mouth covered hers then, encompassing, molding first, then the tease of the tip of his tongue, and something more forceful as it slipped between her lips, invasive, hungry, awakening whatever desire might not have been evident in the simple magic of his hold. Megan clung to him, still awed by the explosive sweep of longing he could create, the surge in her blood, the simmer, then the surge of sheer physical urgency he had the power to create. It had been like this from the beginning… the touch, and everything that was known was new; she was shaky and trembling, hot and breathless… as desperate as ever.
He drew back for a moment. "Think I can keep you awake a few minutes?" he asked softly.
She pushed away from him, doing her best to offer a casual shrug. She cast her head back with a pretend yawn, and went walking slowly back into the bedroom. But once there, she kept her back to him, letting the robe slip from her shoulders to puddle to the floor. And there she waited.
And he came. A subtle, sensual assault from such a position, once again, his fingers at her nape, and then his lips, and then just the touch of his kiss, the brush of his tongue, slowly down the length of her spine.
Mercilessly slow, far too quickly… but then his hands, upon her hips, and the sudden shift of her body, him on his knees, hair soft against the tender flesh of her abdomen, and then his lips, tongue… caressing all over again… until her fingers were entangled in his hair, and the world seemed to spin. Any fog was silver, any thought was purely carnal, and her words were whimpers and pleas, then warnings that she would fall.
He was up, and ever the romantic, sweeping her up into his hold, and carrying her the few steps to the bed. There was a brief touch of laughter as he nearly tripped flat over his own shoes in his effort to kill the light, but then they were falling, and the sheer heat, rippled power, length and breadth of his body blanketed her, and a moment later, they were entangled as one, and she knew what she had missed when they were apart, and she didn't think she could ever bear to think they could stay apart, that he might not be hers forever, that this might not be hers…