Part 25 (1/2)

There was something in the fog.

And it was after them.

She heard Andy Markham's words ricochet in her mind.

Bac-Dal wants you.

Despite Finn's presence, she started to run. ”Megan! What the h.e.l.l is the matter with you?”

He ran behind her. Long-legged, he easily caught up, catching her by the arm. Irrationally, she struggled against him. ”Finn, we have to get in!”

”Megan, please, I'm with you!” he said sternly.

Looking past his shoulder, she could see a huge old oak. There was something in it Tall, big... small. She didn't know.

But it had eyes. Eyes that glowed red and gold.

She broke free from Finn and raced for Huntington House. As fast and long-limbed as he was, he didn't catch her until she sped her way up the steps, and was struggling with the key at the door.

Finn's hand fell on her arm. She started violently, swinging around to stare at him.

”Megan-”

”Finn, there was something out there. There is something out there.”

He took the key from her, fitting it into the lock. He was stiff and angry. ”Great, Megan. A pack of weird, pierced, Wiccan women think I'm the next best thing to Arnold Schwarzenegger, but I can't even protect you from a fog.”

He pushed the door open. She preceded him in. He locked the door behind them. Once it was closed, Megan began to feel relieved, and a little bit silly. Finn remained uptight, walking ahead of her through the foyer and dining area to their room in the solitary right wing of the house. She followed behind him.

He slipped the room key into their door, and once again, walked ahead of her. She followed him in. Finn walked straight into the bathroom. She heard the fall of the shower as he turned it on. Locking their door, she eased on into the room and sat at the foot of the bed, wondering herself what had gotten into her. It was the power of suggestion, Mike had said. She needed to turn on a ridiculous sitcom.

She turned on the television, pressing the b.u.t.ton to get into the main channels.

One of the Friday the 13th movies was on. She flicked channels, coming to a Dracula movie, the Lon Chaney Werewolf, and then, on to the one of the offerings from the Nightmare on Elm Street series. She changed the channel again-no good. Mike Myers was busy chasing the Jamie Lee Curtis character in one of the Halloween offerings.

”Surely, there's a cartoon channel!” she murmured aloud.

She found it. No good. A cartoon duck had been bitten by an evil, demon dog.

She looked for a rerun of the local eleven o'clock news.

There could be no horror movies on the news channel!But in fact, the news was no better. The grisly remains of a girl who had been missing from Boston for several weeks had at last been discovered-washed up on a cold North Sh.o.r.e beach. The family had been notified, but the coroner, as yet, was not giving out any information as to the cause of death. Detectives were dismayed at the condition of the body, because the sea-water, time, and elements would have destroyed so much evidence that might have been recovered.

She turned the channel again.

Another news channel. The dead girl's name had been Theresa Kavanaugh. Once again, the newscaster announced that the coroner's office had refused to speculate on cause of death until the autopsy had been performed.

She turned back to Lon Chaney's Werewolf.

There were the trees...

Mist rising.

She turned off the television. The bathroom door opened and Finn emerged in a cloud of steam, wrapped in a towel. His flesh seemed extremely bronzed against the white terry. Muscles rippled. Hair damp, freshly washed, slicked back. He barely glanced her way, still impatient with her, or more-obviously still angry. He walked on by her, opening the drapes. Steam continued to waft from the bathroom.

Like the strange fog, it, too, seemed blue.

Finn, just wrapped in the towel, stood by the balcony doors, and opened them. He looked like Atlas standing there, naked back oddly evocative. She wanted to walk up and touch him, lean against him. She wasn't about to do so, not when it appeared that he would shake off her touch.

She walked into the shower herself.

That night, the dream was ever more vivid.

And incredibly ... gratifying.

He was walking, walking walking. Striding... no, almost strutting with confidence. Almost floating on air. He could hear the chanting, see blurred imagines of those who were applauding him. More, wors.h.i.+ping him, bowing down before him as he came, leading him onward, though he knew where he was going. Instinct kept him moving. Excitement riddled his body, enhanced and increased by the chants, the cries, the applause, and the wonder. Women touched him as he moved, stroked him, eager to do anything, please him in any way. Whispers caressed his ears, tongues laved over him with hot liquid homage. They fell to the wayside, because there was only one he wanted, one worthy of all the power and wonder that was him.

He felt the bare earth beneath his feet, and even it enhanced the raw, elemental sense of rough, carnal pleasure that was enveloping him. All lay ahead... He was there...

Filled with strength, bursting with prowess, falling upon the sheer splendor of the perfection cast before him, his due.

Taking what he would with ragged fury, knowing that all must fall down before him, that any decadence, any desire, must be met. He strained, blood pulsed through him with a bursting fury, his muscles tensed with power, the world, and anything he wanted, was his. He soared higher, burning with that explosive power, none would deny him, for he was a G.o.d...

No!

He struggled inwardly. There was something very wrong... He was not a G.o.d; there was something that wasn't pleasure, that was pain. Beneath the chanting, there was a screaming, a protest. He heard his name being cried out.

”Finn, no Finn, no Finn...”

”Stop, stop, stop...”

What the h.e.l.l was he doing? He had a greater strength than this, and there was a voice within him, telling him that it was so.

Never hurt...

Never hurt...

The lure, the enticement, of flesh and blood were powerful, surging a force that swept away archaic beliefs of right and wrong.

”No.”

”Finn.” His name. Her voice.

Drenched, sated, floating back to earth, with the chanting going on and on, he was stroked again and again, adored, and applauded...

Finn woke, groggy and miserable, only strange remnants of the dream remaining, a terrible headache plaguing him from the second he realized he was awake. He couldn't open his eyes, but rather ground them more tightly shut He groaned aloud and turned over, longing to draw Megan against him. He wanted to hold her, and tell her he was sorry, it was just that she had rather shattered his ego, being afraid of fog when he was with her, when he did love her so much, and would die to defend her.