Chapter Two
‡
Barrett Delaney believed in intuition.
From the moment he’d turned eighteen and left his last foster home, he’d trusted his gut feeling to lead him down the right road. That didn’t mean he always understood those instincts or spur of the moment decisions that had given him a reputation of having wanderlust and no desire to settle down, but he’d learned not to argue. Especially since his intuitive nature had saved his life on more than one occasion. He’d grown up hard and with considerable street skills, and that kind of background didn’t always pave the way for the easiest path.
But he’d forged his way—worked—begged—borrowed—stolen—until the stories in his head had found a place on bookshelves all over the world. He never regretted or looked back. It was the next adventure—the next destination—that stirred his blood and whetted his appetite.
He’d been on the other side of the world, enjoying the wild and untamed outback of Australia and putting the finishing touches on his latest novel when that sudden urge to move on had swept over him. He hadn’t fought it. The strength of those calls that led him from one place to the next was as much a part of him as the blood that ran through his veins or the scar on his knee from sliding into third base in a charity game a few years before.
So he packed his duffle bag and his Remington typewriter and caught the first flight to New York. Barrett didn’t worry about where he was headed or that he didn’t have a clear plan in sight. He was fortunate to be financially stable and not worry about how he was going to get somewhere, or if he’d be able to eat once he got there. He’d come a long way since those foster home days.
As soon as his plane touched down in New York he’d rented a car and started driving. It was just him and the road—complete freedom and a new adventure the only thing in sight. It was a sentiment not many could understand—the need to just go and live and experience everything he could.
He was responsible in his career, of course. He never missed a deadline, and though his publisher wanted him to do more to promote himself—more tours, more appearances, more books a year—he was content with what he had and the limits he’d set. He’d found out early on if the work consumed him then the writing was no longer fun. It was just work. And he needed the fun. Fun opened the doors to all kinds of creativity.
The drive from Manhattan up north had cleared his head and opened his eyes. Summer had come and gone while he’d been in Australia and fall had settled in comfortably. With the top open on his rented Jeep and the air crisp, he sped along winding roads and watched the reds and golds and oranges of the leaves pass him by in a flurry of color.
He didn’t stop for directions or a map. Hours passed, along with the trees and the fading sun, as he followed the curves and hills and valleys of the asphalt. Just past the Massachusetts border, he pulled to the side of the road and got out of the car to stretch his legs. And the moment his feet touched the pavement he knew there was something there—a feeling—a premonition. He didn’t know what to call it exactly. But he couldn’t believe it was coincidence that he’d chosen to stop at that spot, at that moment.
Just ahead of him was one of the many stone bridges that arched over the two-lane stretch of road. But it was the sign hidden behind overgrown trees and ivy that caught his attention. The sign was plain and rectangular, and the once dark green paint had faded over time and neglect. Like so many of the signs in New England, it hung between two sturdy white posts, though they listed to one side.
Barrett left the Jeep and walked down the shoulder of the road. It wasn’t until he was almost on top of the sign that he realized that just past the trees was a fork in the road.
“The road less traveled,” he whispered. A gust of cold air blew in from the north and a shudder wracked his body. But he shook it off and trudged ahead.
“Good thing I write horror novels or I’d be scared shitless right now.” And still the flesh on his arms pebbled the closer he got to the sign.
The ivy lay thick over the wood, lush and gnarled, and as he went to move it a bird buzzed past his head and squawked, irritated at the disturbance. He laughed nervously and rubbed his hand over his stomach. Once his heart rate slowed back to normal he pulled at the ivy once more.
“Cauldron’s Hollow,” he read, tracing the outline of the words with his finger. “Founded 1641.”
Something shifted in the atmosphere—something he couldn’t explain—and he knew this place was where he’d been coming all along.
The air was heavy around him, as if waiting for something, and he got the sense that though his gut was telling him that Cauldron’s Hollow was the place to be, there was something else not quite as happy to welcome him.
“So that’s it then.” As if the words spoken aloud were all that was needed, the air relaxed, as if it were breathing a sigh of relief, and everything whooshed back to normal. He hadn’t realized how quiet it had gotten—how the birds had stopped chirping and the leaves had stilled even though the wind was blowing.
“And with a name like Cauldron’s Hollow, the story ideas are going to flow like wine.”
Barrett got back into his car and took the fork in the road. And he wasn’t disappointed. He’d driven more than a mile before the trees cleared and the town opened up. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing up so high he had the urge to reach up and rub them down again, but he kept his hands steady on the wheel.
“I’ve been in war zones and lost in the Amazon. You think this place is going to scare me?” He was a loner by nature—most writers were—so he’d gotten in the habit of having conversations with himself to keep his imagination from running away from him at inopportune moments.
Driving into Cauldron’s Hollow was like falling into Brigadoon, where everyone was still caught in the past. The streets were cobbled, and at any moment he expected to see horse drawn carriages lumbering across the rutted roads, the sounds of hooves clomping and the smack of riding crops as they were urged to carry their loads from one place to another.
Dark gray clapboard buildings with white trim and large bay windows lined both sides of the street, and gaslights swayed from the underside of the balcony. Like many of the buildings in that part of the country, they were all attached, and matching black awnings hung over the doorways. Most of them were two-story, and the buildings on each corner had a nice curved balcony with white spindle railings.
“Post office, bank, barbershop, doctor’s office, mercantile, apothecary…” He shook his head. “This book is going to write itself.”
The sidewalks bustled with traffic and people stopped to talk to each other as they went about their daily lives. As he passed by, heads turned to stare in his direction and he gave a friendly wave. But few waved back.
“Alrighty then. Friendly kind of place. Good to know.”
He came to a large roundabout at the end of the block—a crossroads that led in four directions with a fountain in the center—and a bronze statue of a woman had been erected in the middle. Her head was thrown back and her arm stretched toward the sky as the water from the fountain shot up around her. The metal showed patina from age and the elements, but she was beautiful.
There was power there, and he thought she must have been someone incredible to warrant such a place of honor. She was immortalized at that particular moment in time forever. But there was no marker indicating her name or who she was. Only her likeness for those to remember her by. And Barrett found he very much wanted to know who she was.
The clock on the dashboard showed it was just past six o’clock in the evening. In another fifteen minutes the sun would be hidden completely behind the trees that seemed to surround the small village, fading into the brilliant oranges and reds until it looked as if the entire town was ablaze.
A vision of just that entered his mind so clearly that he stopped the car in the middle of the roundabout and put his throbbing head down on the steering wheel. Fire and smoke and the screams of the innocent. Blood and fear as chaos erupted in a place that had never known such things and didn’t know how to defend itself against them. And a large black rock, surrounded by people—some weeping and others jeering—as then axe fell on a woman’s neck. The woman at the center of the fountain.
“Jesus,” he said, scrubbing his hands over his face, not happy to see that his hands weren’t quite steady. “It’s gotta be jet lag. Time to find a hotel and get some sleep.”
But the images stayed with him as he drove on. Ideas for his books usually came to him in scenes much like that one, but never had it been so vivid. So intense. To the point where he could still taste the acrid stench of smoke in the back of his throat.
As he continued on the main stretch of road, houses—all of them white—lined the streets, though they varied in size from cottages to larger Victorians. Flowers spilled from planter boxes and fall wreaths hung from doors. Sidewalks were cracked from tree roots and lawns were well manicured. He could practically smell homemade pies cooling on the windowsills; such was the perfect picture it made.
“Which makes it all the more perfect for something a little nefarious to go down. It’s always what’s below the surface where the good stuff is.”
He’d seen the church from the moment he’d entered the town—or at least the steeple that jutted high over the trees. The closer he got, the more uneasy he became. Snippets of the vision kept flashing through his mind. It was the same white church he’d seen, though a man with a torch no longer stood in front of the wooden doors that were supposed to lead to sanctuary for any who needed it.
“Maybe sleep isn’t the answer,” he said, thinking he was in for a night of interesting dreams. “Maybe a pub and a pint instead. A lot of pints. Maybe you’ve finally lost your mind, Delaney.”
A centuries old cemetery sat in front of the church, trees shading the crumbling stone markers. But it wasn’t the cemetery and the history there that drew him. The black rock was large—large enough for a man to lay across it—or be tied down on it. He shook that image from his mind, knowing good and well it had been used for exactly that at some point in history. His palms grew damp and his heart pounded and fell straight into his stomach.
“Christ, it’s real.”
The rock sat in a place of honor, out in front of the cemetery in a small clearing of grass. It was the same rock that had flashed through his mind only moments ago, but it was also different. It looked as if it had been cleaved in two, leaving a gap large enough to walk through.
He didn’t know what kept him from examining the rock closer, but he kept his distance. It almost felt…disrespectful to invade the same space. An overwhelming sadness came over him, so he felt as if part of his soul was being ripped away. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away from it. Couldn’t keep his heart from thundering or the vision of the woman immortalized in the fountain out of his head. His heart literally felt like it was breaking.
He took a step back. And then another. All he wanted was to escape and hide in his grief.
“Are you all right?”
The voice penetrated the fog in his brain and he looked around sharply to see a woman examining him much like he had been the black rock. The expression on her face was a mixture of concern, sympathy, and annoyance, and he wondered how long she’d been standing there trying to get his attention.
“Sorry,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’m fine.” He looked back at the rock one last time and then gave her his full attention. She probably thought him a madman. “I’m just a bit jet lagged.”
The woman was tall, only a couple inches shorter than his six-foot-two, and hair the color of ink fell down to her waist. His first thought was that she’d have looked splendid in battle gear, leading warriors into battle and wielding a sword with as much strength and skill as any man. Her eyes were vividly green and intelligent, and dark brows arched as she waited for him to finish his observation. She was stunning and blatantly sexual. But his body didn’t thrum and his blood didn’t stir at the sight of her.
Much like with the rock, he felt he needed to keep his distance. She was dangerous, but not a danger to him. He had no idea where that notion had come from but he felt it to be true. She made him wary. And as much as he’d traveled and experienced in his life, there weren’t many things that had the ability to do that.
Her voice matched her looks—sultry and seductive. “We don’t get many visitors here. Are you lost? Do you need directions?”
He cleared his throat again and wondered when he’d lost the ability to think with a clear head. Pretty much the moment he stepped foot into Cauldron’s Hollow now that he thought about it. He knew how to work crowds and charm anyone with a smile or quick story. It was part of the job. But it was like his brain was no longer connected to the rest of his body.
He laughed once, shaking his head, and gave her a sheepish smile. “No, I’m not lost. I think I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. This place—” he looked around, at a loss for words. “I think I just need to find a hotel and a place to eat.”
She gave him another one of those long, observing looks, and he resisted the urge to squirm. It felt like she was peeling him apart, layer by layer, until she could see all his secrets and the deepest parts of his soul.
“You’re staying,” she said definitively, as if she’d made the decision for him. “My family has an apartment. Just there.” She pointed down the street toward the row of shops he’d been admiring. “Really, it’s my sister Eloise who owns the apartment. And the little shop below. But you’re welcome to it and welcome in Cauldron’s Hollow.”
“Staying?” he asked, realizing he must sound like a complete idiot.
“You were planning to stay, weren’t you? You might as well use the apartment. No one else is.”
And before he could talk himself out of it, he heard himself say, “I’ll take it.”
“Of course you will,” she said. “Follow me.”