Dead of Night

The memories were the same.



The kitchen had always been Esme’s domain. Sarah’s mother was often out when she got home from school, but Esme was always there, a calm, stoic presence in the midst of Sarah’s loneliness.



As for Rachel, she barely took the time to change her clothes before she was off again to cheerleading practice or student council meetings or whatever it was that she did after school to keep her away from the house.



Sarah’s father would get home at six and go straight to his study, where he would expect to relax without interruption until dinner. Then they would all sit down together, and for the next hour, time would creep for Sarah. If she’d had her way, she would have eaten all her meals in the kitchen or at Esme’s cottage. Anywhere but at the same table as a man who could barely stand to look at her.



Sean was right, Sarah thought now as she carried her suitcase up the stairs to her old room. Why did she keep coming back here? Why couldn’t she just let the old man die in his own bitterness?



Did she really think her sojourns back to Adamant were going to finally earn his love and approval? After all these years?



That’s not why I’m here.



She’d come home, because the demons that had to be confronted were here. The evil that had to be vanquished...was right here in this house.



Chapter 20



Sarah slept very little that night, but the next morning, she was up and dressed by nine. The rain had stopped sometime during the night, and the sun that slanted through her bedroom window looked warm and inviting. She stared out into the backyard, watching the spiral of smoke from Esme’s chimney. Even though it was warm out, Esme still wanted her fire.



Halfway down the stairs, the smell of coffee hit Sarah, and as she walked out into the kitchen, she saw that Esme had already been there. She’d left a plate of frosted cinnamon buns, and Sarah nibbled on one as she waited for the coffee to finish brewing.



Fifteen minutes later, she was out the door. Esme would be in church by now so Sarah didn’t bother stopping by the cottage. Instead, she cut through the orchard and headed across the field.



The ground was still wet from the rainstorm, and by the time Sarah reached the farmhouse, her shoes were caked with mud. She used a stick to clean them off, and then she stood there for the longest time staring at the house.



It was typical of a late nineteenth-century farmhouse. Two stories, a wide porch and a peaked roof. The whitewash on the siding had long since worn away, and the roof looked ready to cave in places. Weeds and brambles had taken over the front yard, and the pine forest was slowly reclaiming the cotton fields.



Sarah had been making the trip out here each time she’d returned to see her father. But as she stepped up on the porch, she realized this was the farthest she’d ventured. Her first trip out here had been just before Christmas. She’d parked at the end of the gravel road and sat for a long time. The next time, she’d walked over from the house, but had gotten no farther than the edge of the overgrown yard. The last time, she’d made it all the way to the steps and had even managed to sit for a moment.



Now she was actually standing on the porch. A few more steps and she would be at the door. Another step and she would be inside.



But she wouldn’t take those extra steps today. Already her breath was coming too fast, and the tension in her chest was like a balled-up fist. She’d downed half a Xanax before she left the house, but it hadn’t yet taken effect.



Or maybe, maybe, the anxiety gripping her was too powerful for any medication.



As Sarah stared at the old weathered door, panic rolled over her, making her palms sweat and her stomach churn.



Squeezing her eyes closed, she tried to remember what Michael had told her to do when she felt the onslaught of an attack. Take deep breaths. Nice and slow. In...out. In...out.



She opened her eyes, and the door seemed to waver, like a mirage. Perspiration broke out on her forehead and she felt herself go weak at the knees. Sarah grabbed the nearest newel post and clung for dear life. She wouldn’t black out. Not here.



Dear God, please not here.



The last time...



Mustn’t think about that. Couldn’t think about that.



Fumbling in her pocket, she found the other half of the pill and managed to work up enough saliva to get it down. Sinking to the steps, she dropped her head between her knees.



The sun had felt warm on the way over, but now the breeze was cold against her clammy skin. Shivering, Sarah kept her head down until the spell subsided.



She shouldn’t have come out here. Obviously, she wasn’t ready.



But if not now, when? Would she ever find the courage to confront what waited for her inside that house? Or was she destined to spend the rest of her life running from shadows? Running from the truth, and forever chased by a terrible fear? A hideous secret she couldn’t even remember?



You can’t fight evil in the dark, Sarah. The only way you can truly defeat it is to bring it into the light.



As quickly as the attack came on, the panic left her. Whether from her own resolve or the medication, Sarah didn’t know or care. She was back in control now. That was all that mattered.



Feeling steadier, she lifted her head a split second before she felt his fingers in her hair.



Chapter 21



The touch was phantom. Had to be. Or maybe the wind had ruffled her hair.



The floorboards on the porch creaked, and as Sarah lifted her head, she saw a shadow on the ground looming over her. Someone had come up behind her.



Startled, she scrambled down the steps and whirled, almost expecting to find a funereal face staring back at her. But the man on the porch wasn’t Ashe Cain.



In the years since Sarah had last seen Derrick Fears, he’d undergone a drastic metamorphosis. Gone was the weird teen that had seemed so dark and mysterious and impossibly cool to the adolescent Sarah. The Goth Svengali who had claimed to walk in the devil’s footsteps. In his place was a thirty-one-year-old man with a scarred and careworn face. Hard eyes and a cruel, taunting mouth.



Gone also was the corpse pallor and the dyed black hair. His head was peeled now, the hair buzzed so short that when he turned a certain way, Sarah could see the inverted-cross tattoo on the left side of his skull. One of the few remaining remnants of the boy who’d once called himself Azrael.



He wore jeans and an old flannel shirt over a gray concert T-shirt. Ink flames licked up his neck and kissed the line of his jaw. His sleeves were rolled up and his forearms were also covered in art, but Sarah couldn’t make out the individual designs.



His eyes mocked her from the porch. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”



“I know exactly who you are,” Sarah said in a steady voice.



“After all these years?” He propped his hand on one of the newel posts, his gaze never leaving hers. “It’s been a long time. How’ve you been, Sarah?”



“Not too bad. And you?”



“Can’t complain. Not after where I’ve been.” The smile disappeared and his gaze hardened. “I guess you heard I spent some time in the slammer.”



“Someone may have mentioned it. I don’t live here anymore, though, so I don’t keep up with local gossip.”



“I can’t blame you for that. If I were in your place, I wouldn’t want to be reminded of this shit hole, either. Although I can’t help wondering what brings you out here.”



“I was wondering the same thing about you.”



A faint smile touched his lips. “Maybe I was hoping to run into you.”



“How did you know I was in town?”



“Unlike you, I do keep up with local gossip.”



“That still doesn’t explain how you knew I would be here this morning.” His perfectly timed arrival seemed too much of a coincidence to Sarah, and the notion that he had followed her sent a chill straight down her spine.



“I guess we just think alike, is all.” He glanced over his shoulder at the house. “Have you been inside?”



“No, not yet.”



“Don’t tell me you’re afraid. This place never used to scare you. You hung out here all the time.”



That was before my sister was murdered in the front room. “This was your haunt, too. You and your friends. Did you ever see a strange boy hanging around here a few weeks before my sister was killed?”



That half smile again. “Strange is a relative term for people like you and me. What did he look like?”



“He was Goth. Except...”



“Except...what?”



She shook her head. “Nothing. You may have seen him with me.”



He paused. “I never saw you with anyone. You always came out here alone. Just you and your dog.”



Something in his eyes—and that slight hesitation—made Sarah wonder if he was lying. But if he’d seen her with Ashe Cain, he would surely have told the police.



“Back then, you were the only person I knew who’d come out here by yourself after dark,” Fears said. “Besides me, of course. You had a real thing for spooky places, didn’t you?”



“So did you, apparently.”



“Nah, I did all that stuff to get under my old man’s skin. I liked shocking people. But some of the spells we cast in the house were pretty damn convincing. I had a few of those idiot assholes believing we’d actually summoned the devil one night.”



“You played your part well,” Sarah said. “You had your own little cult.”



“It wasn’t difficult. People are stupid for the most part. They believe what they want to believe.”



He stared down at her in amusement, the nightmare house behind him.



“Take those footprints,” he said. “That shit never happened. It was just some old gomer with a wild imagination. Should have shipped him off to the loony bin, but instead people believed him. Got so worked up, they convinced themselves the devil climbed out of an oil well and danced his way across a cotton field.”



His laugh was hard and mean. He folded his arms and leaned a shoulder into the post. “People used to believe a lot of things about you, too, didn’t they? You know what we called you?”



“I can only imagine.”



“Suicide Sarah.”



Her reaction was visceral. “That’s a terrible thing to call someone. Especially a kid.”



“It fit you, though, didn’t it? You were gloomy as hell back then.”



“That’s pretty ironic, coming from a guy who used to call himself the Angel of Death. Oh, yes,” she said, when she saw his brow lift in surprise. “I knew what your name meant.”



“I always did think you were smarter than most folks around here gave you credit for.” He glanced toward the door. “Isn’t there an old saying about the murderer always returning to the scene of the crime?”



Gooseflesh prickled at the back of Sarah’s neck. He watched her as she watched him.



“What happened to your sister...must be hard to get over something like that. Especially if you were close. But you and Rachel weren’t that close, were you? Least that’s what I always heard. Maybe because she was your old man’s favorite. Everybody in town knew how crazy he was about her. Didn’t have much use for you, though, did he? Shipped you off the first chance he got.”



Slowly, he came down the steps. Sarah resisted the urge to retreat. For some reason, he seemed determined to intimidate her and she was just as determined that he wouldn’t.



He cocked his head, studying her. “You don’t take after him much, do you? ’Course that’s a plus in my book.”



“Why’s that?”



“Let’s just say, I’m not one of the judge’s biggest fans. Not after the way he used his pull to try and railroad me for that murder. Kind of surprising a man in his position would rush to judgment on such flimsy evidence. You’d think he’d want to make damn sure they got the right guy.”



“Despite what my father did or didn’t do, you were never charged with Rachel’s murder,” Sarah said.



“No, I wasn’t, but that don’t cut much ice in these parts. Most of the mullet crowd still believe I killed her. They believe it, because that’s what they want to believe. It’s easier than thinking someone else did it. A neighbor maybe. Or a close friend. Be hard living with that kind of suspicion in a town this small. So the self-righteous pricks just keep right on telling themselves I did it. They keep right on looking at me like I’m something they wouldn’t want to scrape off their shoes.”



“Why are you telling me all this?” Sarah said. “I’m not one of those people. I haven’t even seen you in years.”



“Because there’s something you need to know about me. I may be a lot of things, but I’m not a murderer. I killed once in self-defense, and the only reason I did time was because the jury wanted to stick it to me for what happened to your sister. That way, they could tell themselves I got what was coming to me.”