The Awakening

She was trembling. He swept her up, knowing the way to her wing of the house. It was hours and hours later when he finally talked.



Somehow, he said all the right words.



It had been a bright, outstanding day in Boston.



Crystal blue, beautiful.



A Saturday. Children played in the parks. Boccie games went on in Little Italy. Tourists thronged through Faneuil Hall and were lined up to enter the Paul Revere House. September and October brought a steady stream of people to New England, and to Bean Town, the North Shore, and beyond. The fall foliage was like a brilliant beacon, and provided a splendor that was a feast for the eyes.



Night fell softly, the weather cool, but not bitter, pleasant. Saturday night, and couples and singles partied and played. Families went to dinner. Clubs stayed open late.



Sunday came and went.



All in all, it was a quiet weekend in a big city where crime was inevitable.



It wasn't until Tuesday morning, when Theresa Kavanaugh failed to show up for work a second day in a row, that she was reported missing to police.



And though every possible lead was followed, no one had seen her since she had left the bar Friday night.



She had been flirting with a man at the pool table…



But oddly enough, no one could give a description of him.



There were no signs of her having returned to her apartment. And there were no signs of violence along the way from the bar to her home.



No sign of… anything.



It was as if she had just vanished into thin air.



Like hundreds, or even thousands, of young women across the country, Theresa Kavanaugh had simply disappeared.



She was well over twenty-one, an adult. She might have chosen to disappear. It would be her legal right



to do so.



Her coworkers fantasized about what might have happened.



They could remember nothing about the man at the pool table, except that…



He'd been wicked good-looking. In fact…



Devilishly exciting.



Chapter 1



Megan was screaming.



In the terrible reality that was happening, she heard her own voice.



In the darkness, she knew the sense of a spiraling fear that threatened to become overwhelming, to smother her. She had a sense of fatality, and she saw the shadow figure, saw him entering the room.



Adrenaline raced through her, desperation, the sense that she must move, must fight for survival.



The sound continued—it was all she heard and she screamed and screamed, knowing the deadly menace that had come to her. She knew, as well, that she had said something, done something, to precipitate what was happening. She knew each step as it occurred, the figure appearing, the fear, the terrible understanding of what was to come. She felt the violence as he came upon her, his touch upon her hair first, then her clothing, the blows against her as she resisted. The violation of her flesh, the hands around her throat…



Faceless, he was faceless, but she knew him, she had to know him.



Had to know his hands. Around her throat, then his hands, pressing her down, and she knew she was going to die. She wasn't sure how… Would the hands so powerful against her flesh crush the life from her, or was this only to subdue her? Would there be a knife blade, a pressing against her throat, creating a rich spill of blood… ?



Whichever, it was coming, and she knew that it was coming, and she still couldn't see his face, only the darkness, and she was suddenly certain of a welling of sound, soft and low and underlying the chilling shrill of her screams, a sound of chanting, voices, many voices…



Whispers, laughter.



Eerie laughter, evil laugher…



She screamed louder, fought more wildly, desperate now not just to save her life, but to still the cackling sounds that seemed to enter her very soul, wrapping around it, crushing the life from it, as the hands upon her seemed to be doing with flesh.



She kicked, tried so hard to keep screaming, but she had no breath, no sound could come, no air could come…



Only the pulse, the thunder of her heart.



Fight, fight… even as a darkness deeper than night fell before her eyes. Kick, scratch, fight… claw at the hands…



The hands… that slipped as she dug her nails hard…



Screaming, still, the sound of screaming…



"Megan! Jesus, stop! Megan!"



Hands, again, on her shoulders, shaking her. She struck out, hard, desperately.



"Megan! Damn! Megan, wake up!"



She awoke, stunned, still hearing distant screams, but they were coming from her.



"Megan!"



Finn straddled over her then. His right hand was vised around her wrists; he was rubbing his jaw with his left. He stared down at her, his eyes as brilliant as twin knife blades, his face ashen.



"Megan! What the hell is the matter with you?"



Abruptly, her screaming stopped.



She was drawn from the incredible reality of the world she had entered in her sleep to the true reality of life. And in real life, she was in a quiet bed and breakfast in a quiet, historical town that only went a bit crazy during the month of October.



"Finn! Oh, my God, Finn!"



She tried to pull her arms free.



"Are you going to sock me in the jaw again?"



"I didn't!"



"You did."



"I'm so sorry… please!"



He eased his hold. She reached up, curled her arms around his neck, shaking, nearly sobbing.



A dream. It had been nothing but a dream.



He didn't push her away, but his shoulders were as stiff as boards. When she drew back, the look in his narrowed green eyes was wary, distant, and accusing.



"Megan, Jesus Christ, what the hell was that all about?"



"I had the most awful nightmare."



"A nightmare—and you had to scream like a thousand hounds were after you, here, now!"



He was interrupted by a hard banging on the door.



She bit her lower lip, wincing. Finn jumped up and reached for the terry bathrobe she had discarded before bed that lay upon the floor by their side.



He opened the door. From the darkness of the room, Megan could see the dimly lit hallway. Mr. Fallon, the groundskeeper and jack-of-all-trades at Huntington House, stood grimly in the doorway.



"What goes on here, Mr. Douglas?" he demanded sternly.



"I'm so sorry. It seems that Megan has had a nightmare," Finn explained.



Mr. Fallon gave Finn an up and down glare that implied he didn't believe a word of it. In fact, it looked as if he were about to call the police, and see that Finn was charged with some form of domestic violence.



"Sounded like a bloody murder!" Fallon said.



Megan couldn't just hop up and explain herself. She was naked. She called out weakly from the bed.



"I'm fine, Mr. Fallon, really. I just had a horrible nightmare. I'm so, so sorry!"



"Well, then, it's a good thing you're in this wing of the house," Fallon said brusquely. "You'd be waking up the whole household, with such caterwaulin'! Do you have these nightmares often, young lady?"



"No, no… of course, not!" Megan called.



"As you can see," Finn told Fallon irritably, "everything is perfectly all right in here."



"Actually, young man, there's not all that much I can see—since it's so darned dark and all. But we don't take kindly to folks fighting around here—not in Huntington House. We're a fine establishment with a good reputation."



"Of course," Finn said.



"The Merrills have a reputation in these parts, too," he said, referring to Megan's family.



She wasn't sure if the reputation her family had garnered was good or bad.



"I'm honestly sorry, Mr. Fallon. There were too many tales filling my head when I fell asleep, I believe."



"Humph!"



"I had a nightmare," Megan said, her tone quiet but firm. She thought she resented Mr. Fallon. She was suddenly certain he didn't think much of the Merrill family at all.



"See that you keep it down," Fallon said. "There can be no more such outbursts—sir!" He had started speaking to Megan; he ended with a word of warning for Finn.



"Good night," Finn said.



Fallon nodded, and moved off. Reluctantly, so it seemed.



Finn closed the door. Darkness descended with the night-lights gone from the hall. But a second later the room was flooded with light as Finn hit the switch at the side of the door. He leaned against the door, crossing his arms over his chest, staring at Megan.



"He thinks I was beating you."



"Oh, Finn, surely not—"



"Everyone knows we've just gotten back together."



"Don't be ridiculous. Fallon doesn't know a thing about us."



"Well, he seems to know all about your family, and therefore, he probably knows we've just gotten back together, and he surely thinks you made a major mistake and that I was about to slit your throat before he arrived."



"Finn, stop it. Surely, somewhere in his life, sometime before, someone has woken up from a nightmare, screaming."



"You think? I've never woken up before next to a woman screaming loudly enough to burst my eardrums."



"Dammit, Finn, I've said I'm sorry! I didn't do it on purpose! I had a dream, a really terrible nightmare.



Someone was going to kill me!" she said, surprised to feel a hint of the fear rising within her again, as if it would choke off her speech. "In fact, a little sympathy would be in order."



He stood, still distant, staring at her for a long moment. Even the way he looked now, far too tall for the terry bathrobe, legs seeming impossibly long and honed beneath the white hem, she loved him so much.



From his tousled dark hair to his bare feet. Things were so tenuous between them, now. Before… once, before, she would have flown from the bed and into his arms. But only a month had passed since they'd been back together, a month since he'd driven up the East Coast to Maine, come to her folks' house, and laid everything on the line.



"Finn!" she said, still shaky, and growing angry herself.