Cusp of Night

By Mae Clair

The truth hides in dark places . . .
 
Recently settled in Hode’s Hill, Pennsylvania, Maya Sinclair is enthralled by the town’s folklore, especially the legend about a centuries-old monster. A devil-like creature with uncanny abilities responsible for several horrific murders, the Fiend has evolved into the stuff of urban myth. But the past lives again when Maya witnesses an assault during the annual “Fiend Fest.” The victim is developer Leland Hode, patriarch of the town’s most powerful family, and he was attacked by someone dressed like the Fiend.  
 
Compelled to discover who is behind the attack and why, Maya uncovers a shortlist of enemies of the Hode clan. The mystery deepens when she finds the journal of a late nineteenth-century spiritualist who once lived in Maya’s house—a woman whose ghost may still linger. Known as the Blue Lady of Hode’s Hill due to a genetic condition, Lucinda Glass vanished without a trace and was believed to be one of the Fiend’s tragic victims. The disappearance of a young couple, combined with more sightings of the monster, trigger Maya to join forces with Leland’s son Collin. But the closer she gets to the truth, the closer she comes to a hidden world of twisted secrets, insanity, and evil that refuses to die . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lyrical Press
• Release date: Jun 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9781516107278

Book preview

The truth hides in dark places . . .

Recently settled in Hode’s Hill, Pennsylvania, Maya Sinclair is enthralled by the town’s folklore, especially the legend about a centuries-old monster. A devil-like creature with uncanny abilities responsible for several horrific murders, the Fiend has evolved into the stuff of urban myth. But the past lives again when Maya witnesses an assault during the annual Fiend Fest. The victim is developer Leland Hode, patriarch of the town’s most powerful family, and he was attacked by someone dressed like the Fiend.

Compelled to discover who is behind the attack and why, Maya uncovers a shortlist of enemies of the Hode clan. The mystery deepens when she finds the journal of a late nineteenth-century spiritualist who once lived in Maya’s house—a woman whose ghost may still linger. Known as the Blue Lady of Hode’s Hill due to a genetic condition, Lucinda Glass vanished without a trace and was believed to be one of the Fiend’s tragic victims. The disappearance of a young couple, combined with more sightings of the monster, triggers Maya to join forces with Leland’s son Collin. But the closer she gets to the truth, the closer she comes to a hidden world of twisted secrets, insanity, and evil that refuses to die . . .

Visit us at www.kensingtonbooks.com

Books by Mae Clair

Weathering Rock

Twelfth Sun

Myth and Magic

The Point Pleasant Series

A Thousand Yesteryears (Book 1)

A Cold Tomorrow (Book 2)

A Desolate Hour (Book 3)

The Hode’s Hill Novels

Cusp of Night (Book 1)

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

Cusp of Night

The Hode’s Hill Novels

Mae Clair

LYRICAL PRESS

Kensington Publishing Corp.

www.kensingtonbooks.com

Copyright

Lyrical Press books are published by

Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018

Copyright © 2018 by Mae Clair

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First Electronic Edition: June 2018

eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0727-8

eISBN-10: 1-5161-0727-6

First Print Edition: June 2018

ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0730-8

ISBN-10: 1-5161-0730-6

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

In memory of my father, who showed me how to paint pictures with words.

Acknowledgments

A number of people helped shape this book into the story it is today. To Staci Troilo, thanks for your enthusiasm, suggestions, and quick turnarounds on the draft chapters I sent. I couldn’t ask for a better critique partner. To Paige Christian, my editor at Kensington, you continue to amaze me with the polish you apply to my work. I am truly grateful for your insightful recommendations and your attention to detail. It is always a pleasure to work with you! To the team at Kensington and Lyrical Underground, thank you for all that you do on my behalf. Everyone is a class act. A special thank you to my husband for putting up with my weekend writing marathons, late night deadlines, and all the times in between when the plot lines don’t seem to fit and there just aren’t enough hours in the day. Your faith in me helps me batter through the hurdles. Finally, to my readers, I can’t thank you enough for your support. A story is nothing without an audience to embrace it. That you look forward to and enjoy my books makes writing worthwhile.

Chapter 1

April 9, 1900

Charlotte Hode gathered her Dorothy bag, looped the drawstrings over her wrist, then smoothed her woolen skirt as she waited for Frederick. Water dripped from the broad brim of his hat when he opened the carriage door.

It’s a bad one tonight, Missus Hode. Foggy as all get out. Not even Thomas Edison’s white magic could cut through this.

Gauging the fog, she’d have to agree. The Wizard of Menlo Park may have illuminated the streets of New York and Philadelphia with electricity, but lamplighters still saw to the lanterns of Hode’s Hill each evening and morning. Edison’s current wouldn’t stand up to river fog.

Accepting Frederick’s hand, she stepped outside, then opened her umbrella. The walk isn’t far.

Frederick rummaged inside the coach. Let me light a lamp for you.

No, I think not. She knew the way and didn’t want the attention a light might attract. Someone would surely hail her if they saw that glow in the darkness, and she couldn’t risk word getting back to Henry. Her husband had forbidden her to see Lady Glass, a troubling turnabout as he’d once attended séances with her. I shouldn’t be more than an hour, Frederick. Climb inside where it’s dry.

The least I can do is walk you to the medium’s house.

Your kindness is appreciated, but it’s important I gather my thoughts for the reading. Your presence would only serve as a distraction. The lie rolled from her tongue in an effort to spare his feelings. He was too big a man, far more likely to be seen than her. If Henry learned of what Frederick had done this night, it would spell the end of his employment. She couldn’t afford the loss of an ally in her quest of future visits with Lady Glass.

But the Fiend, Missus. If anything should happen to you—

I don’t believe in the Fiend. She hoped her defiance held true. And even if there is a devil-imp that haunts these streets, terrifying women, he surely has more sense than to be out on such a miserable night. She pulled the hood of her cloak securely about her head. I’ll see you in an hour.

Before Frederick could protest, Charlotte strode briskly down the alley. She’d walked that path many times, though usually in daylight. Clipped echoes rang from the cobblestones beneath her heels, the sound quickly swallowed by the fog. The back stoops of homes loomed on either side, each brownstone abode invisible until she came upon doors and windows shuttered against the night.

It took several moments of braving the rain before she turned the corner onto Chicory. A gas lamp marked the junction where the narrow lane joined River Road. Lucinda Glass’s brownstone squatted on the corner, the last in a row of six with a broad view of the Chinkwe River.

Gathering her long skirts in one hand, Charlotte hastened up the stone steps to the front door. Lady Glass’s housemaid, Emma Dorsey, answered on the second knock.

Hello, Emma. Charlotte smiled at the older woman whom she’d come to know through her many visits. I believe Lady Glass is expecting me.

I must apologize, Mrs. Hode. I have unfortunate news. Emma moved aside, allowing her room to enter. A severe black frock and tightly pinned gray hair added to the gravity of her expression.

I hope I’m not too late. Stepping into the foyer, Charlotte closed her umbrella, conscious when it dribbled water onto the floor. The warmth of the small space surrounded her, banishing the damp of the outdoors. She inhaled the scent of lavender and sandalwood. I had Frederick make the appointment for me, but we were slowed by the fog. I came as quickly as travel permitted.

I don’t doubt your sincerity. Emma took the umbrella and placed it in a cylindrical stand to the right of the door. Please come in and sit for a moment out of the chill.

Is something wrong?

Lady Glass is indisposed this evening. Emma led her to a parlor where lanterns and tall candles kept the night at bay. It was common for Charlotte to wait there before being escorted to Lucinda’s séance room where the medium conversed with sitters from her spirit cabinet.

Indisposed? The word rolled from Charlotte’s lips with a tremor. She lowered the hood of her cloak. But I had so looked forward to tonight’s session. Sinking to the edge of a tufted chair, she tugged off her gloves. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t speak so inconsiderately. Is Lady Glass ill?

I’m afraid so. She asked me to make her apologies. Emma folded her hands at waist-level, her long fingers crinkled like aged parchment. Communicating with the spirit world commands a toll, especially for one as sensitive to Summerland as Lady Glass. I’m sure you understand. Straightening her shoulders, she plucked a piece of lint from her skirt.

Of course.

May I get you some tea? Something to ward off the chill?

No, thank you. If she needed to venture back into the dreary night, Charlotte preferred to address the task sooner than later. The faster she and Frederick returned to the manor, the quicker she could banish the dampness. The quicker she could cradle little Reginald in her arms. I’m not sure how soon I’ll be able to return, but I’ll send Frederick to arrange something when I have a better grasp. Mr. Hode has taken exception to my visits as of late.

Emma’s mouth thinned as if she found the observation unpleasant. That is unfortunate, but perhaps just as well. It is difficult to say how long this spell will last. Taking Charlotte’s arm, she steered her toward the foyer, a trace of apprehension darkening her eyes. A medium takes much upon herself, but Lady Glass carries a greater burden than most. Her gift is a costly one.

Charlotte raised her hood and tightened the ribbons. I didn’t realize the difficulty inherent with her abilities. She felt foolish, even selfish, imagining her own sessions had contributed to the seer’s frail health. Please give Lady Glass my best.

I will, dear. Emma passed her the wet umbrella.

Within moments, Charlotte was outside in the dismal weather. The drizzle had steadied into a light rain, pattering in a ceaseless rhythm against the cobblestones. The gas lamp on the corner was barely visible through the thickening fog. It would be a rough ride back in the carriage, bordering on miserable, now that she’d lost the opportunity to communicate with her deceased mother and share the news of Reginald’s birth. Drawing the collar of her cloak about her throat, Charlotte hurried down Chicory toward the alley. How far to the carriage? The fog played tricks with the distance, shapes materializing from the mist with an abruptness that made her regret not taking the lamp Frederick offered. When a cat shot out in front of her, she gasped.

Silly animal. Pressing a hand to her heart, she breathed deeply. The feline darted across the alley, vanishing into the mist. Were those footsteps behind her?

She glanced over her shoulder, but it was impossible to see more than a few feet. Rain trickled from the edge of the umbrella and splattered onto her gloves. Quickening her pace, she scurried forward. She’d only managed a few steps when the footsteps echoed again.

Once more she looked over her shoulder. Frederick. Perhaps he’d left the carriage in search of her when the rain grew heavier. Frederick?

The footsteps quickened, lengthening into a fleet run. Hair prickled on the back of her neck. She hesitated, torn between fleeing and needing to see who followed. Within seconds, a painted face bobbed in front of her from the fog. The macabre mask hung disembodied, a leering devil with ice white eyes and cadaverous grin.

The Fiend! Dear God, the monster was real.

Charlotte screamed and tried to run, her long skirts twisting about her ankles. Stumbling, she dropped her umbrella. Frederick! Her frightened cry echoed through the night, swallowed by the fog. Oh, Frederick, please help!

Fingers fisted on the back of her cloak and yanked hard, wheeling her around and tugging, until she was pressed up against the hard body of the Fiend. Trapped mere inches from that demonic face and hateful gaze, she swooned. Her vision spun into a funnel curtained with fog and rain as if the night had blindfolded her. A stinging flare of heat ripped across her stomach, chased by something sticky and damp. She tried to find her breath and wheezed out a faint bubble. Oh!

Pain ruptured upward from her navel. Fire seared her voice and left her choking soundlessly on cold air. Her knees buckled. The Fiend released her, and she wilted to the cobblestones, conscious of a dark stain spreading beneath her.

Blood.

The stench of hot metal and damp wool clotted her nostrils. She choked on tears, overcome by the realization she would never cradle her baby again or see the husband who had given her such a precious gift. A foolish woman, she’d paid for her folly. Why hadn’t she heeded Henry and stayed safe at home? Blood plastered her bodice to her skin, sticky heat against the rain. She folded to the side—down to the damp press of cobblestones against her cheek, the thick gathering silt of the dead.

The Fiend stepped closer. Hunkered down near her head.

Charlotte forced herself to grip the hand that clutched the bloody knife. Twisting her neck, she stared up into the awful leering face. Why? Please…tell me why.

The slice of the blade across her throat paid her passage to Summerland.

* * * *

Present Day

Yaaaayaa!

Maya Sinclair was undecided if she should laugh or scream at the man’s silly howl. The fiend leaped in front of her, quickly dropping into a Quasimodo-type squat. It wasn’t every day she encountered a black-cloaked figure wearing a painted devil’s mask, but it was her third of the evening. She’d lost count of how many roamed the festival grounds. This one wasn’t as convincing as some, but his sudden appearance gave her a start.

That’s pitiful, Graham. You sound like a cat in heat. Her friend, Ivy McDowell, pinched the straw on her Diet Coke, sipping from a tall paper cup.

Straightening, the fiend lowered his hood. He tugged off the mask to reveal short blond hair tousled in a sweaty mop and heavy brows pinched into a vee. How’d you know it was me?

Ivy pointed to the half-moon tattoo on the back of his right hand. Dead giveaway.

Oh. He grinned sheepishly. Not that it matters. I’m just here having fun, not competing in the contest.

This town takes its festivals seriously. Of all the fiends Maya had seen threading between the food and craft booths dotting the riverbank of Hode’s Hill, Graham was by far the least threatening. Tall and bony, he wore a simple black cloak over a dark T-shirt and jeans. His bright blue Nike sneakers screamed air-sole comfort.

Others took the situation more seriously, decked out in period clothing that included black sack coats with matching waistcoats, trousers, and boots. Some had even opted for elaborate face paint rather than the plastic and latex masks hawked at the vendor booths. Early June wasn’t unbearably hot, but even with the light breeze from the Chinkwe River, she imagined most of the costumed fiends were roasting in their inky getups.

Graham turned appraising hazel eyes on her. I don’t think we’ve met.

Graham Kingston, Maya Sinclair. Ivy waved a hand between them. Graham’s company did the interior painting on your brownstone, Maya.

My dad’s, actually. Graham rolled his shoulders in a shrug. I mean…my dad’s company.

Maya smiled. Nice to meet you. The tag-on explanation was every bit as awkward as his mannerisms.

Ivy used her straw to poke the ice chips in her cup. I thought you’d be here with Tina Sanford. The spark in her eyes bordered on amused.

Nah. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Graham shifted from foot to foot. On a shorter person, it would have looked like waddling. We just bum around sometimes. A flush stole over his cheeks. I’m headed to the food tents to grab some barbeque and fries. I heard Brook’s helping out. He flipped a parting wave. It was nice meeting you, Maya. I’m sure I’ll see you around.

Ivy watched him leave, the humor in her gaze hooded by affection. I almost hate baiting him. She brushed chestnut hair from her eyes. Almost.

Maya felt like she’d missed something. What was that about?

Me stirring the kettle. Ivy hooked her arm through Maya’s and steered her farther down the riverbank. Several masked fiends had gathered in front of a portable stage draped with a curtained backdrop. Rows of folding chairs lined the space in front of the platform and small white lights dangled from a wire around the base. A few of the chairs were occupied, people camped out with pizza or hot dogs, cans of soda and cups of lemonade planted in the grass at their feet. Several festivalgoers had brought their own lawn chairs, stationing them beneath the trees to take advantage of the shade. The air smelled of sun-warmed grass, wet river stone, and hot bubbling cheese. The tempting aroma of fresh-baked pizza made her mouth water.

Graham’s besotted with Brook Tyler, Ivy explained as two school-aged boys darted past, black fiend cloaks flapping behind them. Tina is his standby. Sad, because I’m not sure Brook knows he exists.

Our Brook? Maya’s mind shifted from pepperoni and oregano to the pretty blonde who worked the circulation desk at the Hode’s Hill Library. Maya, a transplant from South Central Pennsylvania, had only been employed at the facility for a little over two weeks, but she knew Brook as a chatty twenty-something who favored broom skirts, herbal tea, and books on spiritualism. Isn’t he a little too… She struggled for the right word—Awkward? Mundane? Ungainly?—to convey her initial impression of Graham. Stumped, she motioned helplessly.

And all that. I’ve known Graham since high school, but he’s an acquired taste. Ivy dismissed the subject with a shake of her head. Look. She pointed to the portable stage. If you’re going to live in Hode’s Hill, you need to know what makes us tick. Later tonight they’ll choose one of the contestants as the Fiend.

Maya followed her direction. Aren’t they all fiends?

A fiftyish man with a clipboard had climbed up on stage. He sat down on the lip, then swung his legs over the edge. Costumed fiends lined up to his left, most jostling in a good-natured manner. The man with the clipboard motioned to someone on the ground, and a box containing large white squares with black numbers was shoved onto the stage.

I’m talking Capital F. Ivy made air quotes with her fingers. The embodiment of the legend. The original Fiend goes back to the turn of the twentieth century. All these people dressed in costume—they’re hoping to be as spooky and terrifying as the legend.

Maya nibbled her thumbnail, watching as numbers were passed out to those who wanted to compete in the contest. Graham wasn’t there, but he’d said he’d only thrown on the cape and mask for fun. Sorry, but none of them seem very terrifying.

Sure. Not now. Ivy tossed her empty soda cup into a trash bin. What’s spooky about a bunch of people in Halloween costumes on a hot June evening? But imagine encountering one of those guys on a dark night when the only light is from a gas lantern that can’t penetrate the fog. Imagine walking through a deserted alley, then having a cloaked, masked figure leap from the shadows.

Okay. Maya re-evaluated her stance. Definitely worth a scream. She wished she’d taken the time to learn more about the Fiend of Hode’s Hill. Ivy had told her the story years ago when they’d been college roommates, but her memory of the tale was spotty. A masked demon, murder, a body in the river. She couldn’t remember and hated to admit the truth. She’d meant to delve into the legend before getting settled in Hode’s Hill, but there had been so much to do.

When Ivy had first told her about the opening for a reference librarian, she’d been hesitant to act. She’d only recently returned to work after a car accident had left her incapacitated for eight weeks. By the time she’d finally decided to apply, she’d been certain the position would be filled, but the opening had remained as if waiting for her.

Ivy had turned her onto a rental, an old brownstone a few blocks from the library, enabling her to walk to work. Her physical therapist had recommended daily walks to strengthen her muscles, and she’d come to enjoy the time outside. Not only was walking good exercise, it gave her the opportunity to reflect, something she’d been doing a lot of since the accident.

She’d signed the lease on the brownstone by e-mail, sent her deposit check to Hode Development, Inc., and arranged for a moving van to arrive the weekend before she started her new job. The town was small, located on the Chinkwe River, an offshoot of the Ohio. Caught somewhere between quaint and struggling for expansion, Hode’s Hill was a blend of old homes, converted factories, cozy eateries, and civic buildings.

Maya’s gaze wandered across the river to the opposite shoreline where a sprawling home jutted above the trees. The Hode Estate. She had a clear view of the property from her brownstone on the corner of Front and Chicory.

Ivy had pointed it out the day Maya moved in. You’ll get to know the name Hode. It’s attached to more than just the town.

Ivy elbowed her side directing her attention back toward the stage. There’s a power group if I ever saw one.

Maya took note as two men and a woman moved closer to converse with the man seated on the edge of the dais. With her long dark hair, crisp white blouse, and tailored red skirt that oozed professionalism, Angela Rossi, the mayor of Hode’s Hill, was easily recognizable. A man with salt-and-pepper hair hovered by her side, his angular face pinched above a light business suit. Maya had seen him somewhere before—newspaper? TV?—but couldn’t place where.

Her attention shifted to a tall man standing a few steps behind the others. He appeared to be in his early thirties, his sandy brown hair well-groomed if a bit on the long side. Unlike the mayor and her companion, he was dressed casually in an open-necked shirt and gray khakis.

Maya leaned closer to Ivy. I know the mayor, but who are the men?

The one glued to her side is City Councilman Gerald Pottinger.

The name clicked as the association fell into place. What about the other one?

Ivy folded her arms over her chest. That depends who you’re talking to. Some think he’s the son of the devil incarnate, others that he should be the city’s next mayor.

Maya looked at her askance. Can you translate that?

Ivy laughed. Collin Hode. And in case you’re curious, he has no political aspirations. Or so I’ve heard. What he does have is a name to open doors and money to back any play he wants once they’re open.

Maya looked back to the stage where Mayor Rossi walked up a short set of steps positioned on the left. More people had gathered in front of the platform, anticipating an announcement. Collin Hode and Councilman Pottinger remained where they were.

Hode as in Hode Development? Maya asked.

Ivy nodded. The one and only heir of Leland and Althea—or those of the gated estate. She jutted her chin to indicate the mansion on the opposite shore. Leland isn’t exactly King Kindness around here, and Althea’s as haughty as they come. When she married Leland, she had the name of the Hode estate changed to Amethyst Hall after her birthstone. Ivy’s nose crinkled in distaste. Before that it was Charlotte’s Manor, named for the Hode family ancestor who was the first victim of the Fiend. At least, that’s the legend.

Maya knew less about the Hodes than she did about the Fiend, despite renting her townhouse through their development company. Didn’t you say Graham did the interior painting on my brownstone? Does that mean his dad’s company is connected to Hode Development?

More or less. Kingston Kontracting won the Hode bid a few weeks ago. Leland fired his last paint contractor over shoddy work and jacked-up prices.

I don’t blame him.

If it’s true. Ivy’s expression said she didn’t buy the reasoning. Len Kovack, the old contractor, has been going out of his way to accuse Leland of slander. He’s claiming the whole thing is fallout over an unpaid bill. According to him, he was shorted money on his last job and rather than own up to the mistake, Leland fired him.

That’s awful. She didn’t know who to believe.

May I have your attention please? The man who appeared in charge of the fiend contest addressed the crowd from behind a wooden podium. The gathering had swelled to twice its original size, more people settling into the well-organized rows of chairs or plopping down on the grass. A young couple with a stroller paused a few feet from where Maya and Ivy stood. The baby sucked contentedly on a pacifier and a chubby-cheeked toddler clung to his