Lunar Secrets

By Lori Hess and Monette Montgomery

Rod Poitra is used to weird stuff. Hes a pipe-carrier: weird goes with the calling.
His lady is a practicing Witch: weird is part of the relationship.
Two of his best friends are Derrick Lashan and Sebastian Strange: Those two redefine weird just by breathing.
But uncovering the truth about his unofficial granddaughters puppy, may be a little too weird, even for Rod.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9781479754533

Lori Hess

Monty Monette Monty Monette was born on the Turtle Mountain Indian Reservation in Belourt, North Dakota. Completed school, through grade 12, went on to culinary school, and returned to the Turtle Mountain Reservation, where he completed two Associates degrees in Arts and Sciences. He met Lori Hess in 2004 at a Renaissance Festival and the two of them began comparing stories and combining characters. Monty still lives with his family on the Turtle Mountain reservation. Lori Hess Has a BA in English from Portland State University and a certificate in Paralegal Studies from Sumner College. She has lived in Beaverton, Oregon; Belcourt, North Dakota, and is currently back in her childhood home, Utah, where she lives with a very demanding cat, Jasper. She and Monty met at a Renaissance Faire in 2004; she borrowed Monty’s Gothic look for the character of Lashan, and rest, as they say, is history.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Do some reconnaissance. See if you can pick up his trail.

The bar was small and quiet, just across the US-Canadian line. Not a dive, but not a high-end joint either. Just a bar, like any other in either country.

The door swung open, and a statuesque woman with silver-gilt blonde hair walked in, flanked by two other women.

All three were beautiful, even in jeans and loose T-shirts. All three moved with quiet, feral grace. They walked over to a table by the emergency exit, where a man and a woman sat over beers and sandwiches. He rose to his feet. One of his hands was swathed in bandages; marks like burns ran into his black-and-silver hair line. His blue eyes were cracked slate; his face lined with pain and desperation.

Laylah. His voice was as broken as his body. We didn’t expect you to come personally.

The silver-gilt blonde sighed at him.

I wouldn’t delegate this, Arden.

The waitress came up.

May I get you anything? she asked.

Not just now, Laylah said politely. Her gold-flecked brown eyes were on the fourth woman at the table, a lithe brunette, with red-rimmed eyes and a gaunt, shattered look. After the waitress left, the blonde leaned over and hugged her. Cammie, she murmured softly. Oh, Cammie. What happened?

He wandered off, Cammie said numbly. He voice was flat with shock. We followed his trail, but… .

The cover was too thick. Arden shook his head, sharply, like a wolf being irritated by a hornet. We couldn’t follow.

Laylah looked him over.

But you tried, regardless. What did you encounter?

Arden growled, literally.

It doesn’t matter. He drew Cammie against his shoulder; closed his eyes.

Laylah had to ask. She did so gently, gripping Cammie’s hands in hers.

Are you sure he’s still alive?

Cammie’s head snapped up. Her eyes, the same gold-flecked brown as Laylah’s, burned with such a fierce fire that a growl rose from the remaining two women at the table.

"HE. LIVES." The words were shredded between Cammie’s teeth. The gold her eyes began to expand, eating away at the brown pigment.

The two women flanking Laylah pushed back from the table and rose to their feet with movements so graceful, their incredible speed was concealed.

Laylah didn’t move. Her breathing didn’t even change.

Arden murmured something in Cammie’s ear, too low even for Laylah to catch. Cammie took a breath. Another. Her eyes began to shift back to gold-flecked brown.

I’m sorry, she murmured at last. I just… .

You’re frightened for your son, Laylah said. She turned to the woman on her left, a striking female with a long fall of glossy, crow-black hair. Her eyes, like Laylah’s and Cammie’s, were gold-flecked brown. Rowan, Laylah said. Do some reconnaissance. See if you can pick up his trail.

Rowan inclined her head. When she spoke, her voice held both respect and confidence.

What about Augustus? That’s his territory.

Laylah waved her hand in a maybe yes/maybe no gesture.

None of us really claim the reservations. But I’ll inform him, once you cross the border. Laylah’s eyes gleamed, briefly. We’re Canadians, after all. We can’t have it be said we’re as rude as Americans.

CHAPTER 1

That’s charitable.

Rod Poitra closed his cell phone and navigated his way through the crowds to where his lady, Tara Campbell, sat in those plastic chairs airports think are so comfortable. The P.A. switched on overhead, announcing that flight 266, headed to Fargo, North Dakota, was boarding at Gate Six.

Did you find him? Tara’s low voice was almost lost under the background noise.

Yeah. Rod shoved their carry-ons out of the way and sat down beside her. He’s just outside the airport. He’ll be here in about 20 minutes.

Good.

Rod watched her carefully out of the corner of his eye. Tara was a fit, graceful woman just starting her fifth decade, but a lifetime of dancing (she’d taught belly dance in Santa Fe before moving to the Great Frozen North) had kept her fit. She had a striking, rather than pretty, face, lit by a pair of large brown eyes framed by laugh-lines. The only indicator of her age was her hair, which, oddly, had turned snow-white long before Rod met her. Usually, she wore it pulled back in a braid that was as thick around as Rod’s wrist; she hadn’t had time to braid it this morning though, not with a 5 am flight to catch. So, it hung loose around her face, giving her an oddly fragile, ghost-like look. ’Course, it didn’t help that she was wearing a white shirt over her jeans. Usually, she wore bright, vivid colors: red, gold, purple. The white washed her out even more. He understood why, but he couldn’t wait for her to get back to normal again.

She caught him watching her; a tired smile softened the planes of her face.

Do I look that bad? she asked, trying to tease.

You look tired, he said, honestly. She sighed.

I am. She unbent enough to lean against him, resting her head against his right shoulder.

Rod slid his arm around her, feeling the tension radiating from her like heat from a stove. Helpless anger made his jaw tighten. There was nothing he could say, and he knew it. When his wife had died, over 10 years ago (‘Where had the time gone?’ some part of him wondered now) he had hated the trite, commonplace expressions of sympathy. How the hell could ‘I’m sorry’ cover loosing someone? ‘But we knew it was coming, with Kay,’ he admitted to himself. All the arrangements had been in place. (Chosen, creepily enough, by Kay herself, when it became clear that she wasn’t going to beat the odds again.) All Rod had had to do was pull himself together enough to survive the service. (Which, without his best friend, Derrick Lashan, there, he wouldn’t have been able to do.) But, volatile as they had been (Lashan had nicknamed them the Dick and Liz of the res) at least he and Kay had worked through their issues. Tara hadn’t. Now, she had all of that to deal with, as well as the earth-shattering shock of a sudden and unexpected death.

Rod.

He looked up to see Marc Ayers, one of his best friends, standing in front of him. Marc was a tall, slender guy in his late thirties. He had a good build, but years of long-haul trucking were softening it. Today he wore a loose short-sleeved shirt, faded jeans, and a baseball cap so old you couldn’t read the logo on the front. His long dark hair was pulled back in a tail at the base of his neck.

Hey. Rod held out a hand; Marc’s return handshake was solid. Thanks, man.

No problem. Marc shrugged, like he always did, a loose, one-sided thing. His gaze moved from Rod to Tara; his expression softened. I’m sorry, Tara.

Thank you, she said, calm and gracious as she had been throughout the entire thing. Marc was a married man; he knew the dangers of a too-composed woman. His eyes touched Rod’s briefly; skittered away before Tara could notice.

Well, he said, grabbing the handle of one of the carry-ons. Let’s get out of here. We can grab lunch before we head back.

Marc suppressed a shudder as he shouldered his way through the crowd. ‘Tara looked like hell,’ he told his wife, Terri, later that night. ‘She looked . . . old.’

‘It’s her hair,’ Terri said. Marc shook his head.

‘Uh uh. She looked fragile.’

‘She just lost her dad,’ Terri replied, stubbornly. ‘Nobody looks good after that. Remember how bad Rod looked when Kay died?’

‘Yeah,’ he admitted. ‘But . . . I don’t know. Wait till you see her. Rod’s worried, I can tell.’

‘Rod’s afraid she’ll leave him like Kay did,’ Terri said. Marc had given up. When Terri didn’t want to see something, you could paint it fluorescent orange and plant it in front of her face, and she still wouldn’t see it.

At least Rod looked the same, Marc mused now, hiding a sigh of relief. Honestly, Rod looked kind of… ageless, was the best way to describe it. He could be anywhere from his late forties to mid-fifties, with iron-gray hair he was growing out again (thanks to some inside deal he had with Tara, who blushed whenever Marc asked her about it,) in a short-sleeved blue shirt, jeans, and sneakers. His skin was burned a darker brown, after a week in New Mexico’s summer sun, but other than that, he looked no different than he always did. After the sudden, shocking change in Tara, it was… . reassuring, somehow.

How goes the job search? Rod asked as they loaded the van. Marc shrugged, helping Tara into the back seat.

Nothin’ yet. I’ve got resumes out all over, and a couple construction jobs comin’ up, so we’re doin’ okay for now. Summer was usually his busiest time, but, like so many other people, the recession had laid him off. He checked to make sure Tara was all right, then slammed the side door and opened the driver’s door. Sebastian Strange called yesterday, he said, climbing in. He shot Tara a rueful look through the rearview mirror. I’m sorry, Tara, but they want the band for a street dance. Not this weekend, but next. Pretty big money.

A slight, tired smile softened her face.

It’s all right, Marc. You need the money, and this is a job.

We’ll need a lead player, Marc said as he started the engine. Unless Lashan… . ?

Rod shook his head.

Haven’t talked to him since he checked himself into rehab, the older man said. Even he is able to make it, he may not want to, Marc. You know how it goes.

Marc nodded. He’d fought his own battle with the jug years ago. Even after he’d dried out, it’d taken him over a year to be comfortable around people drinking. ‘And I’m just an alcoholic,’ he mused, pulling up to the parking attendant booth. ‘If what I heard is right, Lashan’s got more than that goin’ on in his head.’ According to Rod, Lashan had been part of a pedophile investigation, and seen some pretty horrific shit. ‘I’m not a shrink,’ the older man had said one night, when Lashan’s odd behavior had driven even Marc to make some comments, ‘but I think the booze is him trying to self-medicate for PTSD.’

The parking fee came to a whopping two dollars. Tara insisted on paying it, and Marc drove through.

So, can we take the gig without Lashan? The Goth’s stage presence, and the chemistry he and Rod had on stage, were two of the biggest draws they had.

Rod shrugged.

I don’t see why not.

Will Shimmer sing without him? Their third draw: the sizzling, sexy chemistry Lashan had with their female vocalist, Shimmer. Marc had never been able to figure out why Shimmer wouldn’t sing without Lashan, but she wouldn’t. Something about Lashan being her touchstone, whatever that meant. Now, Rod gnawed on his bottom lip, thinking.

I don’t think that’s a good idea, he said, slowly. Shimmer… she’s feral as a cat. Without Lashan holding her leash… . He trailed off. His eyes were dark and unreadable.

"What is it about her? Marc snapped. So she causes trouble. Big fuckin’ deal. So does Terri, when she gets drunk. For God’s sake, Shimmer’s nothing compared to Tracy Lindseth, or Amy Richards! Remember the shit they started? For Christssake, Linda 86ed ’em both and actually stuck to it!"

‘I need this gig!’ he thought desperately. ‘I have one kid to raise, and another coming, Rod.’ For a moment, the tension slammed! down on him, and he had to fight the urge to snap at the older man.

He must have given something away, in his voice or his expression or his body language, because Rod said,

We’ll make it work, Marc. She usually behaves herself around Sebastian Strange. I’ll find a way to talk her into it.

The tension pulled back; enough to kill the panic. Marc felt like he could breathe again.

Who can we get for a lead player? he asked, turning onto the highway. Keith? (Keith was Rod’s old lead player, before Rod and Lashan had gotten in with Sebastian Strange’s band.)

Drinks too much; can’t play drunk, Rod said.

Tim?

Same story.

Leon?

His girlfriend has him by the nads. No way she’ll let him take an out of town gig. Too afraid he’ll get himself some extracurricular ass.

Normally, this kind of sarcasm would have had Tara laughing out loud. Today, all it got was quiet amusement as she asked:

Will he?

Yeah, Rod said. That’s why he has kids all over the place. Thinks rubbers are only good for water balloons. Again, Tara didn’t laugh. She just shook her head. A different kind of tension iced Marc’s blood. He shook his head mentally. ‘No wonder Rod’s worried.’

She didn’t want to eat anything when they stopped for lunch, either. Marc watched her sip Pepsi and fought to keep himself from trying to tease her into eating, the way he did with his daughter, Anna. To distract himself, he went back to the lead player problem.

Who’s left, then? he asked.

Rod gnawed on a toothpick.

You’re pretty good. What about puttin’ Jason on rhythm, and you on lead? He looks over 21, and it’s a street dance, not a bar gig.

Marc shook his head.

I’m a rhythm player, Rod, not lead. He caught Tara’s eye. It’s taken me years of therapy to realize this, he deadpanned. This joke, too, fell flat.

Suddenly, Rod sat up. A true grin blazed across his face.

I’m gettin’ old, he muttered in disgust. He fixed Marc with a look. Dave Rolend.

Marc sat back and thought about it. Slowly, a grin to match Rod’s spread across his face.

Fucking hell, he said, slowly. He’s not the metal player Lashan is, but for blues and southern fried rock…

He’s a fuckin’ genius, Rod finished for him. And he can sing. Even if Shimmer won’t play ball, Dave can carry a night. Marc took a breath; his muscles went limp with relief. He’d make $500.00, easy, off this gig. ‘That’s the house payment, on time for once.’ They could get caught up on the water bill, too… . He stood up, abruptly, from the table.

I’ll go call Dave.

Marc held his tongue about Tara until they’d been on the road for an hour.

She doesn’t look so good, he commented, low, after checking the rearview mirror. Tara was stretched out on the back seat, out cold.

Wasn’t a good week, Rod said, laconically. Marc switched the cruise control on.

Bad? he asked.

Rod sighed. Anger burned in his eyes.

"Solid goddamn week of, Jesus loves you, repent and be saved.

Marc blinked.

But she’s Wiccan.

Her parents never accepted it. Rod’s voice, though soft, crackled with a week’s worth of repressed emotion. Ask her about it. She’ll tell ya. When they found out she was Wiccan, she was 17. And they, being the nice, kind, dyed-in-the-wool Christians that they are, threw their own daughter out of the house.

That’s charitable, Marc drawled, dry as sand and sharp as a razor. But that was years ago!

Not as far as her parents are concerned. Rod paused. Marc kept his mouth shut. Then Rod started talking.

"She had to do everything, Marc. Picking out the casket, arranging the service, all of it. I can’t blame her mother: no one saw this coming, the woman was a wreck. But no one from her family helped her. It was me, and that friend of hers, Shelia Martinez. And every time Tara turned around, it was, But of course, how could you know, dear? You haven’t been here.

Marc choked.

They said that to her?

From the moment we got off the plane, Rod growled. I can’t tell ya how many times I wanted to paste ’em, men and women.

No wonder she looks like hell, Marc muttered, heart twisting. What happened at the service? You said it was a disaster, when you called.

Rod snorted. A dark, sarcastic laughter sparked in his face.

Oh, that was the best part, he drawled, in his best relaxed-and-mocking voice. "One of her father’s friends got up there and informed the entire place that Paul never gave up on his daughter. He had faith that she will return to the church.

Marc’s jaw dropped.

He didn’t!?

Oh, he did, Rod assured him. The older man was beating his fist, softly, steadily, against the armrest in the door.

Did Tara deck him?

No. But only because I was holding her in place. A slight, cynical grin lifted one corner of Rod’s mouth. I’m sure it looked all lovey-dovey, but your wife’s self-defense classes have given Tara a deadly punch. If I hadn’t been holding her, she would have made Yahtzee dice out of that sanctimonious asshole’s teeth.

Shoulda let her, Marc growled.

He did better than that, Tara said, sitting up in the rearview mirror. Her hair was smashed against one side of her face, but her eyes were burning with rage. Marc flushed.

I didn’t mean… . he began, embarrassed. Tara waved a hand, cutting him off.

Don’t worry about it, she said. Tell him the rest, Rod.

There’s more? Marc demanded, torn between delight and horror.

Oh, yes, Tara purred. And it was beautiful.

What?! Marc yelped. Rod shrugged, suddenly going as mute as a stone. He stared fixedly out the window as Tara took up the tale.

I refused to go to the reception after that, she said, looking down at her hands. "My friend, Shelia, she took me back to the hotel. She let me cry myself out, then sat me down.

You have to go, she told me. I told her to go to hell. You’ll want to see this, she said. She kept saying that, over and over, until I wanted to slap her. I finally asked why, why I had to go when I’d just been publicly humiliated. I’ll never forget the look on her face, Tara said, giggling in a way that made chills run down Marc’s spine. She said, and I quote, Your boyfriend has something up his sleeve.

Marc shot Rod an impatient look.

What’d you do? he demanded.

Rod whistled to the sunny blue sky.

Tara giggled again. Marc shuddered.

Stop laughing like that! You’re freakin’ me out. What’d he do?

"He called for the truth to come out, all the truth, at the reception."

‘Huh?’ Marc’s Catholic-trained mind asked. Then he started thinking. And, slowly, laughter welled up in his throat, even as ice-water ran down the inside of his spine.

What, he asked, slowly, would that do?

I heard every kind of secret come out, Tara said, in a creepy mix of serenity, laughter, and satisfied vengeance. From comments on tacky dressers, to leaving to meet mistresses for their weekly rendezvous, to learning that my father had cheated on his taxes for years.

‘I didn’t know whether to laugh or cringe,’ he told Terri, later. ‘Especially the way Rod just shrugged and said, ‘I’ve always been good at truth medicine.’ It was just . . . CREEPY.’

Terri laughed, open and honest and vengeful as a feral cat.

‘I would have laughed. Those fucking assholes! They had it comin’!’

‘You can be a vicious bitch, sweetheart.’

‘I know,’ she purred, twining her arms around his neck. ‘That’s one of the things you love about me, remember?’

‘Hmmm. Kinda fuzzy on that one, kitten. I might need my memory refreshed.’

‘I can do that . . . ’

Did you really do that? Marc asked Rod when they stopped for gas and drinks. The older man nodded, gathering up his pop and walking out of the gas station into summer’s heat.

The prairie stretched out around them, blooming under the sun. A warm wind pressed against Marc’s face and made the grasses ripple beneath a cloudless blue sky. The highway stretched like a gray band across the landscape, lined by fence posts and telephone poles. All Marc could hear was the humming of the telephone wires in the wind. Even so, he almost missed Rod’s reply.

Yes. And I’d do it again.

Thought you weren’t supposed to use medicine lightly, the younger man jibed.

I didn’t do it lightly, Rod replied. His eyes were on the panorama around them. I did it deliberately.

Marc blinked. His humor dropped to the ground, dead, between himself and Rod. Rod’s eyes slid sideways, and Marc found himself frozen.

CHAPTER 2

"Pipe-carriers were just… freaky."

Pipe-carriers were just… freaky, in Marc’s opinion. Rod was even worse than most of ’em, because he hid it so well. (‘I mean,’ Marc had told Terri more than once, ‘he’s so . . . down-to-earth. He plays World of Warcraft, for God’s sake! He stood in line with me for 12 hours to get Ozzy Osbourne tickets!’) But you could be talking to him, just like now, and out of nowhere, he’d get this… look. A kind of distant, otherworldly look, like he was seeing and hearing things Marc couldn’t.

It made Marc’s skin crawl.

Something out there?

Marc jumped as Tara materialized at his side, a liter of Pepsi in one hand, and a pack of Hostess powdered doughnuts in the other. (He’d find them, later, in the back seat of the van with only one doughnut gone.) She gave him a quizzical look, then turned to stare out at the prairie. What are you looking at?

Nothin, he mumbled, shaking his head sharply. Ready to roll?

Yeah, Rod said behind him. For some reason, Tara’s lips curved upward in a cat’s mysterious smile. Marc looked away from her to meet Rod’s bland gaze. Though neither of the older people said anything, Marc was sure they were laughing at him as he walked swiftly to the van.

Rod glanced around the yard as he and Marc pulled the luggage out of the van.

Where’s Jason? I don’t see his bike.

‘Please don’t tell him.’ Jason’s voice ghosted through Marc’s memory. ‘I’ll do it myself.’ So, Marc shrugged instead of telling the truth.

At our place. Terri’s been sick; Jason’s been helping us with Anna.

The worry-lines on Rod’s face deepened.

She all right?

‘Don’t tell them,’ Terri had ordered, before Marc had pulled out that morning. ‘I don’t want anyone to know yet.’

‘Ya can’t hide from them forever, Terri. ’Sides, your supervisor already knows.’

‘Mary can keep her mouth shut,’ Terri had growled, glaring at him. It had been on the tip of his tongue to demand if she even wanted the baby. The way she’d been acting, he wasn’t sure.

Now, the emotions swirled through him: excitement, worry, anger, all clamoring to be released. It made him more curt than he intended:

Yeah, she’ll be all right. Touch of food poisoning. ‘At least until you look at her sideways,’ he added silently. She was going to have to admit it soon. It was getting too hot to wear the long shirts she’d been hiding under.

Rod, distracted by worry and travel, missed the signs. He stood quietly, looking at his front door, absently rubbing the ears of his big, ugly-as-sin mutt dog, Gru. (The dog was roughly the size of a horse, and, to quote Rod, smart as a box of rocks. Rod bitched about him on a regular basis, but also spoiled him rotten.)

Gru leaned against the man’s legs, eyes half-closed. He’d nearly knocked Rod off his feet when Rod had gotten out of the van. He had knocked Tara off balance, trying to lick her face.

Marc wrestled his temper under control; tried for his usual, joking tone.

He missed you.

The younger man pointed at the dog. Rod looked down, startled, as if he hadn’t realized that Gru was there.

Damn it, Gru, ya did it again. Tricked me into scratching your ears. Rod sighed. He picked up one carry-on, lugged it up the stairs and through the door. Marc followed him quietly, carrying the other one, and plopped it down by the couch. Gru barked, barreled through the door, and ran to the giant-sized bag of dog food by the pantry. He picked up the dinner-plate-sized food dish next to it. Ears up, tail wagging, he danced in place, ‘woofing’ around the bowl in his mouth.

He looked absolutely ridiculous. Rod shook his head.

You numbskull, he told the dog. You deserve that ribbon around your neck.

Sorry about that, Marc muttered, shame-faced.

It’s okay.

Rod snapped his fingers. Still carrying the bowl, Gru came over and let the man untie the bubble-gum-pink ribbon, tied in a bow, around his neck. Rod untied it and shoved it into his jeans’ pocket.

Couldn’t she at least pick blue? he asked, wistfully, taking the food bowl and filling it up while Gru watched impatiently.

Marc and Terri’s daughter, Anna, had started doing this every time she came over. Pink, yellow, green, the color never seemed to matter as long as it was bright. She would come into the house, hug Gru, and follow him around with quiet persistence until he gave up and let her tie it around his neck. Whereupon, he would lay on the floor with a humiliated look on his face until Rod took it off. (Rod had to wait until Anna left, because she’d just put it back on if he removed it while she was there.)

A gray blur shot past Rod’s feet as Tara’s cat, Kyah, tore past him, the picture of feline outrage. Tara walked out of the bedroom, laughing, a cat collar, with red-and-white hearts on it, dangling from her hand.

It was the first time she’d really laughed since boarding the plane to New Mexico.

She got the cat, too? Rod asked. Tara couldn’t answer. She was laughing too hard. Rod turned incredulous eyes on Marc. "How does she do that?"

Marc shrugged.

No idea, he said. But she had the most fun picking them out. She picked that out, too. He nodded toward the large oval of blonde wood that was the kitchen table. Rod glanced over, and froze.

The center of the table was covered with flowers. Rod wasn’t a gardener (though he knew the power flowers had to improve a guy’s sex life) but he could pick out the highlights: roses, and daisies, and those ruffled ones, the ones whose name was on canned milk… ‘Carnations, that’s it!’ he thought triumphantly. And sitting in the middle of the flowers was a little stuffed cat, complete with a ribbon around its neck.

Rod glanced at Tara. She’d stopped laughing. Her face was… ‘frozen,’ was the only way Rod could describe it. She walked slowly over to the table, eyes glassy.

We didn’t think they’d get to the service, Marc said, low, behind Rod. So, we kept ’em here.

Rod waited for Tara to say her automatic thank you, but she didn’t. She was slowly, gently, running just the tips of her fingers over the edges of the petals closest to her.

Thanks, man, Rod said. He walked up behind Tara. The cards had been pulled out and lined up, with mathematical precision, along the edge of the table. (Rod recognized more of Anna’s handiwork.)

Lashan, Tara said softly, picking one card up. Her hands were shaking. She laid that card down; picked up a second, then a third, and a fourth. Jason and Dave. Sebastian and family. Marc and Terri.

Anna picked out the cat, Marc’s voice was a low rumble behind them. She knew you were gone, Tara. She kept asking where the bell lady was. Rod closed his eyes briefly. Bell lady was Anna’s name for Tara, because of the bells Tara wore when she danced. A sharp sound, half laugh and half sob, tore itself out of Tara’s throat. Rod grabbed her as her knees buckled, and pulled them both into the closest chair.

Go ahead and cry, darlin’, he whispered into her hair. God knows, you’ve earned it.

CHAPTER 3

‘It’s evil!’

‘It’s nonsense!’

‘If it’ll help my daughter, I don’t give a damn.’

She whimpered, fighting for control even now, but it was too much for her. Rod just held her, rocking her quietly.

They hate me. I don’t have a family, she whispered, over and over, like a stuck record.

Yes, you do, Rod rasped. You’ve got me, and Jason, and Lashan, God help us all, and… Damn it to hell, he was loosing control.

And me, and Terri, and Anna, Marc’s voice said. Rod sensed the younger man come around Tara’s other side; felt Marc put his arm around her. You and Rod, you’ve helped Anna so much… Something covered in fake fur was pressed against Tara’s hands (Rod could feel it brush his own). "Damn it, Tara! Before you two, Anna never knew when I left, let alone understood something like a funeral. She does now! And that’s because of you, teaching her dancing, and Rod, so don’t fuckin’ tell me you don’t have anyone… !"

And Shelia, and Maria, and Troy and Alan, those two hulking brutes who followed you around like guard dogs. Thanks to Marc, Rod had had enough time to get himself under control; the names of Tara’s adopted family rolled off his tongue with only a little hoarseness around the