“You think I should stay home?”
“Not unless you think you’re not safe to drive,” Kate answered. “How’s your vision? Any slurred speech?”
“My vision and speech are fine. And I’ve already driven today, no problems.”
“Well, you don’t have to drive to go trick-or-treating. Just go to a few houses in your neighborhood. Take a flashlight—”
“Yes, Mom.”
Kate laughed again. “And don’t stay out late. You’re probably exhausted from all this.”
“You really are a lot like Mom, you know it? I miss her.”
“Me, too, sweetie. Are you okay now?”
“Yeah.”
“Look, just promise me one thing,” Kate said. “Promise me you’ll call if you need anything.”
“Weird. That’s exactly what Ash said.”
“Yeah, well, he was probably worried about you. Just like me. Maybe he knows what can happen when people get that plant in them. And I think you mentioned that somebody warned you to stay off that trail—”
“I’m hanging up now. Thanks, really. I love you—”
“I love you too—”
I hung up the phone and listened to the wind. It took a wild circuitous route, began down by the creek, then rushed up through the trees, and finally raced around the cabin, all the while singing in a pale, fragile howl. I glanced up, saw Tucker standing in my bedroom door, all nine years of him pretending to be someone street tough and ultra cool.
“I’m ready, Mom. Let’s go,” he said, flashing a dazzling rapper grin. He had fashioned a fake tooth, trimmed with gold and a rhinestone in the center.
This was my boy, from skin to bone to soul, the best thing in my world and the reason why I was going to beat that demon writer’s block. No way my ex-husband was going to get custody, even though our divorce settlement had left me broke, even though his dalliance with my best friend had stolen my confidence.
All I needed was one more best seller.
And I knew exactly what I was going to write about now.
The monsters who lived in Ticonderoga Falls.
Chapter 50
Moon Song
Ash:
The wind whisked through the forest hollows, stronger, meaner, more self-possessed than usual. It spoke with a voice tonight, like a whistling moan, like it mourned the dying of autumn. I huddled against the far end of the cottage porch, invisible, my skin the same color as the moon-shifting shadows. Sage hovered at my side. I sensed the eagerness within her, a buoyancy that couldn’t be bridled. I could feel it too—an ache at the base of my wings and in the back of my throat, all the colors around me turning pale.
Overhead, the moon sang.
The cloud cover pulled back from time to time, like a beast that longed to show its teeth; the snow had frosted the passing humans, making them look candy-coated. Still, through all of this, the moon called.
It wasn’t truly a song, more of a hum actually. A vibration that surged from sky to sinew, reverberated inside me and all of my people—a single low, holy note that drove us to feast, sifting through humans and dreams until we each found the perfect one.
To have and to cherish. To memorize and immortalize. To tell and retell around the flickering fires of home. During long winter nights, dreams were our only food; we continually retold the tales harvested during summer. Human dreams built every home and cultivated every field, they fueled every teacher and inspired every child.
Meanwhile, the harvest itself left behind a trail of moon dust and inspiration that would drive the host to greater dreams.
It was a symbiotic dance, unknowable, unbelievable, unthinkable. And perfect.
And now the moon sent spidery tendrils that wrapped around my ankles, tugging ever so slightly, keeping me off balance.
But I couldn’t leave.
Not yet.
I had to see her again.
Madeline, the writer. The human who had been marked by my cousin.
I knew now that I should have been watching her more closely. From the moment I first saw her, I had been able to smell her, had almost been able to taste her dreams. I should have been at her side, protecting her from the very danger I had invited.
I should be with her tonight when the moon sang, strong and sweet and insistent. When she came back to the cabin and lay in her bed, eyes closed, vision focused on another world.
But she had slammed the door closed before I could convince her to invite me in. And now I hugged the wall outside her door, like the wretched beast I truly was, ashamed of the desire that sang through my veins. Ashamed because I knew now it wasn’t all about the harvest.
I wondered what it would be like to hold her in my arms, to kiss her. Humans were so different from Darklings. My own kind were all muscle and bone, every inch of flesh lean from hours of flight, from the physical demands of transforming from one beast to another, from the constant movement, since we never slept.
But human women were soft and pliant, their flesh inviting—almost demanding—that you pull them closer.