A Desolate Hour. Mae Clair
empty-line/>
Cover Copy
Sins of the past could destroy all of their futures . . .
For generations, Quentin Marsh’s family has seen its share of tragedy, though he remains skeptical that their misfortunes are tied to a centuries-old curse. But to placate his pregnant sister, Quentin makes the pilgrimage to Point Pleasant, West Virginia, hoping to learn more about the brutal murder of a Shawnee chief in the 1700s. Did one of the Marsh ancestors have a hand in killing the chief—the man who cursed the town with his dying breath?
While historian Sarah Sherman doesn’t believe in curses either, she’s compelled to use her knowledge of Point Pleasant to uncover the long-buried truth. The river town has had its own share of catastrophes, many tied to the legendary Mothman, the winged creature said to haunt the woods. But Quentin’s arrival soon reveals that she may have more of a stake than she realized. It seems that she and Quentin possess eerily similar family heirlooms. And the deeper the two of them dig into the past, the more their search enrages the ancient mystical forces surrounding Point Pleasant. As chaos and destruction start to befall residents, can they beat the clock to break the curse before the Mothman takes his ultimate revenge? . . .
Visit us at www.kensingtonbooks.com
Books by Mae Clair
Weathering Rock
Twelfth Sun
Myth and Magic
Point Pleasant Series
A Thousand Yesteryears
A Cold Tomorrow
A Desolate Hour
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
A Desolate Hour
A Point Pleasant Novel
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 © 2017 by Mae Clair
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund- raising, and educational or institutional use.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Special Sales Manager:
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Attn. Special Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
LYRICAL PRESS Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
Lyrical Press and the L logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.
First Electronic Edition: July 2017
eISBN-13: 978-1-60183-779-0
eISBN-10: 1-60183-779-8
First Print Edition: July 2017
ISBN-13: 978-1-60183-782-0
ISBN-10: 1-60183-782-8
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
For Cindy Garberich
Who cheers my accomplishments every bit as enthusiastically as Mom did,
and who couldn’t wait to meet the Mothman
Thanks, Sis
Acknowledgements
To my editor, Paige Christian, thank you for your hard work in making my version of Point Pleasant shine.
To Lyrical Underground and Kensington Publishing, I’m delighted to be part of such a professional organization.
Finally, to my husband, who has been by my side through every step of my writing journey, and who listened patiently to my endless chatter about the Mothman, Cornstalk and UFOs. Thank you for undertaking two trips with me to Point Pleasant and the TNT. There is nothing like firsthand research when penning a novel!
Prologue
October 10, 1777
Point Pleasant area
Dusk.
It came early with autumn, the high grass browning sluggishly, the woods ripe with the odor of decay. Pockets of mist coiled awake prelude to the coming night. In the distance, the last ruddy rays of the sun were swallowed by the horizon.
Leaves and twigs crunched beneath Obadiah Preech’s boots as he threaded his way through the trees oblivious to the bats flitting overhead. Fort Randolph fell away a good mile behind him. He’d waved a greeting to the sentries when he’d passed through the gates, ignoring their warnings about how quickly night fell. After carrying a musket in Lord Dunmore’s War, he had no fear of the physical realm. Only of what lurked within the woods.
His heartbeat quickened and his palms grew damp with sweat.
He would kill the demon, but not tonight. Tonight was for weaving incantations to empower the dagger, a blade destined to spill the blood of the Indian chief, Cornstalk. The redskins had summoned the creature through the use of foul magic, thus by black witchery would the abomination die. Willa’s death would be avenged.
Locating a clear patch of ground, Obadiah used a branch to sketch a crude pentagram on the forest floor. The soil was soft, moist from recent rains, and turned easily beneath the crooked stick. Two earthworms wriggled through the upturned sod, dark as coffin loam.
A favorable sign when the forest blessed his work.
He plucked them free, then hunkered to gather leaves and twigs for kindling. When he had enough, he lit a small blaze in the center of the pentagram. A kettle went over the flames. Old and pitted, it had seen better days but would suffice for the task at hand.
Casting a hasty glance over his shoulder, Obadiah strained to listen. An owl hooted in the distance and a small animal scurried through the underbrush. Safe from prying eyes, he breathed easier.
It wasn’t discovery he feared so much as failure. Practitioners of the dark arts were shunned, but he would risk that and more to slaughter the demon responsible for his wife’s death.
Turning back to the cauldron, he dragged a hand across his forehead. The air was sticky and close, unusual for fall. Squatting, he added a handful of herbs to the bubbling kettle. Most of the plants were used in healing, but moldy mushrooms and rotting seeds altered the properties of the brew from light to dark. Grimacing, he dug a bloody mass from the rucksack at his waist. The heart was still warm; the carcass of the stray dog he’d lured with a piece of boiled