Cusp of Night. Mae Clair
stared into his eyes. There was something hypnotic about his gaze, the rich timbre of his voice. Even his touch spoke to her, his palm not smooth as she’d expected, but lined with calluses earned by a life on the road. “Who are you? What do you want?”
He smiled, his eyes flashing with lightning and promise.
“My name is Simon Glass. I want to make you famous.”
* * * *
Present Day
It was nearing eleven when Maya said good-bye to Ivy and headed home. Her brownstone wasn’t located that far from the Fiend Festival, and the night was perfect for a leisurely stroll. As always, the walk would do her good. By the time she left, the gathering was winding down. The big event—announcing the winner of the Fiend contest—had taken place shortly after the band finished their last set.
The winner more than deserved the victory, his period clothing impeccable, artful face paint worthy of a Hollywood makeup artist.
She already planned to return to the festival the next night, looking forward to the local color. As she walked south on River Road, the noise of the fair faded behind her, blending with the hum of distant traffic crossing the North Bridge. The flow of the Chinkwe River over rock created a softer backdrop. Old-fashioned street lamps positioned every half block enhanced the ambient light of a sickle moon and scattershot stars. It wasn’t until the festival was several blocks behind that she grew unsettled by a growing sense of isolation.
With traffic rerouted from River Road for the fair, a void existed at the south end of town. Sometimes in the darkness, she relived that terrifying March night when her world changed—the fog and rain-slick road, oncoming headlights, the squeal of tires and the sickening crunch of metal. The other driver, an inexperienced teen, had crossed lanes. He’d walked away with a broken arm and bruised sternum. She’d suffered a punctured lung and internal injuries to her spleen and liver. In the long run, overcoming the physical limitations had been easier than the psychological ones. She had no memory of being treated at the scene or of being airlifted to the hospital.
But there were moments of darkness and light, of hovering somewhere in a world composed of shadows. She’d been impatient, eager to leave. But something held her tethered in place. Voices murmured in her ears, whispers without words, a sense of others gathered in the Aether. Later, she learned her heart had stopped beating. For two minutes and twenty-two seconds, she’d been clinically dead.
Now, surrounded by the eerie silence of an empty street, that creeping sense of unseen others returned. The prickling fear of something lurking in the shadows. Maybe it was nothing more than a night of watching cloaked figures in devil masks, but she quickened her pace, anxious to be home.
At least her path kept to the main road. Even if it did intersect with a few alleys, those cross points were brightened by three-globe street lamps. With the lack of traffic and city sounds, surrounded by old buildings and cobbled sidewalks, it was easy to imagine herself in Charlotte Hode’s era.
“Ugn…”
The groan prickled the hair on the back of her neck. She froze at the mouth of an alley, primed for flight. Her pulse pounded in her ears.
“Who’s there?”
The croak came again, sluggish and low, the unmistakable sound of someone in pain. Maybe it was some stupid kid playing a game.
“This isn’t funny.”
“H-h-help.”
Her stomach lurched to her throat. If someone really was hurt and she did nothing, she’d never forgive herself. It was a passing motorist who’d called for help when her car had careened off the road.
Cautious, she inched closer to the mouth of the cutaway. The illumination from the nearest street lamp only carried a few feet, barely edging into the dark maw. “Is someone there?” Slipping her hand into her pocket, she felt for her cell phone. One call to 911 would bring help or keep her safe if the situation deteriorated. A few steps more and she could discern a man slumped against the side of a building.
“Sir, are you hurt?” God help her if he was drunk. She kept a safe distance, and activated the flashlight on her phone.
The man shifted, angling toward her. He groaned. Something large loomed up behind him, a shadow rising from the ground. It took Maya a moment to realize the thing had been squatting there all along, silent in the nightscape—a monstrosity shrouded in black with a pulpy head and eyes that burned like white cinders.
She screamed.
The creature ran, deft as a whistle of air, swallowed by the bloated shadows of the alley. Trembling from head to foot, Maya tried to catch her breath. Her gaze sliced back to the man on the ground.
“Call for help.” His voice quavered with the effort of speech. “T-tell them Leland Hode has been attacked.”
* * * *
Maya glanced at her watch. Twenty-three minutes after midnight and she was far from exhausted. If it weren’t for Detective Gregg’s questions, she’d be pacing rather than sitting. When she finally made it home and the events of the night caught up with her, she planned to crash into bed and sleep until noon.
“Can I get you more coffee?” The detective’s voice jarred her back to the moment. Restless, she shifted in the wooden chair drawn close to his desk. The station was quiet, every available officer engaged in combing the streets for Leland Hode’s assailant. She didn’t have to be a cop to know there would be a media storm when word leaked of Hode’s attack.
“No, thanks.” The coffee had pumped her jittery adrenalin higher. Glancing down at the disposable cup in her hand, she felt her stomach sour. The dark liquid looked oily and cold, a few air bubbles clinging to the outer rim. “Do you know how badly he was hurt?”
The scene replayed in her head; the ambulance and police arrived almost simultaneously. By the time help arrived, Leland had passed out. A uniformed officer hustled her aside while two EMTs went to work. She didn’t remember the officer’s name, only that she’d relayed the circumstances as best she could. Through it all, she’d tried to see past his shoulder to Leland.
Stupid details stuck in her head. A squashed Coke can butted up against the curb. The scrape of the officer’s pencil across a notepad. The glimmer of lamplight trapped in his wedding ring as he’d scratched out her statement. The whole thing had seemed surreal, a nightmare of red emergency strobes and harsh radio chatter. Within minutes, Leland was whisked to a hospital, and she was passed from the officer to a man who arrived in an unmarked car. Detective David Gregg. The next thing she knew, she was at the police station giving an official account of the events.
“No word on Leland’s condition yet.” Gregg looked at her from across his desk.
He wasn’t unattractive, a fortyish man with rugged features and black hair generously favored with silver in the front. The gray appeared premature, contrasted by dark brows above amber eyes. She couldn’t tell if the scruff of beard lining his jaw was there by design or the result of long shifts.
He rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger then refocused on the statement he’d taken, holding it in two hands. “You said you didn’t see the attack.”
“No. Just the…” She hesitated, recalling the nightmarish face in the alley. “Creature.”
“You mean the attacker?”
“Yes.”
Gregg set the paper down. He rested his forearm on his desk. “You saw him?”
“I did.” Edgy, she stood and paced behind him.
The station had an old quality to it, keeping with the integrity of the town. Heavy wooden desks and chairs, a beamed ceiling with squat pendant lighting rather than fluorescents, corner molding, and a brick-colored tile floor. The captain’s office—at least, Maya believed it belonged to someone of higher authority—was partitioned from the main room behind a wall of glass. Overhead lights revealed