Enter the Night

Chapter 1

Ink

Maryanne

"GEEZ, AM I really doing this?" Maryanne Hemlock mumbled.

She sucked in a shallow breath. Great. Back in Mansbridge, New Brunswick less than three hours and she was already talking to herself again. Not that the habit had left her over the Christmas holidays, but one could always hope.

Brooke—the only one of her friends within earshot at the moment—turned to shoot her a grin as they neared the tattoo shop. Alex was way ahead of them, already inside and no doubt looking at designs. They paused outside, peering in through the window.

Yep, we’re really doing this, Brooke said.

It had been Alex’s idea, the tattoos. Well, actually it was Alex’s belated Christmas gift to them all, happily announced when the three of them reunited at the Fredericton airport.

Maryanne’s flight had been the first to touch down. And like a kid with her nose pressed against the glass, she’d waited there for her friends to arrive, stuffing her hands into her hoodie pockets, then pulling them back out again. Repeatedly. She sat down, then jumped back up. She watched the clock on the wall.

Then they announced the flight from Halifax.

Alex had chosen to fly back rather than make the four-hour drive. As Maryanne watched her plane taxi up to the terminal, it struck her how much courage it must’ve taken for her friend to board the little puddle-jumper. Maryanne had flown in one years ago, and she knew how claustrophobia-inducing it could be. From the outside, the aircraft basically looked like a cigar tube with wings. From the inside... well, it pretty much felt the same, as though you were crammed inside a cylindrical tin can. There was just one seat on each side of the narrow aisle, with the aircraft’s roof curving close above your head. Alex had expressed her need to be able to escape any place at will more than a couple of times. Flying in any plane had to be excruciating for her. Maryanne imagined that flying in a cramped, tiny one would be worse.

She’d watched Alex appear in the aircraft’s doorway, saw her pause and draw a deep breath. Then Alex had descended the plane’s stairs and crossed the short stretch of tarmac. By the time she entered the tiny airport’s arrivals area, she wore a victorious grin. Maryanne had been so glad to see that confidence. They’d all been affected by the horrors they’d unearthed last semester at Harvell House, the Streep Academy dorm where the three of them had shared a room, but it had been so much worse for Alex than it was for the rest of them.

Not that Alex knew how much Maryanne understood about what had really happened in that house. To Alex, when she’d been at her most vulnerable. At least Maryanne didn’t think she knew. They’d never really talked about it. Well, not after Alex had come out of her coma.

Half an hour later, Brooke Saunders had arrived on her flight from New York via Toronto, stepping off the plane like she owned it, and the airport too.

They’d hugged and high-fived in the arrivals area. Then they’d driven back to Mansbridge in Brooke’s rental, which she had left in the airport parking lot over the holidays. Dumping their bags at Harvell House, they’d headed straight for the town’s only tattoo shop with twenty minutes to spare before the appointment Alex had made for them.

Yep, the girls were back in town. The three musketeers.

No, they were more. The three caster sisters.

Yeah, a tattoo, Brooke said, drawing Maryanne back into the moment. My mother will be mortified. Bonus!

Maryanne laughed. That was so... Brooke.

Yes, it was good to be back together—the three of them. And Maryanne couldn’t wait until they could cast out again! To stand before the blue-eyed Madonna in the attic window, say those powerful words, and cast their shadow selves out to fly free in the night...

Heck, she was just glad to be back in Mansbridge. Her smile faded as she thought of the painfully long Christmas holiday back in Burlington, Ontario.

Her parents had done their best to make it a good Christmas. As always, her mother had spent way too much money, but this year the gifts weren’t over-wrapped with the usual amount of glittery ribbons and bows. Her father had cooked up a storm. There’d been enough mincemeat pies and shortbread cookies for half the neighborhood, and then some. Maryanne knew it was therapeutic for him. Something to keep him busy instead of thinking about Jason.

But of course, he’d thought about him. They all had, while carolers sang their way along the block, but skipped the Hemlock house. They’d thought of little Jason while Frosty the Snowman played on TV, knowing this would have been the year he’d have loved it. The artificial tree hadn’t been hauled out of the basement till Grampy Webb came and did it himself on Christmas Eve. Maryanne had taken it down again on Boxing Day.

They all missed Jason—her little J-bug, her brother.

You’re not chickening out? Brooke was staring at her.

No way, Maryanne said. I’m still in.

To emphasize her point, she opened the door of the tattoo parlor for the both of them.

The shop was clean and spare. Hardwood floors, track lighting, and the hospital-like smell of disinfectant. The walls were largely covered with art. Tattoo art. A glass cabinet displayed jewelry, presumably of the piercing variety.

The room felt welcoming. Awakening, somehow. Maryanne had a feel for places. Without consciously trying, she formed instant impressions about the tone of a space that had proved true often enough that she’d come to trust her instincts. Her lips twisted as she imagined the reaction she’d get if she were to say out loud what she felt. Brooke would snort and say, Duh. It has eggplant-purple walls. If that’s not enough to wake you up, nothing is. All in all, it wasn’t the hole-in-the-wall establishment she’d feared. There were echoes of pain, yes, and breaths held in anticipation and fear of the burn of the tattoo needle, but these were counterbalanced by excitement, satisfaction, and a sense of accomplishment.

Alex was scanning some designs. Standing there in her skinny jeans and Circa Survive hoodie, her Vans planted firmly on the floor, hands on her hips, she looked completely at home. Brooke and Maryanne joined her.

Is this all they have for flash? Brooke asked.

Alex glanced at her. It’s a custom design shop. What flash they have is made here by the artists, not the generic crap.

Maryanne looked at a page of smiling skulls and shuddered. Way, way too dark and scary for her tastes. Her gaze went to another page. Too masculine. The next sheet—ack!—too naked. The fourth, fifth and sixth sheets, thank goodness, were more appropriate, although none of the roses or fairies or cute little owls called out to her. Besides, they were all too big. While her folks might be okay with a small tattoo, they’d definitely not be thrilled to see their daughter come home with a large peacock on her arm or a flock of birds on her back.

I know what I’m getting, Alex announced.

Let me guess, Brooke said, moving nearer to Alex so she could look more closely at the artwork on the wall. That one. She pointed.

Alex did a double take. The bunny?

Maryanne looked at the cute, flower-holding, cartoon bunny and snorted. Not exactly what Alex needed to go with her snake-bite lip piercings, black-dyed scene hair, and heavy eye liner, which she’d taken to wearing again. Nor did it fit in with the existing bleeding rose tat nestled below her collarbone.

Brooke rolled her eyes. No, not the bunny. The one beside it—the dark star. That’s gorgeous. Hey, we could all get one. Brooke looked at them hopefully.

Okay, that made sense—a dark star. And in the silent few seconds beyond Brooke’s suggestion, Maryanne knew it was making sense to Alex, too. Dark star. Dark nights. Dark casters.

Alex said, I like it. But maybe for another time. Today I’m getting those vines.

There were two artists behind the counter. One looked totally oblivious, her nose stuck in a book, but the other, a well-muscled guy with more metal on his face than Iron Man, watched the girls avidly. Not lecherously, Maryanne realized. It was more like he was anxious to get going.

I see you’ve picked something, he said, coming forward.

Alex swiveled to smile at him. Yeah. The vines.

What were you thinking? Around the arm or the ankle? He pushed his sleeves up farther on his muscular arm, exposing even more ink. Maryanne couldn’t help but stare. His name was Zeek. At least that was the name burned into the wide black scroll on his bicep.

Neither, Alex answered. I have a tat here, just below the collarbone. The guy watched impassively as she unbuttoned two buttons, pulled her black bra strap sideways to expose the bleeding rose tattoo.

Nice, said Zeek, admiring the artwork.

Thanks. Alex nodded. Halifax, last summer.

And you want the vines added to this? Zeek pushed the edge of her shirt back to get a better look, but he did so as clinically as a surgeon might use a retractor. Do you want them bleeding too? I can do that. Just a matter of—

No, Alex said. Not bleeding. Live and healthy ones. Buds and leaves and... life. You know?

Zeek nodded, cocking his head to the side. So is that life going into or coming out from the rose?

Wow, what a profound question. One Maryanne herself would never have thought of. Maybe that’s why Zeek was the tattoo artist and she wasn’t. Well, that and the fact that presumably he could draw.

Alex thought for a moment. Both.

Brilliant. Zeek nodded. Okay, come with me and I’ll sketch something for your approval.

Alex bit her lip, glancing toward Brooke and Maryanne. Will it take long to draw?

Twenty minutes, maybe. Once you’re happy with it, we’ll put it on transfer paper and get down to business.

Go on, Brooke gestured for Alex to go with Zeek. If we’re done first, we’ll wait. Don’t sweat it.

Alex tossed a grin over her shoulder as Zeek led her to the back of the small shop and swung the leather privacy curtain across one of the workspaces. All Maryanne could see of him now was his black army boots as he presumably sank into a chair at his desk.

It was great to see Alex so excited. And the vines! New life... now that was something to celebrate. I think she made a great choice.

Brooke gave one of her patented shrugs. Beats the hell out of the cartoon bunny.

Maryanne laughed.

As if pulled up by strings—or maybe she’d just finished the chapter—the second clerk stood. She set her book on the counter. Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov. Not exactly light reading.

Either of you ready? she asked, casting her glance between Maryanne and Brooke.

Maryanne drew a breath. I’ve decided. And in the few minutes she’d stood there looking, she had, without even knowing it. Or maybe she’d decided before she’d even walked into the shop.

This one, she said, pointing to what she wanted, which actually was just a tiny detail occupying a corner of a larger tattoo design.

Oh come on! Brooke jeered. "That’s not a tattoo. Maryanne, that’s a mole. A freckle. A—"

A bug, Maryanne said. It was her J-Bug. She wet her lips, drew a breath. It wasn’t that she’d been looking for something quite so... micro, but once she’d seen it, she knew it was what she wanted. Something to memorialize Jason—his short life, and her part in his death. It was never far from her, this grief. Now it would be even closer. A constant reminder.

And a constant punishment.

Bottom of the foot, Brooke suggested. Then you can tell people it’s just a tiny pebble that got stuck there.

Maryanne ignored her. Over my heart, she told the artist.

What color? the woman asked.

Blue-grey. Jason’s eyes had been blue-grey.

Any other modifications?

I guess it could be a bit bigger. Like... fifty percent bigger, maybe?

The clerk nodded. Give me a minute, she said, and disappeared back to where Alex and Zeek had gone.

What about you, Brooke? Maryanne asked. Decided?

Still thinking, she said.

Maryanne knew better. She could tell by the look on Brooke’s face that she’d already made her decision. In true Brooke-esque fashion, she was keeping her choice secret.

Well, that was okay. Everyone had their secrets.

You know, this might be a record, Brooke said. "Even if they enlarge that... dot... by two hundred percent, it might still go down as the smallest tattoo ever."

No doubt, Maryanne acknowledged.

But while she might be getting the smallest tattoo of the three of them, it would almost certainly be the heaviest. This memorial to her little brother, the one she’d lost.

The one she’d killed.

Maryanne swallowed hard past the sudden lump in her throat. She needed to cast. Desperately.

Chapter 2

A Toast

Brooke

BROOKE SAUNDERS MOVED her bags off her tiny twin bed in the second floor bedroom she shared with Alex and Maryanne, then flopped down on it. And, oh crap—winced.

Maybe she could have chosen a better spot for the new tattoo than her hip. Her jeans chafed it even under the padding of the bandage. Until it healed, she’d be living in the stretchy DKNY skinny-fit trousers she’d bought over the holidays. Good thing she’d loaded up on every color. In a minute she’d get up and trade her jeans for pajama pants. If she could stir up the energy.

Hey, I brought you guys a treat, Maryanne said. In the process of unpacking her bags, she pulled out a large plastic container. Pecan pie.

Brooke’s eyebrows lifted. "You brought a pie home in your luggage?"

Not just any pie. It’s my dad’s pecan pie, and it’s to die for. So good, in fact, that if I hadn’t already eaten my weight in the stuff over the holidays, I’d stab anyone who came near it. Under the circumstances, though, I’ll share with you guys.

Hey, I have something that would go great with that. Brooke sat up quickly, intending to reach for her own luggage, but hissed as her jeans rubbed against her tattoo.

Hip? Leave it to Alex to notice.

Yeah. And I’m getting out of these jeans right now. She peeled her jeans off and started digging in her luggage for her favorite PJs. The other girls looked at her hip, obviously trying to discern what was under the fairly large bandage. Brooke suppressed a grin. She had not yet revealed her choice of tattoo, though they’d both badgered her about it. It was a secret. For now, anyway.

What on earth do you have that goes with pecan pie? Maryanne asked.

Give me a sec and I’ll show you. Brooke pulled on lightweight pajama pants, then reached for her bag. She pulled the bottle out and held it aloft. Ta-da! Grand Marnier. Courtesy of my step-Fuehrer’s liquor cabinet.

Alex’s eyebrows went up at the mention of her stepfather. Rough holiday?

"Nah, it was great. Brooke kept her smile bright. Didn’t have to see much of Herr Kommandant at all." Of course, she hadn’t gotten to see much of her mother, either. After opening their gifts four days early, her mother and stepfather had jetted off to Barbados. On the plus side, they’d left her lots of cash, which she’d had no trouble spending. And if on their return they were PO’d about their seriously depleted stock of booze, they’d feel too guilty to kvetch about it. Much. She’d get a terse email on the subject, though. Of that she was certain.

How was yours?

Alex shrugged. Good. Better than usual, actually. They’ll even leave me alone in a room with Eva once in a while now.

Brooke smiled. That was the reason Alex’s parents had bundled her off to Streep; fear that her delinquent behavior would rub off on her younger sister. But that was behind her now.

How ’bout you, Maryanne? Brooke asked. Everything rosy in Burlingham?

Brooke’s intentional mangling of Maryanne’s hometown drew the expected eye roll.

"Burlington, she corrected. And yeah, it was nice."

I’ll bet, Brooke said. Perfect little family. Just like a Hallmark card. Chestnuts roasting on an open fire and all that?

Something dark moved in Maryanne’s eyes, but it was gone before Brooke could analyze it.

Pretty much, she agreed blandly.

Alex jumped up. Okay, if we’re done catching up on Christmas, I’m ready for a slice of that pie and a little of that GM.

By which she meant, stop picking at Maryanne. Interesting.

Interesting, too, that Alex had agreed to a drink. As far as Brooke could tell, she’d gone the whole first semester without a drop of booze. Not because she hadn’t wanted a drink. She sure as hell had. Quite desperately it seemed, at times. And it wasn’t like Brooke hadn’t offered her lots of opportunities. But Alex had gone straight-edge, seemingly overnight. Was she off the wagon now? Or did she just feel more in control these days? Well, one thing was for sure—the answer to that would be evident soon enough.

Sounds good. Brooke unrolled several articles of clothing from her bag, revealing three old-fashioned glasses. Waterford crystal glasses, to be specific. Her mother was going to have kittens when she found them missing. They’d been a gift from her husband. Asshole. I brought us some glasses we can keep up here in our room.

She passed one to Alex, who frowned. This looks expensive.

So’s the twenty-five-year-old single malt in my other bag.

Brooke! Maryanne exclaimed.

Hey, don’t worry about it. It’s my gift to you. She extended her hand and Maryanne accepted the glass.

Wow, it’s heavy.

Brooke peeled the seal off the Grand Marnier and popped the cork. Lead crystal, she said. Here—hold your glasses out.

Both girls obliged, and Brooke poured them each a small measure before pouring the same for herself.

So, shall we toast being back? Brooke asked. Three casters reunited?

I’ll drink to that, Alex said, and lifted her glass.

Me too, said Maryanne.

To us, then. Brooke raised her glass.

To us, they echoed.

They all drank, Maryanne cautiously, gasping at the heat of it. Alex more comfortably.

Whoa! Maryanne put her glass down. I need pie after that. In short order, she popped the lid off the container and sliced a piece of pie for each of them, serving them up on Christmas printed napkins and plastic forks she’d obviously packed for that purpose.

Maryanne was right—her father did make the best pecan pie ever.

Between bites, they took more sips of the liqueur. More toasts.

To Connie, their sister caster and the first to fly out in shadow form so many years ago, may she rest in peace.

To justice for that bastard C.W. Stanley, meted out by Connie’s own hand. But not without their hands too...

To the glorious freedom of casting out into the Mansbridge night, which they would do again shortly.

And to legends. Brooke smiled the widest on that last one.

When the pie and their drinks were gone, Brooke offered to pour another.

Not tonight, Alex declared. If we’re going to cast, we need to have our wits about us. You know it’s riskier now, with the snow on the ground. Easier for people to see us.

You’re right. Brooke couldn’t argue with that. It would be another hour yet at the very least before the house was asleep and they could safely sneak up to the attic. The pleasant buzz she had going on would have dissipated by then, but she didn’t mind. The act of casting was intoxicating enough. God, the anticipation was killing her. They’d all made a pact not to do it until they were reunited here. Too risky to do it solo, or in unfamiliar surroundings. So, is everyone as anxious to get out there as I am? Miss it as much as I did over Christmas?

"God, yes, Alex said. It sure would have helped me deal with the bumpy parts."

Yeah, me too, Maryanne said.

And nobody cheated? As she asked the question, Brooke watched Maryanne.

Much as I wanted to, no, Alex said, but Brooke kept her gaze on Maryanne.

Me neither, Maryanne said, but that dark thing stirred in her eyes again, and Brooke knew she was lying. She’d done it! She’d cast out back there in Burlington, in violation of their pact.

Whether by design or by accident, Alex changed the subject, launching into a story about her and her friend Anika going to a psychic fair in Halifax over the holidays. Brooke was caught up in the tale of the psychic claiming to see angels around Anika when Maryanne leapt up off her bed.

Did you hear that? she said.

Hear what? Alex said, her comment followed by several long beats of silence.

I thought... I thought I heard someone say my name.

I didn’t hear anything. At least no one calling ‘Maryanne’

Brooke shook her head. I didn’t hear anything either.

"Now that’s spooky, Alex said. That psychic would probably say it was your angel talking to you."

Brooke snorted. Yeah. And my shrink would tell you you’re very suggestible.

Maryanne blushed, an improvement over the pasty white of a minute ago. Sorry, she mumbled. I must be overtired. I didn’t sleep well last night. Too excited about coming back here, I guess.

Well, casting out will fix that, Alex said. You’ll sleep like a baby tonight.

Conversation shifted back to the psychic fair Alex had attended, and more specifically, to a really cool Reike treatment she’d had, and the moment passed. But Brooke tucked it away, like she did everything.

Chapter 3

Majestic in the Moonlight

Alex

IT WAS JUST past two-thirty in the morning.

Alex’s key still worked in the lock, and the attic door still swung open silently in the upstairs hallway. Despite Mrs. Betts’s many security upgrades since the ‘incident’, as she called it, back in November, getting the caretaker John Smith to change the lock on this door hadn’t been one of them. Alex didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. As badly as she wanted to cast out, the attic of Harvell House had been the place of nightmares for her not once, but twice. Once in September and then again in November. But no way would she let that stop her now, no more than she’d let her claustrophobia stop her from boarding the plane back here.

Want me to go first? Maryanne whispered.

Alex’s answer was to take the lead as they climbed the attic stairs. Brooke brought up the rear and the latch clicked closed behind her as she shut the door again.

Maryanne was close behind her, vibrating in her eagerness. It was a good thing their key still worked. Otherwise Maryanne might have ripped the door off its hinges to get up here. To get to that stained glass portal where they’d first cast out. Where they had learned that they could.

They could cast from any window now, a fact they’d discovered when Alex was comatose in the hospital after being attacked by C.W. in this very attic. Alex shivered, knowing she might still be trapped in that drifting, endless coma, but for Maryanne conceiving the crazy, desperate thought to try it. Maryanne had pushed Alex’s hospital bed close to the window, taken her limp hand and helped her to tap on the glass, and said the words for her. Alex’s cast had shot right out the hospital window and she’d hovered, looking in at her inert body in the hospital bed. God, that had been so scary, seeing her comatose self lying there, helpless. Frantic, she’d tapped the window and shot back into her body. The impact of her re-entry had jolted her body back to consciousness.

Alex was sure Maryanne had used another window over the holidays, despite their pact to never cast out alone. The girl made a lousy liar.

But this window—the one with the Madonna staring down from the upper part of the glass—was where it had all started for them. This particular window was the reason it had all started. Like it had started for Connie Harvell when she’d cried on this attic floor, and written in her diary about her horrible confinement.

Alex tightened her hand around that same diary in her hoodie pocket as she climbed the final few steps. Of course she’d taken Connie’s diary to Halifax with her over the break and guarded it like a hawk. She hadn’t even packed it in her luggage when she’d flown back, opting instead to shove it in her carry-on. She’d hated having to stow it beneath the seat in front of her on the flight back, but knowing it was within easy reach had made it bearable. So far she hadn’t found a chance to stash the diary back under the floorboards next to her bed, but she’d do that as soon as she could. She’d hide Connie’s copper doll with it.

As they reached the landing, the other girls fanned out on either side