Tom Gordon had died of heart failure.
Heart failure. The organ I would follow anywhere, without question, without reasoning. When lost or confused, it was our hearts we were told to trust completely. The speaker of desires, deliverer of feelings, and giver of hope. Yet it still had the audacity to fail us.
Like I had almost failed Gramps, if the town would have let me.
Yesterday, Monday embalmed Mr. Gordon, and today his skin was firmer under every stroke of my thumb, his frozen flesh refusing to soak up the color of life, a golden beige with a smudge of pink.
Working on a corpse wasn’t much different from working on the living, but with different techniques used. Some preferred to airbrush, but I preferred the pads of my fingers, sliding my eyes back and forth to the picture of him when he was alive, the picture I’d requested Monday to collect from his grieving wife.
“What’s your sign?” Monday asked from the opposite side of the room, but I was distracted, and her words slipped through the faulty cracks of my mind. She had easily forgiven me for leaving her behind in the woods, but made me work harder for attempting to leave Weeping Hollow. “Fallon?”
“Cancer.” I ran my hand over Mr. Gordon’s hair to naturally sweep it to the side like in the picture when he was dressed up in a suit and tie and twenty years younger, his dashing bride standing beside him, a bouquet clutched in her hands, their bare feet in the sand.
The girl who loved Tom Gordon.
He had given his heart to her that day, a heart that was no longer his to fail.
“You seem to be caught between the devil and the deep blue sea today, moonchild. You have intense feelings that have you uptight and fearful, but you are keeping quiet about it all. It may involve a relationship that hasn’t quite manifested yet, or someone in your line of sight you haven’t seen. You do not want them to see you in anything but a position of strength and control. The day’s planetary constellations beg the question as to who you are kidding. Being vulnerable is a part of trusting another,” she read off, blindly bouncing a yellow stress ball off the concrete wall. Catching it in her fist, she turned in her chair. “Well, that’s a load of shit.”
“Horoscopes are vague on purpose.” But as soon as she’d said it, I couldn’t help but think about Julian.
I stood from Mr. Gordon’s side and walked over to the sink to wash the foundation off my hands, an attempt to wash away images of him from my mind, too.
“Tom’s ready,” I said, changing the subject. “I’m going to head home for the night.” Gramps’ breathing had only gotten worse, and he hadn’t made it to the kitchen this morning.
“But it’s Friday night.”
“So?”
“So, come out with us. A few of us are heading over to Voodoos.”
“The bar?” I’d once drank alone. It was my twenty-first birthday. I’d driven to Gabriel’s Liquor store for a bottle of something. Inexperienced and naïve, I’d grabbed the first bottle my determined eyes came across, a pre-mixed Carlo Rossi Sangria because the bottle was pretty. Dry red wine and tart fruit, the taste of red apples kept me going back for more, searing my tongue and staining my lips until I’d passed out in the early hours of the morning. And when I’d opened my eyes and my gaze followed around the uniquely shaped, half-empty bottle with a thud inside my head, I’d never felt so pathetic and alone.
I sighed at the memory. “I must warn you, I’m not an experienced drinker.”
“Then that, my dear, will make tonight all the more fun.”
On my way back to Gramps, I stopped at Mina’s Diner to pick up minestrone and baked bread, then returned to heat it up over the gas stove as Casper sat on the window sill, eyeing the broken birdhouse hanging from the garage eave, his green and blue eyes searching for life.
In Gramps’ room, his sagging jowls vibrated, and his eyes popped open when I walked in with the tray of food and tea.
“Freya,” he whispered as the moon cast slivers of dimming light through his dusty window over the bed, outlining the silhouette of his thin legs and boney knees. His brown eyes shifted from recognition to doubt to disappointment to the undeniable pain at the memory of a father losing his only daughter. The darkness swept across his face like a broom sweeping away all fragments of light from his past. A clean and tidy floor of truth, and his features turned cold. “Moonshine,” he grumbled.
“Maybe I should stay home tonight.” I dragged the dinner tray closer to the bed and set down the plate of food.
Gramps sat up, and a cough caught in his chest. He turned on his side until it ceased, his lips trembling in the aftermath. “I’d rather yah go.”
“Gramps…”
For twenty-four years, Gramps had been trapped in a house he’d never considered a home—alone—and the emptiness had slowly clawed away at the rest of him. I didn’t blame him either. The Morgan house had a way of creeping over your skin, pushing anyone into a madness. Or maybe it was the town.
I’d learned his wife, my late grandmother, died when my mother was born, and it seemed history had repeated itself when I came into the world, my mother dying in child birth as well.
Milo had said the Norse Woods Coven cast both my mother and Gramps out of the Westside after my mother married my father, a man from Sacred Sea, forcing them both to move into my father’s family home off the coast—the Morgan property.
“I don’t have tha energy ta argue with yah. Just go.” Gramps swung his legs over the edge and refused to look at me, keeping his gaze outside the window. Silence filled the awkward space between us as his hand shook, lifting the spoon and scooping it into the soup.
Monday stood outside the doors of Voodoos with another girl, passing a lit cigarette back and forth. Her eyes widened when I pulled into the parking lot under a buzzing street light, and she stubbed the butt against the brick wall of the building, the two of them heading over.
“Fable, Fallon, Fallon, Fable,” Monday introduced, and her eyes snapped to me. “What. A. Mouthful. Quick, let’s go inside, it’s gettin’ chilly out here.” She was already sparkly-eyed with a glistening smile, leaning to one side as she strolled across the parking lot in a flowy skirt to match her flaming-red hair.
When Monday turned her back to us, Fable held up three fingers, indicating she’d already had one too many.
Naturally wavy, golden-brown locks hung down to Fable’s waist, bouncing off her maroon leather crop top. She had a witchery beauty about her, like a Victoria Secret model on the runway. The kind of beauty you were allowed to gawk at, slowly putting you into a trance until it suddenly hit you all at once, and you weren’t quite sure how much time had passed—the bewitching beauty kind.
The doors opened to Voodoos, turning the outside cold to dust. It was dim and dark with masculine details and a nostalgic vibe. All the tables were occupied, and regulars lined the stools around the bar.
A haunting twist to “Black Hole Sun” played by a band on stage. The eerie and penetrating female voice slithered in the air as I took in the atmosphere, waiting by the door.
Across the room, the Hollow Heathens were gathered around a pool table.
Three sets of eyes pinned to me, and my gaze circled their stares until it met Julian’s.
He was there, leaning against a brick wall with a pool stick in one hand, a drink in the other. His hair was black and glossy, yet thick and disorderly. In all black, even the black mask covering his face, his chrome-colored eyes zoned in on me from across the room.
The chill from his stare was like a hit of menthol, cooling my insides and freezing me in this spot. The music dropped into the background of his gaze, and my entire body felt like a single pulse, thumping in hard-hitting beats.
I didn’t know why, but my foot stepped forward, wanting to go to him. Then Monday wrapped her fingers around my arm, yanking me in the opposite direction.
“Meet my friends,” I think she said between the words of the song drifting. One of the Heathens smacked Julian’s chest when he tore his eyes away.
Monday wedged the two of us between people at the bar, and she cleared a spot in the corner. “You already know Milo. This is Ivy and Maverick, and the rest should be here soon.” She snapped her fingers high in the air to get the bartender’s attention.
Milo threw up a thumb from down the bar, making sure it was okay between us after what had happened with the article. I nodded.
Forgiveness always came easy to me. I’d seen what holding grudges could do, how it ate away at the souls of the spirits who’d visited me.
Ivy had shiny black hair cropped at the shoulders and bangs cut evenly across her forehead. She was tucked inside Maverick’s arm, paying me no attention. Monday explained she was one of the three Sullivan sisters, along with Fable and Adora.
Maverick lifted his head in a careless greeting, shaggy blond hair and a private school upbringing style about him.
“Ignore them,” Monday whispered. “Maverick’s just cranky the other guys aren’t here yet and the Heathens are.”
The bartender chuckled as he turned, wearing the same black mask as the other Hollow Heathens. I glanced back to the pool table, counting three Heathens, so this must have been the fourth.
The bartender leaned over the bar, gripped the edge, and winked at a sour-faced Maverick.
Maverick shook his blond head and grabbed his glass, emptying it. “I’m going outside. The place reeks of a dead body, and I need fresh air,” he stood and slid the glass down the bar, then turned to Ivy, “You guys coming?”
Ivy and Milo agreed, and the three took off.
“See what I mean?” Monday sighed.
An impala skull hung high over the shelves of liquor bottles on the back wall of the bar, its long brown horns twisting up, the skull similar to Julian’s.
“What can I get ya?” the bartender asked, and all that stared back was a pair of golden eyes like the eyes of a dragon. A bit of curiosity stirred inside them as he studied my features.
“She’ll have what I’m having,” Fable interjected.
A long pause passed as the Heathen’s eyes dragged from mine to Fable’s, and he pushed off the bar and walked away. Fable’s face fell, and Monday twisted her neck to deliver a warning glare. Fable waved her hand dismissively. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“He’s one of them?” I questioned in a whisper.
“Yeah, Phoenix Wildes,” Monday leaned closer, “He owns the bar and can’t turn us away. I think it drives him crazy.”
“Why come at all if you know you’re not welcome?”
“This is the only bar aside from the Portside Pearl in town, not many places to hang out on a Friday night.” She shrugged and pulled away when Phoenix returned, dropping a drink in front of me.
A loud crack rang out as billiard balls slammed together over the green felt of the pool table. The sounds of the balls falling into pockets mixed with the music. I sat between Monday and Fable as they chatted back and forth about Defy Superstition Day and Mabon.
I’d tuned out, scanning the room and running my fingers along the lines of the detailed wood of the custom bar.
Julian was bent over the pool table, and the pool stick slid between his fingers when another crack! rang in my ears. He faced me, straightening his posture, paying no attention to his double ball drop-in as his gaze locked on mine.
“Yoo-hoo, Fallon,” Monday snapped in my face, and I jerked my head around, “Was what we saw in those woods not enough for you?”
“It’s not that,” I said, trying to deviate whatever assumptions she had going on inside her head about Julian. “There’s something … about him. Something different.”
And there was, or maybe it was the alcohol. Light-headed, dizzy, spellbinding, either the liquor was poisoning my brain, Julian was getting inside my head with his so-called dark magic, or the town was making me sick. But when I should be scared after seeing what he had done—after seeing him slaughter a goat—I wasn’t.
Monday crossed her legs and swung on the stool to face me. “Different? And the masks didn’t give that away? I get it—the fascination. The wonder,” she wiggled her fingers between us with wide eyes, “Who are the mystery guys behind the masks? But trust me, it’s a dead end. They’re cold. They have zero personality. They’re hardly even human. And they don’t talk to anyone unless they have to, as if we’re the wasted breath.”
My gaze found Julian’s again. He’d talked to me on the rocks, but I didn’t tell Monday or Fable that.
I swallowed and skated my eyes back to the girls. “What’s up with the whole mask thing, anyway?”
The girls exchanged glances before Fable leaned closer. “They’re cursed.”
“The Curse of the Hollow Heathens,” Monday added and took a sip from her straw.
Fable flipped her long brown locks off her shoulder and rested her elbow on the bar. “Julian is a member of the Norse Woods Coven and a Hollow Heathen.”
“Yeah, Milo told me about them, and how they are the last four of the five original families from that coven.”
“Right,” Fable continued, “Supposedly they wear the masks because if you were to see their faces, all you’d see are your fears staring back at you. Their face sucks you in, and just like that”—she snapped, and I flinched— “your heart stops, scared to death.”
I arched a brow, eyes narrowing. “You can’t be serious …”
Fable pursed her lips and shrugged. “No one really knows for sure, not like anyone’s lived to say if it’s true or not. It’s a shame, really. Their coven is dying. Not like they care.” Her eyes turned sad, and she stared at the back of Phoenix’s head, drilling holes as she spoke, “They don’t care about anything.”
“Fable used to crush hard on Phoenix,” Monday explained through a whisper. “Thought she could get through to him.”
“Not get through to him.” Fable rolled her eyes. “You know what? Forget it. I’m not telling you shit anymore.”
“How come it’s only them who wear the masks?” I haven’t seen any others keep their faces hidden.
Another quietness swept through the two of them.
Fable flicked her eyes over to where Phoenix was standing then back to me. “Only the first-born sons of the original five. Death always follows their family. Julian’s dad murdered seven people twelve years ago, so the Order had him executed. Beck’s dad stays inside, no one has seen him in years, and Phoenix…both his parents…gone,” she continued, and my eyes slid over to Phoenix, who had his back to us at the other end of the bar, his brown hair tied into a low bun at his neck. With one hand over the lever, he poured beer into a tilted glass, and the muscles in his shoulders flexed as if he heard what we were saying. “They’re a dying breed.”
“You forgot about Mr. Goody,” Monday jetted in.
“Oh, yeah. Well, Zephyr’s dad is the High Priest of the Norse Woods Coven right now. Has been since Julian’s dad was executed. You’ll see Clarence Goody around sooner or later.”
Executed? She’d said it so casually.
“Which one is Zephyr?” I asked, sliding my eyes back over to the pool table.
Fable lowered her mouth to my ear. “The tall one with the blond hair. Can’t miss him.”
Beside Julian, there was Zephyr, standing taller than all of them with slicked-back dirty-blond hair. Dark circles rimmed his deep-set eyes, the color of glowing emerald chips. He and Julian seemed to be in a controlled disagreement, and where their gazes were anchored, it had nothing to do with the game of pool. Both pairs of eyes were fixed in our direction.
Phoenix slammed two mugs over the bar in front of two customers sitting beside us, and the three of us flinched as foam sloshed over the lip of the glasses. Without a word, not even a skim of eye contact, he walked away and assisted the next customer.
“I’ll need another drink after this,” I said for the first time in my life.
As the night carried on, so did the music and drinks. Maverick, Milo, and Ivy had reappeared with a few others, the group growing in numbers. It was hard to keep track of all their names and faces, especially since I was seeing double inside the swaying room.
“The Tobias Morgan is your father?” A guy named Kane asked, sitting on the stool beside me. I nodded, my eyes drifting from his charming features to where the Hollow Heathens were seated. The pool game had ended, and they were all grouped at the other end of the bar. “I want you to meet my father,” Kane added, but his voice fell behind the way Julian was looking at me. I mindlessly twisted my mood ring around my finger as our gazes connected and tangled and …
“Fallon?”
I snapped my head forward. “Yeah?”
“My father, I want you to meet him,” Kane repeated.
“Aren’t you supposed to take me on a date first?” I joked, and his blank eyes blinked. “Calm down, I’m kidding. I’m not much of a comedian and just spit out words when I’m uncomfortable.”
“Right …” Kane’s face scrunched.
“I don’t like talking about my dad,” I admitted, but the truth was, I didn’t like talking about this secret side of Dad everyone else knew. It made me feel as if I didn’t know him at all.
“Well, Tobias was my dad’s best friend growing up. He’d love to meet you, minus the date.” He pulled a glass to his lips, then lifted a shoulder. “Sorry.”
I nodded absentmindedly. “It was a joke. I didn’t mean it.” An uncanny attempt to backpedal my way out of my outburst. They were the first group who’d ever shown genuine interest in wanting to get to know me, and I didn’t want to scare them away with my social awkwardness.
Kane shook his head and stood from the bar, swallowing the last of his drink. “It’s okay, I’m used to it. But the truth is…you’re just not my type. It doesn’t mean we can’t be friends, or that you can’t meet my dad.”
You’re just not my type, my brain repeated. Another term I’d heard many times before without asking for it. No matter how many times I’d heard it, it still hurt all the same.
“Sure, yeah,” I agreed with a forced smile.
The first beat of a remake to “Sympathy for The Devil” dropped, and Kane raised his brows the same time the crowd went up in a roar. Drink-filled hands shot high into the air, and alcohol slapped over the floor. The crowded bar turned into a frenzy.
Monday shrieked and climbed over the stool and onto the bar, and the three Sullivan sisters joined her.
“What’s going on?” I called out to Kane as men snatched their drinks from the bar, clearing it for the dancing girls.
“You gonna go up there?” he asked without answering me, then lowered his soft-brown head, his nose brushing my hair. “Or has the town not gotten to you yet?”
“Gotten to me?” I glanced over to Phoenix, who threw a towel over his shoulder and leaned against the back wall, watching Fable as the music and stomping shoes vibrated the bar.
Julian’s silver gaze latched to me, his elbows on the bar and drink secured in one hand, as if waiting for me to make a decision.
“What are you going to do, Fallon? Are you a flatlander or one of us?” Kane edged on.
Fable reached her hand out, and my brain went fuzzy.
“Okay,” I said, not thinking, half nodding, half laughing.
Already committed, I linked my hand with Fable’s. Kane gripped my hips and hoisted me up on the bar, and once I was high in the air, I glanced around the room. The crowd looked up at me as the music pumped through the speakers, everyone waiting for me to do something.
“I’m a townie,” I screamed, throwing my arms high in the air. “And I’m really, really drunk!”
The entire room hollered at my declaration, and everyone went back to dancing to the unique cover of the song, including me.
The crowd turned into a blur as I twirled in place with my arms out at my sides, my hair soaring all around.
Fable grabbed my hand and pulled me to the center, and she and Monday began to teach me their stomping dance. I had no idea what I was doing and was too drunk to care.
And perhaps this was why people drank, to not think.
To forget. To feel free.
My face burned from the candid smile stretching across my numbed lips. My limbs moved as if they had a mind of their own, and when I looked over to where Julian was sitting, he was already watching me from down below with a mysterious wonder in his eyes.
A wave of gravity lifted inside me, the feeling of weightlessness after driving over a small hill. A free-fall. A tickle in my stomach.
But then my foot slipped.