Chapter 3

Two other people joined us, and the table exploded with introductions. Both were professors presenting at the conference: Ellis Gardner, a round, white-bearded man air who sported a dark suit and tie with mustard stain, and Candace Slaten, a slender blonde woman in a teal suit, who had multiple strands of gemstones looped around her neck. She smiled at me warmly. He was more interested in the tablecloth.

“We were just celebrating the press team, all of whom you already know,” Richmond said to the newcomers. They nodded as he continued. “And finally, there’s our Meredith, who edits like a dream. We’d be lost without her.”

“Thank you, Richie,” she said quietly.

Richmond returned to his salad.

I took a sip of the white wine that had just been placed in front of me by the server. “So is it just the three of you in the office?”

Meredith shook her head. “We have additional staff in acquisitions and editing, production and design, marketing and distribution—”

“We may be small, but we cover the bases, I assure you,” said Richmond. “All the necessary bases.”

“—plus several student interns who help out tremendously.” Meredith said. “Bless them.”

“And there’s Dan,” Hanover reminded her.

“Of course! Our office manager slash finance director slash superhero,” Meredith said. “We would be lost without him.”

“Here’s to Dan.” Richmond raised his wine glass. “And to everyone else at this table.”

We all toasted. I already felt much better about working with this group.

If my book was still happening, that is.

It’s true what they say about academia—it’s publish or perish—so a lot was riding on this. And while I didn’t own the topic, of course, I had been the only one working on Isabella Dare’s novels for years. I’d done the research, so I knew there was nothing out there. No books, no articles, and no conference papers other than mine. I’d long dreamed of introducing her around. Not to mention that if the world found Isabella as important as I did, that was the kind of thing that could make a scholar’s career.

Plus, I knew darn well that Selene Raleigh had not been working on Dare until recently; I’d heard that when she’d interviewed at Stonedale, she had been all about John Donne, mostly, and Robert Frost, barely. A member of the hiring committee had confided privately that she thought Selene had merely shoved the latter writer into the mix in order to appear qualified to teach American literature even though she didn’t seem fully committed to the subject.

And Simone had outright mocked my topic in front of our colleagues the first time she’d asked me about my dissertation.

Something didn’t add up.

Unless you factored in the part about Selene wanting the job that I’d gotten.

Then it made perfect sense.

They were out for revenge, pure and simple.

I took another sip of wine while the servers removed our salads and replaced them with a plate of butternut squash ravioli and grilled vegetables.

My thoughts tumbled forward. Ultimately, there was plenty of room for everyone to write on Isabella Dare. The most important thing was that we put the spotlight on her so that could happen. In fact, it wasn’t that I didn’t want anyone else to write about her—quite the opposite. I hoped that someday there was a veritable industry of scholars churning out articles and books on her work. It was that Simone and Selene were pretending they didn’t even know about the work I’d done.

After they’d mocked me for doing it.

I sighed. Even if I wasn’t happy with the intentional dovetailing onto my topic that I was sure had taken place, or the shady reason for it, their book would help support Isabella’s importance.

And my book was scheduled to come out first, so at least there was that.

Turning my attention back to the discussion, I heard Selene say, “...and that’s why we think our book should come out as soon as possible—say, September—instead of next February.”

The silverware cut into my skin, as my hands curled into fists. Richmond, to my horror, was nodding. “Would it be too late to revamp the media schedule, Hanover?”

I willed him to say yes. He looked up at the ceiling and squinted. “I could probably make it happen,” he said.

“Of course you could,” Richmond said. “You’re a genius.”

Hanover smiled.

“But that would be a complete rush. We haven’t even seen the finished—” Meredith interjected.

“Then it’s settled,” Richmond crowed, beaming at the twins. “Great, great, great.”

I found myself standing without any recollection of having pushed my chair back. Eyes around the table looked surprised—except Simone’s and Selene’s. They were amused.

“Excuse me,” I managed. “Be right back.”

I made my way through rows of tables, stopping near the side wall to catch my breath. A server making his way to the kitchen in back paused to inquire if I needed help. I shook my head and thanked him. After giving me a concerned look, he hoisted the tray back onto his shoulder and went through the double doors.

When my heart had slowed to its usual pace, I went outside and called Calista. I recounted the conversation and listened to her response, which began with a string of curses aimed at the Raleighs, then veered into possible ways to let other people know how horrible they were, then coasted into potential retribution scenarios. When she finally reached the what-are-you-going-to-do-now phase, I was feeling much better.

“I’m going to talk to Meredith tomorrow,” I said, resolving to be direct and unemotional. “We have a meeting and maybe she will see the—”

“Injustice!” Calista said angrily. “It’s completely unfair.”

“I was going to say issue, but okay, injustice, and maybe she’ll revert to the original schedule.”

“Your book should come out first, as planned. Being the first to publish on an obscure author holds more weight.

“But does it always? Maybe—”

“Stop. You have put in the work. You deserve to go first. Accept nothing less.”

“I’ll try to convince Meredith. If not, there’s nothing else I can do.”

“I’ll keep thinking about it. Francisco might have some ideas.” He might indeed. Her boyfriend was brilliant and determined.

Having vented, I felt capable of finishing the dinner now. “Thanks so much, Cal. How are you doing, by the way? Sorry I keep calling and dumping this drama on you.”

“I’m fine. Just writing. And I want you to keep me posted. This is unbelievable. I’ll be at the conference soon, but hang in there until then.”

We said our goodbyes, and I took a deep breath, then returned to the table, hoping that the night would progress smoothly from now on. I couldn’t take much more this evening.

Everyone was digging into their dessert when I slipped back into my chair.

“Lila, you must try the cheesecake immediately.” Richmond waved his fork around and popped a bite into his mouth, as if he were playing airplane. “It’s delightful.”

I complied with his request and smiled at him. “It’s delicious.”

Although I tried not to look at the Raleighs, my gaze slid toward them when Simone made an expression of surprise. She was mouthing something to an individual at the next table and grinning.

“It’s Beckett,” she informed her sister. “We should have saved him a seat.”

Selene squealed and jumped up from the table.

Simone soon stopped mouth-chatting and caught my eye. She looked down quickly. I wasn’t sure how to read that.

However, when Selene returned, she stared, with a slow smile blossoming across her face. It was intended to signal her sense of victory, and it worked.

My stomach rolled over.

I faced my cheesecake again, no longer able to enjoy it, and set my fork slowly down on the plate. It was a relief to direct my attention to the stage when a sophisticated African-American woman in a burgundy suit walked over to the podium.

“Good evening,” she said into the microphone. “I’m Acadia Branson, Chair of the Horror and Gothic Society.”

Acadia, an academic superstar from Princeton, waited politely until the applause subsided, then thanked the conference committee and the volunteers. She gave us a run-through of the main events and complimented those who had taken the Monster Night costume opportunity to heart. In keeping with the unique history of the hotel, she explained, the theme for the keynote dinner on Friday was The Old West, and the theme for Saturday’s Awards Gala would be Literary Figures, with both character and author costumes welcome. The keynote speaker had not yet been announced, and the conference program had warned us to “buckle our seatbelts,” whatever that meant. It was unusual for a keynote not to be named and advertised far in advance, as that could be quite a draw for attendance, but it also lent an air of mystery, I had to admit.

Next, she introduced all of the nominees for awards that would be given out at the Gala—a long list of scholars paraded up the stairs, across the stage, and back again after receiving their certificates suitable for framing from a beaming Acadia. Following that came the winners of the graduate student scholarships. They bounded earnestly onstage, one by one, and stood there twinkling shyly at us while she finished handing out the attractive wooden plaques. It felt as though things were rolling to a close when Acadia said, “And now we have a surprise for you. May I please have Richmond Haskin and company join me?”

He pushed his chair back slowly and waited for Ellis and Candace to do the same. They proceeded to the stage.

I looked questioningly at Hanover, who winked at me before turning to watch his boss. It was a tribute to his reputation that Acadia didn’t even have to name the press; everyone knew the name Richmond Haskin. He had been an extremely prolific scholar during his time at various Ivy schools—he’d been wooed from one to another regularly—and he was famous not only for his monographs but also his edited anthologies focusing on a specific topic and bringing together a variety of scholars. He had been lured to Fairlake University, a small private school on the east coast—very much like Stonedale—by the opportunity to launch his own press about a decade ago. From the beginning, he’d chosen cutting-edge topics and seemed to stay just ahead of the curve.

“Greetings, colleagues,” Richmond said into the microphone. “Thank you for your attention. As you know, Fairlake is a small press, but we have painstakingly built a strong reputation. That’s due to the incredible work of our authors.”

He bowed his head as applause swept the room.

“We have two announcements for you, actually. As you know, the conference awards will recognize the best that has been published during this past year. We’ve just heard the names of the finalists in all the categories. Congratulations to you all!”

There was more polite applause.

“The Horror and Gothic Society has allowed us to add a new award to the mix: the Fairlake New Voices Prize. Every year, we will select the best proposals that have been submitted to our press. Those authors will be on a special panel at this conference, which we hope will continue for many years.” He smiled broadly at Acadia. “The winner will be chosen by a board of judges who attend the special panel on Saturday. They’ll base their decision on a review of the proposal along with their evaluation of the scholar’s performance at the panel, which will include a brief reading from the manuscript as well as responses to selected questions. The winner will be announced at the Gala.”

He pulled a sheet of paper out of his pocket. “Please join me onstage if you hear your name. And audience members, do hold your applause until I complete the list. This year’s finalists are Beckett Standhouse for his project, War Imagery in the Work of Flynn McMaster; Simone and Selene Raleigh for Brontë and Dare: Double Trouble; and...” he paused dramatically as the twins squealed and hugged each other. “Lila Maclean, for Beyond the Veil: Isabella Dare and the Gothic.”

I froze and looked at Meredith.

She was smiling and nodding. “Yes, Lila. Go up there.”

I made my way dizzily toward the stage, shaking my head slightly, trying to clear it. Nothing was making sense.

The audience continued to applaud until we were all in a line next to Richmond. He made his way down the row, handing each of us a certificate and shaking our hands, then returned to the microphone. Acadia shepherded us over to the side, where it took all my effort not to sink down on a hay bale. As if it weren’t surreal enough to be onstage in the first place, the sight of the crowd turned it up a notch. From this vantage point, it was easier to see the wide range of costumes—from someone who had simply donned a t-shirt that read Nevermore and perched a stuffed raven on his shoulder to a larger-than-life Headless Horseman, complete with flowing cape and glowing pumpkin tucked beneath his arm.

Richmond rubbed his hands together. “And now for the second surprise. We are very excited—thrilled, frankly—to announce that our press will be publishing a new series of critical guides on contemporary gothic and horror writers. Intended for professors, researchers, students, and general readers alike, they are going to be very valuable to your work. Each book will focus on an author and include four types of materials: several essays, a detailed biography section, a collection of interviews, and relevant photographs of the author’s life.”

He waited until the round of applause died down, then smiled. “Tonight, we kick things off with our first guide, on one of the best and brightest: Flynn McMaster.”

The room went wild. An English professor-turned-bestselling-author, Flynn McMaster was extremely popular, both with mainstream readers and scholars in literary studies and popular culture. Each of the six books in his series featuring Dr. Powell Block, a scholar-warrior-detective doing epic battle with various paranormal creatures and monsters, had catapulted to the top of the bestseller lists since his debut. Several chartbusting feature films had already been made with all-star casts, and several more were in the making. His books crossed genres and appealed to fans of fantasy, horror, gothic, and mystery.

Eventually, Richmond was able to continue. “The materials have been carefully curated for your use and enjoyment. I can vouch for the quality, as I had the great honor of editing this collection, along with Ellis Gardner and Candace Slaten, both colleagues of mine at Fairlake University. Several talented scholars contributed essays, and I’d like to introduce them now. Please hold your applause until the end, shall we?” He looked sternly around the room, then reeled off several names: Sharita Dawes, Lawrence Ling, Topher Armitage, Nan Delancey, and Winston Hughley.

As the audience applauded, he handed the microphone to Acadia, who informed us that we could buy our own copy in the book room immediately following the event. In addition, she told us there would be a signing with the editors and essay contributors on Friday afternoon.

“And on that note,” Richmond added gleefully, “it’s time to meet your keynote speaker. Please welcome Flynn McMaster.”

The applause was deafening. From a curtain behind the hay bales on the opposite side of the stage, a tall, handsome man emerged. His long brown hair was gathered into a messy knot at the back of his head, and he wore a white tunic over black leather pants, accessorized with multiple pendants and bracelets. It was all very rock and roll.

Flynn moved quickly across the stage and shook hands with everyone before stepping up to the microphone.

“Hello,” he said with a little wave, setting off an avalanche of claps and whistles.

Once the commotion had died down, he grinned and gestured to the professors alongside him. “Many thanks to everyone here. It’s quite an honor to have your work considered...” His hands flailed as he searched for the right word.

Richmond leaned into the microphone and said “important.”

Flynn tipped his head down in acknowledgment. “Thank you, sir.”

Richmond continued. “Yes, your work is very significant, Flynn. So say we all. And,” he turned to the crowd, “we know you can’t wait to get your hands on this gem. So we’ve prepared a little experience for you. Follow the signs out front. They will lead you to your opportunity to be among the first to purchase a copy of this groundbreaking guide.”

Murmurs broke out around the room and continued as Arcadia wished everyone a good night. I thanked Meredith for the invitation to sit with the press and followed Hanover outside to where large signs were displayed along the path back to the main building. There were multiple pictures of Flynn McMaster on easels in various authorly poses, one with all three editors standing rather stiffly in a group and smiling at the camera, and one of the contributors crunched together in a circle and holding a book above their heads. Inside the hotel, we were ushered into a large rectangular room with a “Book Lair” sign. The horror theme of the conference was admittedly straining a bit against the cheery ranch-chic remodeling touches, but that just made it more interesting.

Tables were piled high with the guides, as well as Flynn’s other books, all ready for purchase. I paused at the end of the line that already snaked around the outer perimeter; looked like the entire dinner population had come directly to the book room, as directed. After twenty minutes or so, during which I checked work emails on my phone and only progressed about three feet forward, Hanover appeared.

“Have you seen the guide yet, Lila?”

“No. I didn’t want to hold it the whole time I was in line.”

“They’re selling so fast you might not get one otherwise.” Hanover took a few steps away, to the nearest table, then returned with a hardcover book, which he handed to me. “You better hold on to this. Don’t want you to miss out. Also, I’m dying to hear what you think. You know what they say...first impressions and all that. Could you please take a look and let me know your thoughts? Do you like the layout? Is it easy to navigate? And so on.”

I thanked him and looked down. The cover was in a lurid crimson, with the title splashed across the front in an antique sort of script, Go Ahead and Scream: A Critical Guide to the Work of Flynn McMaster. I opened the cover to read the first page.

Just then, a high-pitched scream pierced the room.