"Hey, you two, wasn't expecting to see you when you're due on the stage so soon."

"We need to borrow some clothing," Megan explained.

Joseph nodded. "Morwenna is inside. She'll set you up. Hey, she'll set you up good. And if you get a chance, mention that your clothing came from our place."

"Absolutely," Megan promised.

"Wait, I've got the perfect outfit for you, Finn. Bought it for myself, actually, for fun. May not fit, you've got some broad shoulders on you, but… we'll give it a go." He opened the door to the shop, calling for Sara to come out and change places with him.

Sara came. She greeted both Megan and Finn, but stared at Finn. Hard. She tried to smile, and looked a little sick—as if she didn't want to be anywhere near him.

Ditto, you bitch! he thought.

She stepped back, almost as if he had spoken the words aloud.

"Come on in, I guess we need to hurry," Joseph said.

They followed him into the store. Sara gave Finn a wide berth, stepping out of the way of the door.

Megan didn't seem to notice.

Joseph didn't intend to give Finn just a cape, he really had an entire outfit. Sleek black pants, ruffled black shirt with a medieval look, and a huge, sweeping black velvet cloak. When he was dressed and came out of the small, curtained, changing room, Morwenna let out a whistle and Megan's raised brow and pursed smile assured him that he wore the costume well.

"You are absolutely gorgeous. In the studliest way possible, of course," Morwenna assured him.

He looked to his wife. "I have to agree."

A teenager—probably a visitor, since she wasn't dressed in black—gave out a little wolf whistle and set down the incense burner she had been studying.

"That's it, for sure," Morwenna said.

"I don't like to take something that Joseph ordered for himself," he said, wondering why he wanted to protest the outfit.

"It's perfect, and he doesn't care in the least," Morwenna said. "If he did, he wouldn't have offered. Now, Megan… as to you… hm. Follow me," she commanded.

Megan shrugged and followed her, leaving Finn standing by the changing room.

As he stood, waiting, watching the customers jostle around in the outer room, an uneasy feeling swept over him. He was being watched.

Sara had come into the room.

"Well, the outfit is quite… fitting," she murmured.

He didn't reply. He felt as if a strange animosity created a static in the air between them.

But Sara kept talking.

"You're beginning to look the part."

She took a number of steps toward him. A pounding began in his ears. His heartbeat, he thought. The closer she came, the worse the pounding. Harder, faster. He felt it pulse through his limbs, down through his extremities. She was a little bit of a thing. But she kept coming, as if she dared him, as if there were some confidence within her that allowed her to taunt him, as if she pulled a tiger's tail, knowing that she could whip out a .38 Special at any moment.

Small… but powerful. The pounding continued. It created a whirl of thoughts in his mind.

Pounce.

Break her neck.

But first…

Grab her, threaten her, touch her. She wore her customary black, but not in any conservative style.

Her black silk shirt was unbuttoned way down, so far down that her bare breasts were nearly fully visible. She moved with a sway of her hips that was purposely provocative. He narrowed his eyes, realizing, dimly, beneath the sound that roared in his ears, that she was coming on to him. She emitted hostility as if it were tangible, but she was coming on to him as well.

To his amazement, he felt the pounding surge into his groin.

And his feelings of violence… and more… skyrocketed. His fingers were twitching. He was ready to reach out, draw her against him with fury and force, use her, degrade her, touch her with every depravity known to man, and then… wind his fingers around her throat.

And she came closer still. Her eyes were on his. Dark, taunting, full of some kind of strange knowledge, urging him to reach out to touch her.

The pounding was a ragged pain. He gritted his teeth, willing himself to move, to step around her. He couldn't move. He managed to keep himself from reaching out, but he couldn't force his feet to action, to step around her. A warning sounded from deep within his mind. She wanted him to lose control, to give in to lust, violence, and insanity. She wanted to scream then, and have everyone in the store see him for the monster that he was, beneath.

"Finn, what do you think?" Morwenna called, with a note of pure pride and pleasure in her voice.

He felt as if he literally ripped his eyes from their absurd lock with Sara's.

The pounding ceased, instantly.

Blood seemed to drain from his temples, back into his veins, where it belonged.

Morwenna was sweeping into the area between the fitting rooms and the worktables and desks. She had an arm linked with Megan's.

His wife was more than beautiful, and far beyond sexy. Black lace hugged her breasts. The long sleeves of the garment were belled toward the wrists. The bodice hugged her waist, and silk, velvet, and lace combined in the long skirt that swept around her limbs with an exotic appeal. Her hair, so long and light, created a stunning contrast against the ebony of the costume, like her eyes, which seemed to glimmer with a gemlike quality deeper than sapphire.

"Whoa!" he applauded softly.

And he could walk. He swept past Sara, as if she weren't there at all, and even brushing her person as he moved meant nothing. In fact, he might have imagined the entire interlude.

Megan looked up, delighted by his approval. Morwenna seemed as proud as a peahen.

"Perfect, right?"

"I can't find the words," Finn said.

"Well, you don't need words right now. You need music. It's after eight. Get going. We'll see you there later. We will be late, though. We're keeping the shop open until ten, and I still have all kinds of preparations to make for the actual holy day. Get going!"

He was startled to find himself planting a quick kiss on Morwenna's cheek, and thanking her. He still wasn't looking at her. He and Megan gazed at one another with both amusement and appreciation, and they were still doing so as they left the shop, walking through admiring customers, and at the end, thanking Joseph, giving him a wave, and then continuing on.

There were demons everywhere.

As Megan looked out on the crowd that night, she thought that whole city had gone movie crazy.

Someone had come as the monster from Pumpkinhead. There were at least five "Pinheads" from Clive Barker novels, three or four "Freddies" from the Nightmare on Elm Street films, and several "Jasons"

from the Friday the 13th series of flicks. A few Frankenstein monsters were roaming around, along with several incredibly well done mummies. Some people were more inventive, creating their own form of monsters, such as stone creatures, tree creatures, goblins, ogres, and more. For certain, with the bizarre lighting, the ever rolling fog machine, and the room's decor—silly and obvious by day—this night in the ballroom was creepy.

They were doing incredibly well. The hotel's entertainment manager had told them that when word had gotten around about their success of the previous evening, they had been inundated with calls. They were having to turn people away at the door. The clerk had sold more than two hundred of their CDs, and people had already been asking to make sure that they could be purchased again that night.

It was more than they could have imagined.

They had been highlighted on a newscast from Boston. A review had been picked up on syndication that had aired across the country. They couldn't be flying higher.

And amazingly, she was almost sorry.

Though they'd had a good day, basically, she was still disturbed by her encounter with Andy Markham.

And then the black cat. Silly. But she was almost wishing that they could just drop everything, leave, and go back to New Orleans. A normal place—despite its reputation for zombies, voodoo, and vampires.

A round of applause and catcalls sounded as Finn finished the last chords of one of his own pieces on his acoustic guitar. He announced their next number, his voice deep, husky, and casual. She turned her gaze from the audience to her husband. It was true that the black fit him well. The pants hugged his hips, the silk emphasized the muscle structure of his shoulders and chest. More. The Gothic appearance of the clothing, combined with his chiseled facial bone structure, added an element of danger and mystique to his appearance. Highly sensual. She wasn't the only one who had noted it; some of the surely younger, college-age girls—when close to the stage—had voiced some almost obscene approval. He'd had one invitation to crawl through a dorm window and pounce, and another to meet a young woman in a dark alley. He had the look of a fantasy creature that might be purely evil, might suck out your blood and your life, but be so erotic in the process it wouldn't matter.

She'd felt a few little twinges of jealousy, but then he'd met her eyes each time, rolling his own with impatience. Maybe part of his charm was a certain easy confidence in knowing that he'd go where he wanted to, but being immune, or even unaware, of the extent of his magnetism.

He was staring at her then, a flicker of irritation in his eyes. She realized that he'd strummed a few chords: her opening. She was supposed to be singing.

She turned back to the audience and began the number by rote.

They played through the set, and Finn announced their break. She didn't wait for him to tell her that she had missed a cue. She hurried from the stage, and headed for the bar, suddenly determined that she needed a drink to get through the night.

At the bar, a kid in a skeleton outfit hit on her. She could have managed by herself, and was startled when the boy whipped around because a hand had fallen on his shoulder.

Finn. He towered over the kid. In the black, he seemed a real menace.

She opened her mouth to protest; she moved to set a hand on her husband's chest, to reassure him that she could take care of the boy. There seemed to be such a leashed violence about her husband lately, she realized that she felt like she was walking on eggshells, worried that he would explode.