STAIN (My Soul To Wake Book 1) (7 page)

I can muster a whisper. “Me, too.”

A billow of wind breaks against us, rushing through the space between our bodies, carrying my hair with it.

He swipes at the tangled pile of locks strewn about my face and we laugh at the silliness of it. When the hair covering my eyes is swept aside, I meet with his again and our laughing takes on a teenaged nervous quality before quieting.

I see a flash in his eyes, as if I’m reading his inward commands to his muscles, and I somehow know what they’ll do next. His arm wraps around to the small of my back, his palm so large it nearly covers the width of me. The muscles around his mouth twitch, preparing for the work they intend to do.

A thin black line appears between his heavenly lips as they soften themselves and lower to sweep delicately over mine. I close my eyes and let the kiss consume me, killing whatever trace of chill I may have had.

Our flesh presses together, molding to one another, testing the waters. A first kiss is something magical. Something I’ve read about, fantasized about. Before last night’s dream, I’d never felt the things I’ve heard people claim from a terrific first kiss, as the only ones I’ve had were mediocre at best.

The dream I had last night, though… it gave me new hope. It somehow reassured me that there are things in this world that can bring true joy. I could actually feel every part of that imagined kiss and it did things to my body that I’m ashamed to admit.

But this kiss… the bonafide, real flesh and bone kiss, blows it away.

He’s strong and sweet at the same time. It’s as if we’re dancing, with him taking the lead, guiding me around and around in circles as I deftly keep pace. As long as I concentrate on him and the subtle hints he uses to steer me, I keep up with the dance. The swirling and twirling around me is kept at bay as long as I fix myself to his lips.

For whatever lack of practice I must have, I hope I hide it well compared to the skill he tempts me with. It’s as if our mouths are melting into one another’s, joining. His tongue is more than adept at finding the tiny places that weaken me. There’s a mixture of sweetness and lemon and coffee inundating my senses as I struggle to take this all in.

His touch, his kiss, his scent, his taste… they all compete for my attention.

I arch my neck to deepen what we have and I hear him gasp from within the kiss. His arms tighten around me, one snaking up to support the base of my hairline as he answers my movement with one of his own.

I have no choice but to latch my arms around his neck, clinging for dear life as we twist around the curves of each other, instinct taking hold and joining every available inch of me to his. Our tongues pet each others suggestively, reuniting almost, as if they’ve been acquainted before. Like when strangers who have something in common figure out their similarity and draw on it, our bodies have linked to something that the other seems to foresee.

A passerby whistles at our display, breaking our moment and I shyly withdraw, rattled by my uncharacteristic behavior.

His mouth is still close, his breath still warm. “I’ve waited so long to do that.”

I lighten the moment. “All twenty four hours?”

“Since the second I saw you.”

~*~

Nina lets me into their room where the news is playing softly in the background on the TV. I lean myself up against the flat door and sigh, clicking it closed. Both girls eye me, and I slide down till I’m sitting firmly, with my butt planted on the carpet.

Nina and Court eye each other. They’ve never seen me like this before.

“Dish!” they demand in unison.

I sigh, knowing full well I look like a dweeb right now. “I think I finally found someone who’s worth it.”

They can barely contain their excitement. I’m usually just a spectator at their guy talk, not having much to contribute myself other than the failed first dates they insist on hearing about.

Now that the shoe is on the other foot, they’re like sharks circling around waiting for the bait.

~*~

“Please tell me he has a clone somewhere?” Courtney begs sarcastically as the tour guide takes our tickets from Nina.

It’s a quarter to midnight, having been one of the first to arrive at the scheduled meeting place although every moment brings others into the fold. I’ve changed into a
Coffee Bean
hoodie and black leggings with my gym sneakers. My hair is thrown high into a ponytail and all traces of makeup scrubbed off.

If they’re going to make me walk the streets at this hour of night, then I’m damn well going to be comfortable doing it.

“Sorry. Only one of him,” I gloat.

There’s a nearby carnival-styled concession stand boasting painted pictures of apple fritters, popcorn, and apple cider. I step over to join the end of the line before it grows longer. I lick my lips hungrily at the images and inhale deeply, letting the delicious scents serve as an appetizer.

I unfold my stash of bills and ready myself for the cashier. When it’s my turn, I order three hot apple ciders, two fritters, and a large popcorn. A small cardboard box is prepared with my refreshments and handed to me in exchange for the cash. I balance my goodies carefully as I navigate through the growing crowd back to Nina and Court.

“Does this make it better?” I ask Court, holding out the food as an offering.

“I don’t know. You get the walking demigod and I get popcorn. How is this in any way fair?” She’s being stubborn, of course.

I nod my head. She does have a point. “Okay. You can have the apple fritter. I’ll take the popcorn.”

“Deal.” She reaches into the box and relieves me of the snack food. Nina helps herself to the remaining fritter and I hold tight onto my popcorn.

Now we can move on.

I’d given the girls all the details of our walk and night ending kiss as we were getting ready to leave the hotel. The two of them were drooling, literally drooling, and more than a little jealous. I feel a tad guiltily for feeling good that they’re jealous of
me
for a change.

I rip off a piece of Court’s snack and wink at her jokingly in thanks.

“Okay. So you’re going to his place tomorrow night, right?” she asks, while chewing her food.

The tour guide gathers us all together, getting ready to set out on our adventure. His assistant hands us each our very own taper candle, slit through a red plastic solo cup to catch the melted wax.

I take my candle and eye it suspiciously. “Nina? Is this a bargain basement tour? Couldn’t we have paid the few extra dollars for the legit one?” I turn to Court, popcorn in one hand, candle in the other. “And we
might
go to his place after the museum,” I add.

The crowd bottlenecks into a solid line.

“We’ll have to find a salon in the morning and get you a wax. A pedicure, manicure, maybe a salt scrub.” I can see the wheels turning in her head.

“Court,” I threaten her with my eyes. “No waxing. No salt scrub. I will, however, get my nails done.”

“Ladies and gentleman!” the brown, shaggy-haired hippie of our tour guide calls out, silencing our conversation. “Welcome to tonight’s midnight candle tour. For the next hour, we’ll explore some of the most haunted and historic sights the city has to offer. You’re more than welcome to take pictures, but please no video.”

I munch on my salted popcorn, listening to the man.

“If anyone should become separated from the group, just call the phone number on the back of your ticket and Cory over here,” he points to the person who handed us our candles earlier, “will come fetch you to rejoin the group. If you have a hearing impairment, please step to the front of the line to hear me better. And, feel free to ask questions at any time.”

Several people, mostly of the older variety, step forward to the front of the group. We set out at a slow pace. I quickly learn that our tour guide’s name is Aaron.

“We’ll start and end our tour here, at the Salem Witch Memorial, dedicated in 1992, almost 300 years to the day of many of the atrocities.”

There’s a small sign indicating exactly what Aaron’s just told us. 1992. Huh. That’s the year I was born. Three hundred years after all these terrible things happened.

“Take a moment to look around. Use your candles or flashlights to help read any of the inscriptions in the stone. Each person, 14 women and 6 men, were tried, convicted and executed for witchcraft. Each has a memorial inscription along the wall.”

The small courtyard with several trees inside is rectangular in shape, a stone half-wall outlining the perimeter with what looks like several seats or benches protruding out. The crowd begins to walk in form along the wall reading the names.

When it’s our turn, I toss the remaining contents of my popcorn and cider into a nearby trash can, not willing to desecrate the sanctity of this place.

The night is dark, the dancing flames of the many candles bobbing as their owners step forth, leaving golden shadows flickering against the stones. I read the names.

Giles Corey- pressed to death, Sept. 19, 1692.

Sarah Goode- hanged to death, July 19, 1692.

Mary Parker- hanged to death, September 22, 1692.

John Proctor- hanged, August 19, 1692

Bridget Bishop- hanged, June 10, 1692

“Rumor has it…” Aaron’s voice calls from the other end of the memorial.

I look up and find that the crowd is surrounding him. I’m alone, tracing the outline of the indentations of the letter with my pointer finger. I shake my head. Somehow I’ve fallen drastically behind the rest of the group.

He continues as I turn back to the stones, listening half-heartedly as I finish my examination.

“… one name is missing from the stones. Some swear there’s no missing name, but stories have been passed down generation to generation about a young woman who got caught up in the accusations. Her trial was swift and the hanging the next day. There were witnesses to the execution. It was known…” his voice trails off.

“… for some reason… all records of it were destroyed. Some say by direct order of John Hathorne.”

I freeze as Aaron mentions the name. I see the flame of my candle flicker and a knot forms in my belly as I watch it go out, the wick burning a deep red as it cools.

“Nobody knows why the records were burned and all history of the trial destroyed. Her name has even been lost along the years. Some say she was a preacher’s daughter. Some say she was Hathorne’s own daughter. Some believe she was a bastard child of an outcast. Most historians doubt she existed,” Aaron continues.

The voice is merely an echo in my mind as I look up to see I’m alone. The crowd is gone. Pitch black fills the space and I start to panic. Where had everyone gone? How did I not notice them leaving.

My heart pounds in my ears. I turn myself in circles looking for any sign of an exit among the darkness, knowing that I could easily trip if I take a misstep in the wrong direction.

I hear a faint noise, a branch cracking from behind. I turn quickly. I’m looking over the stone wall of the memorial into the graveyard beyond, the Burying Point Cemetery.

I hear the noise again, this time accompanied by a wind that seems to carry a voice, a word. I can’t make it out, but I strain to hear more of it. I squint my eyes and see a small orange flame in the distance far into the row of tombstones.  

That’s it. They must be taking a tour of the cemetery. I need to catch up quickly before I fall too far behind and lose all trace of them. I search my pockets for my phone and use the flashlight app to light my way over and through the rubble of aged grave markers.

I keep sight of the flickering candle ahead and use it as a focal point. It does not move. It’s the only constant in this labyrinth of a maze I wander through to get to it. Many of the graves are old. I can read some of them in passing. It seems the further I walk, the older the burials are.

The wind picks up, threatening the life of the distant candle as I travel toward it.

Please don’t blow it out
, I pray. I’m almost there.

I finally reach the lone candle as it sits atop a plain grave marker in the furthest corner of the holy space, far removed from the nearest neighbor, isolated. The candle is perched on the stone, flickering and dancing wildly, growing in height as I approach it to  read the name that it bears.

I bend low, holding my phone ahead to illuminate the letters as well.

Marcelle de les Songe- Beloved daughter September 29, 1692

My mind spins. I know that name. I think hard remembering the tale Will had recited to me at the old abandoned house. The lovers, the love story. It was her! Marcelle de les Songe. It was real.

A hefty wind billows past blowing the candle out, reducing my light source to only my cell phone. I swallow hard. The phone in my hand vibrates, alerting me that it’s shutting itself down from lack of charge.

I gasp loudly as the dying light of my phone disappears along with the candle before it. I’m alone… in the middle of the night… in the pitch black… in a cemetery in what’s supposed to be one of the most haunted places in the world... standing in front of a grave to a woman who suffered unmentionable loss.