Sympathetic Magic(10)

No, it was just that it was always the same music at these things. Not in the same order, necessarily, but even when the band tried to mix things up, it all had a depressing sameness. Then again, how many Halloween-themed songs were there?

As she watched, Adam McAllister led Mason Wilcox out onto the dance floor, he in a cowboy getup she thought he’d worn last year, too, she in a fanciful Indian maiden dress with her long dark hair in two braids. So much for cultural appropriation, although Margot supposed Mason had more claim to it than some, considering how many members of the Wilcox family had some amount of Navajo blood.

Speak of the devil. Two tables over she saw Angela and Connor, her friend Sydney and Sydney’s fiancé, Anthony, and sitting opposite them, Angela’s father and his new — well, they weren’t married, and Margot didn’t know if they planned to be, but it seemed fairly clear that Andre Wilcox or Begonie or whatever he was calling himself these days and Marie Wilcox, his significant other, were pretty serious about each other. In fact, Andre was taking Marie’s hand and leading her out to the dance floor, and she was laughing, actually laughing. Margot had spent too much time wearing a less-than-pleasant expression on her face not to recognize that history in someone else’s features, but even so, Andre seemed enchanted by Marie.

In fact, just about everywhere she looked, she saw people paired off — the other elders and their spouses, Adam and Mason, Connor solicitously bringing Angela a bottle of water, since she was so big now that trying to navigate the crowded room would have been even more of a chore than usual. Even sour-faced Marie wasn’t alone. Not that she looked particularly sour-faced at the moment.

And then it all felt to be too much, and Margot set down her own bottle of water and stood.

“Going somewhere?” Bryce inquired.

“I just need some fresh air,” she replied, voice sounding strangled even to herself.

She pushed through the ranks of people who weren’t dancing, heading out the front door with no place particular in mind, as long as she didn’t have to stay inside. Half a block up the street was the Cellar 433 wine-tasting room, and as they weren’t currently open, she guessed they wouldn’t mind if she sat on their front steps for a few minutes to clear her head.

Immediately outside Spook Hall, the sidewalk was nearly as crowded as it was inside, but once she got past those clots of people smoking or just chatting, the area was clear. No point in any of them going where she was headed, with the business closed for the evening.

The steps to Cellar 433 were low and wide, but a bench she’d forgotten about had been placed in front of one of the windows, so she took a seat there, then breathed in some of the cool night air, trying to compose herself. Really, she didn’t know what had gotten into her lately. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t had plenty of time to get used to her solitary existence. Certainly it had never bothered her much before this.

And she did not want to be one of those hateful people who begrudged others their happiness. Connor and Angela had certainly earned theirs, and Marie and Andre, too, if what Margot had heard was true. No, she was probably just tired. Tired of doing what everyone expected of her. Tired of thinking ahead and realizing that every year was going to be more or less like this one, right up to the day she died and someone else took her position as elder.

If you came out here to try to cheer yourself up, you’re not exactly going about it the right way, she told herself. Try to get your wits together, for the Goddess’ sake!

A flash of white approaching her took her by surprise, and she blinked. For the barest second, she thought maybe she was seeing one of Angela’s ghosts, then realized the white was simply a dinner jacket. The man wearing it stopped at the bottom of the steps and smiled up at her.

“Hello, Margot,” said Lucas Wilcox.





3





The last thing Lucas had counted on was driving all the way down here to Jerome, only to be turned away at the door to the hall where the Halloween dance was being held.

“Sorry, man,” said the kid at the door, who was wearing an old-fashioned black and white striped prison uniform. “We were sold out by eight-thirty. Better luck next year.”

Luck. There was a joke. His much-vaunted luck hadn’t helped him out much in this situation.

It passed briefly through his mind to try pulling a Damon, to rise to his full height and demand, “Do you know who I am?” But this was probably the last place in the world a trick like that would work, and so he’d only muttered, “It’s fine,” and then moved a few paces away from the building so he could gather his thoughts. Turning around and going straight back to Flagstaff seemed anticlimactic at best. Well, he’d passed a bar as he walked down here. Maybe he should go in and have one pity drink, then head home. He couldn’t think of what else to do with himself.