"One, please."

She nodded.

He looked at her a very long time before entering the museum.

Prowling the halls, he came up a seventeenth-century oil. It was tided, Signing the Devil's Book.

In the painting, three women clad in nothing but transparent strips of a gauzy, floating material cavorted about a fire in the woods, surrounded by horned, tailed creatures. In the background an imp or satyr stood, holding a plume and an open book. A plaque by the side of the painting described the belief that witches made pacts with the devil, and that he or his minions would seal the bargain with carnal activities, often in the woods at midnight.

He moved down the halls. The museum was well done. Fact was presented well, and the viewer could be transported back to somewhat comprehend a different mindset. One large plaque stated that there were cases in which—though there may have been no devil summoned, no soul sold—the apprehended man or woman might have been guilty according to the laws of the day. The very practice of witchcraft in any form was a capital crime, and therefore, sticking pins in dolls, burning herbs while cursing, or any such other such activity was clearly illegal.

He moved on. There were scenes of mass burnings in Europe, and a diorama of the events that had occurred at Salem.

As he stood studying the tableaus, he listened as a man gave a lecture to a group of tourists, recounting the possible causes of the hysteria. The man giving the lecture was dressed somewhat casually in dockers, a tailored denim shirt, and a tie. He wore a name tag that identified as Mike Smith, Curator.

Lucian fell in with the crowd. As the man continued to speak, his eyes fell upon Lucian. He drew them away, but found himself looking at him again.

And again.

Once, he lost his train of thought, and had to be prompted by one of the children on the tour.

Still, he was an excellent historian, and his speech was good, drawing a round of applause when he had finished. Several people stopped to talk to him, many with questions about details regarding the events.

Lucian waited patiently.

At last, they stood alone in the room. The man at last shook his head and smiled ruefully. "Do I know you?"

"No," Lucian said, stepping forward and offering the fellow a handshake, which was absently accepted.

"I don't think we've ever met. My name is Lucian DeVeau. Thanks for an excellent education on the witch trials."

"You're welcome. Glad you enjoyed it." He was still frowning, as if he should recognize Lucian.

"Actually, I think we have mutual friends," Lucian said.

"Oh?"

"Finn and Megan Douglas. I'm from New Orleans."

"No Southern accent," Mike Smith commented.

"I've lived all over."

"I see."

"Well, thanks again. Great speech."

"Sure. Thank you." He stared at Lucian, then seemed to recover himself. "You should come again. We've got other exhibits." He shrugged. "Halloween week, all anyone wants to do is rehash the witch thing, but our maritime exhibits are great, too. We've halls on early settlements, and many other areas that are well worth a look."

"I'm sure. I'd love to come back, since it seems to be closing time now."

"Yes, I'm afraid it is."

"Thanks again," Lucian said, turning to leave.

"Hey!" Mike called after him.

Lucian turned back.

"I take it you'll be going to watch Finn and Megan play tonight?"

"Probably. I won't be around the entire night, but if you're going, I'll see you there."

"Great."

Smith sounded anything but enthused. Lucian exited the museum. The girl, Gayle Sawyer, was still at the counter. She stared at him as he passed. Her mouth worked, but no sound came.

Smiling, he waved and walked on.

Megan absently answered her cell phone, holding it to ear as she buttoned her blouse.

"Hello?"

"Megan. It's Mike."

"Mike, hey, how are you?"

"Good, good, thanks."

"Guess what? I did get to see Andy. My Aunt Martha was there, and she was friends with the nurse, and we got in for a moment."

"How's the old codger doing?"

Megan hesitated, then decided that she just wasn't saying anything more about her belief that Andy had spoken, not even to Mike.

"Holding his own," she said.

"Good, good," Mike told her. Apparently, he was preoccupied. "Megan, are you alone?"

"Kind of," she said, glancing toward the closed door to her room. "Finn is in the parlor, talking to Aunt Martha. Why?"

"Well, I don't think that your husband likes me very much, that's all. And I don't want him to think that I'm interfering. I don't understand this myself—I just felt that I had to call you."

"Why? What is it?"

"Um, listen, this is going to sound really strange, but… I just met someone who said that he was a friend of yours from back home, and… I don't know. I don't even know how to say this. You know me—I don't believe in any kind of weird crap—but… the guy gave me the creeps."

"Lucian," she murmured. "You must have met Lucian."

"Megan, like I said, this is just the strangest thing, but I had to call you. I don't mean to offend you, or insult you or anyone who really is a good friend, but… well, especially in your current state of mind.

Watch out for this guy. There's something that's not quite right about him. I sound like an idiot, huh?

Anyway, I'm just calling because I'm your friend."

"Thanks, Mike. He is—" she hesitated briefly. "He is a friend. But thanks for the warning. And I'm watching out all the way around, okay?"

"Sure. I'll be there tonight I'm going to watch out for you, too."

"Great. Thanks."

Darkness fell early in the fall in New England. Despite the nearly full moon and the illumination pouring from street lamps and shops, it seemed as if it had deeply penetrated Salem that night.

When Lucian returned to the bookshop that night, Eddie was behind the counter with a gaggle of customers waiting to pay for their purchases. Despite that, he was yawning. He was probably tired as all hell, Lucian figured, considering the fact that during the week preceding Halloween, the shop opened early, closed late, and was probably busy throughout the hours.

Eddie, however, saw him, grinned, and inclined his head toward the back.

Lucian found Jade still pouring over volumes and journals.

She lifted her head as he entered, grimaced, and stretched. She, too, yawned.

"I don't think that I can read anymore," she told him.

"Come across anything you need me for?" he asked.

She gazed at him dryly. "No—everything was in English. Kind of English, anyway. It's just that the few people who were writing just didn't comprehend the proper use of pronouns. And they used different pronouns. I found another reference to a Douglas, though. And there are several references to a Merrill

—which was Megan's maiden name, right? Merrill is easy to pinpoint. She had an ancestor who was an outspoken opponent to the proceedings, but one who was so involved with the church at the time that he apparently escaped persecution, despite his opinions. Heck, that could have been witchcraft right there, the way accusations were flying around here back then. It's easy to presume that this same man, Jacob Merrill, was with the group who went out that long ago Halloween night and took part with the mob that killed Caleb Thome. So, if there is a cult now attempting to bring back Bac-Dal once again, Megan would certainly make what they consider to be a perfect offering or sacrifice for their demon. She really is in danger."

"Maybe they should leave," Lucian commented. "And maybe you should go with them."

"Someone is going to die on Halloween night, if nothing is done," Jade said softly.

He shook his head. "I'll stay."

She lifted her chin. "You're dealing with something new here yourself, and you know it."

He shrugged. Taking a seat on the corner of the desk he told her, "What bothers me is the passage about bringing Bac-Dal back. The three things needed—the hair, the personal possession, and the blood. Why would those be needed before the rite—if the rite was just to be a sacrifice?"

"And why would these things be happening to Finn as well as Megan?" Jade said. "Actually, he's the one who cut his hand on the dragon in Morwenna's shop. According to our conversations, they both lost hair to that creature thing at the hotel the first night they were playing."

"Maybe they're both supposed to die," Lucian said.

Jade shook her head, sitting back. "That doesn't make sense. I agree with Finn. What does make sense is the concept that she's to be an offering to this demon. 'Bac-Dal wants you.' That could mean he wants her alive in a sexual content—especially if you listen to their stories about their dreams—or else he wants her alive, and then dead. The murder of the girl in Boston could have provided the blood they needed first, and more—Finn went through Boston that night. He was compelled to stop there. So, here they are in Salem—obviously at odds with one another, since—no matter how discreet they've been, locals will know that he stayed at Huntington House while she moved in with her aunt. Megan's body is found—and Finn winds up accused of both murders. And certainly, there would be evidence planted to assure that he was convicted."

Lucian had been idly turning a pen forward and backward and studying the practiced movements of his hands. He looked at Jade then.

"Maybe."

"It makes sense. Unless, of course, Finn is evil, doesn't know it, and did murder the girl in Boston, is a disciple of Bac-Dal, and has brought his wife here to be sacrificed."

Lucian arched a brow. "That does remain a possibility."

She stared at him, frowning. "You mean… he may already be under possession by the demon, or something like that?"