A Very Gothic Christmas Read online

  CRITICS PRAISE CHRISTINE FEEHAN:

  THE SCARLETTI CURSE

  “The characters and twists in this book held me on the edge of my seat the whole time I read it. If you’ve enjoyed Ms. Feehan’s previous novels, you will surely be captived by this step into the world of Gothic romance Once again, Ms. Feehan does not disappoint!”

  —Under the Covers Book Reviews

  DARK CHALLENGE

  “The exciting and multifaceted world that impressive author Christine Feehan has created continues to improve with age.”

  —Romantic Times

  DARK MAGIC

  “With each book Ms. Feehan continues to build a complex society that makes for mesmerizing reading.”

  —Romantic Times

  DARK GOLD

  “The third in Christine Feehan’s Carpathian series is her best to date. Dark Gold is imbued with passion, danger, and supernatural thrills.”

  —Romantic Times

  DARK PRINCE

  “For lovers of vampire romances, this one is a keeper. . . . I had a hard time putting this book down. . . . Don’t miss this book!”

  —New-Age Bookshelf

  RAVE REVIEWS FOR MELANIE GEORGE:

  DEVIL MAY CARE

  “Humor, passion, and rising sexual tension merge beautifully in Melanie George’s allegorical tale. . . . Carefully constructed and well told, this story’s readers will adore the characters. . . . With sensuality akin to Robin Schone, Devil May Care sparkles and will garner Ms. George many new fans.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Ms. George has given us a rare gift in this delightful story. Please don’t miss getting to know [her unique characters]. Damien has two brothers, Nicholas and Gray, and I’m looking forward to their stories.”

  —Old Book Barn Gazette

  LIKE NO OTHER

  “Melanie George’s Like No Other is a rare delight! Her wit and characters will stay with you long after the last page has been savored!”

  —Colleen Faulkner

  “Like No Other is a very tender and at times very funny love story. Melanie George brings us a bright story with a lively freshness that marks her as a talent to watch. She makes the love between an urchin and a nobleman believable with a ‘Dickensian’ twist. We hope she will bring the ‘gang’ back to meet us once more.”

  —Romantic Times

  Thank you for downloading this Pocket Books eBook.

  * * *

  Join our mailing list and get updates on new releases, deals, bonus content and other great books from Pocket Books and Simon & Schuster.

  CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

  or visit us online to sign up at

  eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com

  contents

  AFTER THE MUSIC

  CHRISTINE FEEHAN

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  LADY OF THE LOCKET

  MELANIE GEORGE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  AFTER THE MUSIC

  Christine Feehan

  dedication

  For Manda and Christina, may you always be survivors. Much love.

  acknowledgments

  Special thanks to Dr. Mathew King for all of his help with the research needed for this book. Also to Burn Survivors online. Thank you for your courtesy and patience and all the offers of help. And of course, to Bobbi and Mark Smith of the Holy Smoke Band, who gave me their time and help with my persistent questions.

  chapter

  1

  JESSICA FITZPATRICK WOKE UP screaming, her heart pounding out a rhythm of terror. Fear was a living, breathing entity in the darkness of her room. The weight of it crushed her, held her helpless; she was unable to move. She could taste it in her mouth, and feel it coursing through her bloodstream. Around her, the air seemed so thick that her lungs burned for oxygen. She knew something monstrous was stirring deep in the bowels of the earth. For a moment she lay frozen, her ears straining to hear the murmur of voices rising and falling, chanting words in an ancient tongue that should never be spoken. Red, glowing eyes searched through the darkness, summoning her, beckoning her closer. She felt the power of those eyes as they neared, focused on her, and came ever closer. Her own eyes flew open, the need to flee was paramount in her mind.

  The entire room lurched, flinging her from the narrow bunk to the floor. At once the cold air brought her out of her nightmare and into the realization that they were not safe in their beds at home, but in the cabin of a wildly pitching boat in the middle of a ferocious storm. The craft, tossed from wave to powerful wave, was taking a pounding.

  Jessica scrambled to her feet, gripping the edge of the bunk as she dragged herself toward the two children, Tara and Trevor Wentworth, who clung together, their faces pale and frightened. Tara screamed, her terrified gaze locked on Jessica. Jessica managed to make it halfway to the twins before the next wild bucking sent her to floor again.

  “Trevor, get your life jacket back on this minute!” She reached them by crawling on her hands and knees, and then curled a supporting arm around each of them. “Don’t be afraid, we’ll be fine.”

  The boat rose on a wave, teetered and slid fast, tossing the three of them in all directions. Salt water poured in a torrent onto the deck and raced down the steps into the cabin, covering the floor with an inch of ice-cold water. Tara screamed, and clutched at her brother’s arm, desperately trying to help him buckle his life jacket. “It’s him. He’s doing this, he’s trying to kill us.”

  Jessica gasped, horrified. “Tara! Nobody controls the weather. It’s a storm. Plain and simple, just a storm. Captain Long will get us safely to the island.”

  “He’s hideous. A monster. And I don’t want to go.” Tara covered her face with her hands and sobbed. “I want to go home. Please take me home, Jessie.”

  Jessica tested Trevor’s life jacket to make certain he was safe. “Don’t talk that way, Tara. Trev, stay here with Tara while I go see what I can do to help.” She had to shout to make herself heard in the howling wind and booming sea.

  Tara flung herself into Jessica’s arms. “Don’t leave me—we’ll die. I just know it—we’re all going to die just like Mama Rita did.”

  Trevor wrapped his arms around his twin sister. “No, we’re not, sis, don’t cry. Captain Long has been in terrible storms before, lots of them,” he assured. He looked up at Jessica with his piercing blue eyes. “Right, Jessie?”

  “You’re exactly right, Trevor,” she agreed. Jessica had a firm hold on the banister and began to make her way up the stairs to the deck.

  Rain fell in sheets; black clouds churned and boiled in the sky. The wind rose to an eerie shriek. Jessica held her breath, watched as Long struggled to navigate the boat through the heavier waves, taking them ever closer to the island. It seemed the age-old struggle between man and nature. Slowly, through the sheets of rain, the solid mass of the island began to take shape. Salt water sprayed and foamed off the rocks but the sea was calmer as they approached the shore. She knew it was only the ca
ptain’s knowledge of the region and his expertise that allowed him to guide the craft to the dock in the terrible storm.

  The rain was pouring from the sky. The clouds were so black and heavy overhead that the night seemed unrelentingly dark. Yet Jessica caught glimpses of the moon, an eerie sight with the swirling black of the clouds veiling its light.

  “Let’s go, Jessie,” Captain Long yelled. “Bring up the kids and your luggage. I want you off this boat now.” The words were nearly lost in the ferocity of the storm, but his frantic beckoning was plain.

  She hurried, tossing Trevor most of the packs while she helped Tara up the stairs and across the slippery deck. Captain Long lifted Tara to the dock before aiding Trevor to shore. He caught Jessica’s arm in a tight grip and pulled her close so he could be heard. “I don’t like this—Jess, I hope he’s expecting you. Once I leave you, you’re stuck. You know he isn’t the most pleasant man.”

  “Don’t worry,” she patted his arm, her stomach churning. “I’ll call if we need you. Are you certain you don’t want to stay overnight?”

  “I’ll feel safer out there,” he gestured toward the water.

  Jessica waved him off and turned to look up at the island while she waited to get her land legs back. It had been seven years since she’d last been to the island. Her memories of it were the things of nightmares. Looking up toward the ridge, she half expected to see a fiery inferno, with red and orange flames towering to the skies, but there was only the black night and the rain. The house that once had sat at the top of the cliff overlooking the ocean was long gone, reduced to a pile of ashes.

  In the dark, the vegetation was daunting, a foreboding sight. The weak rays of light from the cloud-covered moon were mottled as they fell across the ground, creating a strange, unnatural pattern. The island was wild with heavy timber and thick with brush; the wind set the trees and bushes dancing in a macabre fashion. Naked branches bowed and scraped together with a grating sound. Heavy evergreens whirled madly, sending sharp needles flying through the air.

  Resolutely, Jessica took a deep breath and picked up her pack, handing Trevor a flashlight to lead the way. “Come on, kids, let’s go see your father.”

  The rain slashed down at them, drenching them, drops piercing like sharp icicles right through their clothes to their skin. Heads down, they began to trudge their way up the steep stone steps leading away from the sea toward the interior of the island where Dillon Wentworth hid from the world.

  Returning to the island brought back a flood of memories of the good times—her mother, Rita Fitzpatrick, landing the job as housekeeper and nanny to the famous Dillon Wentworth. Jessica had been so thrilled. She had been nearly thirteen, already old enough to appreciate the rising star, a musician who would take his place among the greatest recording legends. Dillon spent a great deal of his time on the road, touring, or in the studio, recording, but when he was home, he was usually with his children or hanging out in the kitchen with Rita and Jessica. She had known Dillon in the good times, during five years of incredible magic.

  “Jessie?” Trevor’s young voice interrupted her reflection. “Does he know we’re coming?”

  Jessica met the boy’s steady gaze. At thirteen, Trevor had to be well aware that if they had been expected, they wouldn’t be walking by themselves in the dead of night in the middle of a storm. Someone would have met them by car on the road at the boathouse.

  “He’s your father, Trevor, and it’s coming up on Christmas. He spends far too much time alone.” Jessica slicked back her rain-wet hair and squared her shoulders. “It isn’t good for him.” And Dillon Wentworth had a responsibility to his children. He needed to look after them, to protect them.

  The twins didn’t remember their father the way she did. He had been so alive. So handsome. So everything. His life had been magical. His good looks, his talent, his ready laugh and famous blue eyes. Everyone had wanted him. Dillon had lived his life in the spotlight, a white-hot glare of tabloids and television. Of stadiums and clubs. The energy, the power of Dillon Wentworth were astonishing, indescribable, when he was performing. He burned hot and bright on stage, a man with a poet’s heart and a devil’s talent when he played his guitar and sang with his edgy, smoky voice.

  But at home . . . Jessica also remembered Vivian Wentworth with her brittle laugh and red, talon-tipped fingers. The glaze in her eyes when she was cloudy with drugs, when she was staggering under the effects of alcohol, when she flew into a rage and smashed glass and ripped pictures out of frames. The slow, terrible descent into the madness of drugs and the occult. Jessica would never forget Vivian’s friends who visited when Dillon wasn’t there. The candles, the orgies, the chanting, always the chanting. And men. Lots of men in the Wentworth bed.

  Without warning, Tara screamed, turning to fling herself at Jessica, nearly knocking her off the stairs. Jessica caught her firmly, wrapping her arms around the girl and holding her close. They were both so cold they were shivering uncontrollably. “What is it, honey?” Jessica whispered into the child’s ear, soothing her, rocking her, there on the steep stairs with the wind slashing them to ribbons.

  “I saw something, eyes glowing, staring at us. They were red eyes, Jess. Red, like a monster . . . or a devil.” The girl shuddered and gripped Jessica harder.

  “Where, Tara?” Jessica sounded calm even though her stomach was knotted with tension. Red eyes. She had seen those eyes.

  “There,” Tara pointed without looking, keeping her face hidden against Jessica. “Through the trees, something was staring at us.”

  “There are animals on the island, honey,” Jessica soothed, but she was straining to see into the darkness. Trevor valiantly tried to shine the small circle of light toward the spot his twin had indicated, but the light couldn’t penetrate the pouring rain.

  “It wasn’t a dog, it wasn’t, Jessie, it was some kind of demon. Please take me home, I don’t want to be here. I’m so afraid of him. He’s so hideous.”

  Jessica took a deep breath and let it out slowly, hoping to stay calm when she suddenly wanted to turn and run herself. There were too many memories here, crowding in, reaching for her with greedy claws. “He was scarred terribly in a fire, Tara, you know that.” It took effort to keep her voice steady.

  “I know he hates us. He hates us so much he doesn’t ever want to see us. And I don’t want to see him. He murdered people.” Tara flung the bitter accusation at Jessica. The howling wind caught the words and took them out over the island, spreading them like a disease.

  Jessica tightened her grip on Tara, gave her a short, impatient shake. “I never want to hear you say such a terrible thing again, not ever, do you understand me? Do you know why your father went into the house that night? Tara, you’re too intelligent to listen to gossip and anonymous phone callers.”

  “I saw the papers. It was in all the papers!” Tara wailed.

  Jessica was furious. Furious. Why would someone suddenly, after seven years, send old newspapers and tabloids to the twins? Tara had innocently opened the package wrapped in a plain brown paper. The tabloids had been brutal, filled with accusations of drugs, jealousy, and the occult. The speculation that Dillon had caught his wife in bed with another man, that there had been an orgy of sex, drugs, devil worship, and murder, had been far too titillating for the scandal sheets not to play it up long before the actual facts could come out. Jessica had found Tara sobbing pitifully in her room. Whoever had seen fit to enlighten the twins about their father’s past had called the house repeatedly whispering horrible things to Trevor and Tara, insisting their father had murdered several people including their mother.

  “Your father went into a burning house to save you kids. He thought you were both inside. Everyone who had gotten out tried to stop him, but he fought them, got away, and went into a burning inferno for you. That isn’t hate, Tara. That’s love. I remember that day, every detail.” She pressed her fingers to her pounding temples. “I can’t ever forget it no matter how much I try.
”

  And she had tried. She had tried desperately to drown out the sounds of chanting. The vision of the black lights and candles. The scent of the incense. She remembered the shouting, the raised voices, the sound of the gun. And the flames. The terrible greedy flames. The blanket of smoke, so thick one couldn’t see. And the smells never went away. Sometimes she still woke up to the smell of burning flesh.

  Trevor put his arm around her. “Don’t cry, Jessica. We’re already here, we’re all freezing, let’s just go. Let’s have Christmas with Dad, make a new beginning, try to get along with him this time.”

  Jessica smiled at him through the rain and the tears. Trevor. So much like his father and he didn’t even realize it. “We’re going to have a wonderful Christmas, Tara, you wait and see.”

  They continued up the stairs until the ground leveled out and Jessica found the familiar path winding through the thick timber to the estate. As islands went, in the surrounding sea between Washington and Canada, it was small and remote, no ferry even traveled to it. That was the way Dillon had preferred it, wanting privacy for his family on his own personal island. In the old days, there had been guards and dogs. Now there were shadows and haunting memories that tore at her soul.

  In the old days the island had been alive with people, bustling with activities; now it was silent, only a caretaker lived somewhere on the island in one of the smaller houses. Jessica’s mother had told her that Dillon tolerated only one older man on his island on a regular basis. Even in the wind and rain, Jessica couldn’t help noticing the boathouse was ill-kept and the road leading around and up toward the house was overgrown, showing little use. Where there had always been several boats docked at the pier, none were in sight, although Dillon must still have had one in the boathouse.

  The path led through the thick trees. The wind was whipping branches so that overhead the canopy of trees swayed precariously. The rain had a much more difficult time penetrating through the treetops to reach them, but drops hitting the pathway plopped loudly. Small animals rustled in the bushes as they passed.