At the Stroke of Midnight

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AT THE STROKE OF MIDNIGHT

Copyright (c) 2005 by Lanette Curington

Cover art and design (c) 2005 by Sable Grey

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any

form without permission, except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law.

Printed and bound in the United States of America.

For information, you can find us on the web at

www.VenusPress.com

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To Death--Thank you for everything!

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~*~

The shade watched from the tower window as guests, dressed in shimmering

costumes and masks in place, emerged from their conveyances and ascended the stone

steps to the castle entrance. As a diversion, he checked each one's hourglass while he

waited for her.

When she arrived, he glided closer to the window. If he still had a heart, it would

have raced in his chest at the sight of her again. She wore glittering white, a tumble of

dark red curls cascading over one alabaster shoulder, and a white mask across her eyes.

He summoned her hourglass...only a few grains of sand remained, slipping through in

slow motion. She had very little time left, mere hours. He was not allowed to refill it. He

had already used the last of his options on her.

No matter the price he would pay later, he would take advantage of the thinness of

the veil on this particular night and cross to the other side. From sundown until the stroke

of midnight, he could mingle with mortals and not sense their unease at his presence,

look into their eyes and not see fear, touch them and not cause their souls to flee their

bodies. He anticipated the experience with an excitement he hadn't felt in millennia.

Tonight he would know again what they fought so hard to cling to when he came for

them.

As the sun sank behind the horizon, his shadowy form filled out to resemble that

of a living, breathing human being. He stretched out his upper limbs, spreading his

fingers wide. The familiarity of this body startled him. He thought he had forgotten what

his human body felt like. A smile curved his lips, then fell away as quickly.
She
was

running out of time.

He made a strange gesture, shrouding his body in black satin. He gestured again

and a tall black scythe appeared in his hand. He wielded it with ease, the long curved

blade whispering as it cut a swath through the air.

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Snapping the edge of his robe, he dematerialized in a bright silvery shimmer.

When he reappeared below, no one would question his presence. The masquerade ball

celebrated All Hallow's Eve and others would be similarly dressed. He wore the costume

of the Grim Reaper, but it was no disguise. He collected the souls of mortals when their

hourglasses ran empty for his name was Death.

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~*~

"Isn't everything lovely?" Olivia DeBenning raised her voice to be heard over the

eerie music, raucous laughter, and buzz of conversation that filled the Great Hall of

Greystone Castle. "I think the ball is a success, don't you?"

On the other side of the banquet table, Margot Conway fumed, a frown wrinkling

her white-powdered face. The tall Marie Antoinette wig leaned perilously to one side.

She pushed at it with the back of her hand, but that only made it skew the other way.

"Where have you been?"

"Tending our guests and making sure everyone is having a good time. Mayor

Dresden said--"

"They've emptied another bowl of punch and it needs to be refilled." Margot

planted her fists on the wide panniers of her costume. The froth of lace spilling from her

sleeve threatened to knock over a stack of paper plates.

"I'll do it." Olivia moved to pick up the crystal punch bowl on loan from Davy's

great-aunt. Olivia had argued against using the antique, but his Aunt Louvenia had

insisted. The elderly lady remembered the parties held in the castle when she was a young

girl and wanted to help make this celebration special.

Margot reached for the bowl at the same time. "No, I'll do it, Liv. You've already

done
so
much. The castle is gorgeous and all because of
you
."

Olivia's frowned, and she tried to decide if she detected a bite of sarcasm in her

friend's tone of voice. Margot was tired, that was all. They all were. Volunteers had been

working every spare minute the past few weeks to prepare the castle for this night.

"Nonsense. Everyone on the committee helped to decorate the castle."

"But the Chamber of Commerce is giving
you
the award tonight," Margot pointed

out peevishly.

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"Only because I was voted chairperson. It belongs to the entire committee." Olivia

brushed Margot's hands away and lifted the bowl, hugging it close to keep it safe. "I'll get

the punch."

"Are you sure you can manage, Liv?" Margot asked with a raised eyebrow.

"I'm fine," she said stiffly and turned, but her leg began to throb.

At that moment, out of nowhere, a cowled figure in black satin appeared in her

path. Awkwardly, she stepped to the side to avoid a collision. As her leg twisted beneath

her, sharp pain raced up through her knee and thigh. She bumped into him anyway, the

punch bowl slipping from her hands as she concentrated on regaining her balance.

Pale, slender fingers emerged from a voluminous sleeve and grasped the edge of

the bowl to keep it from falling.

Olivia sighed as the pain subsided, returning to a steady throb. Her hands touched

his briefly as she found a better grip on the bowl, and a shiver coursed through her body.

She wasn't sure what caused the response. Why should the sight or touch of the Grim

Reaper unnerve her? This was a Halloween, masked ball, after all.

"Thank you." She squinted, peering into the depths of his cowl. An emaciated

face, half-hidden by a domino, stared back at her, gray eyes glowing silver through the

holes in the mask. A trick of the light, she decided uncomfortably.

He was the same Reaper she had seen several times during the evening. Of

course, there were perhaps half a dozen Reapers altogether. While the others danced and

mingled and engaged in conversation, this Reaper had always been alone. His black satin

costume seemed more authentic than the others.

Authentic.
The word amused her, as if the Grim Reaper were an actual entity.

During the evening, every time she'd seen him, something tugged at her memory.

He seemed so familiar to her, then she lost whatever recollection tried to surface.

Probably someone she had gone to school with. "Do I know you?"

He nodded, thin ashen lips curving into a sad smile.

"I'm sorry...I don't recognize you, yet I almost do." Even as she spoke the words,

she knew they made no sense.

"Is that not the purpose of a masquerade ball?" His voice sounded hollow, as if it

emanated from a dark cave.

Olivia laughed at his observation and to dispel the strange moment. "You're right,

of course. Perhaps I'll remember later. Excuse me."

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Slowly, carefully, Olivia limped toward the kitchen, conscious of every step. She

hugged the inner wall to avoid the crush of people. She didn't need to be jostled again. At

last, she entered the screen room, its original purpose to hold food before serving. She

opened the door to the kitchen, cringing as the rusty hinges squealed in protest. Among

the millions of things they had listed to get ready for tonight, they'd forgotten to oil the

doors.

She set the bowl down and gripped the edge of the table. Fortunately, the dull

throb hadn't grown worse. If she could rest a while, then she was very careful the

remainder of the evening--and with a good bit of luck--she wouldn't have to resort to

taking painkillers. She untied her white half-mask and let it fall to the tabletop.

The door screeched, sounding like an animal in its death throes, and a familiar

voice called to her. "Hey, Liv, you okay?"

She glanced over her shoulder as a Red Devil abandoned a serving cart and

hurried to her side. Davy Wilson was another member of the Save-the-Castle-Committee

and one of Olivia's best friends. Davy had stayed by her side throughout the years after

the accident. He'd carried her books from class to class when she still used crutches. Most

everyone had treated her like a freak or leper except Davy--and Margot, when it suited

her.

Olivia smiled at him fondly. "I think so. I turned my leg on the way to refill the

punch bowl. The pain's fading now--"

"Here." Davy hurried to her side, pulling out one of the kitchen chairs. "Sit down

and I'll take care of it."

"No, Davy, there's too much to do," she protested, but he gently guided her to the

chair and sat her down.

He knelt in front of her and slid the long Cinderella skirts and petticoats above her

knee. "Hey, we've done this enough times to know it helps."

Olivia leaned back and closed her eyes, allowing his strong hands to work their

magic on the taut muscles of her calf and thigh. Sometimes, Davy's patient ministrations