“But you need a hook,” he said. “A platform.”

“You don’t think a gay Shakespearean actor amateur sleuth is enough of a hook?”

“No. No way. Look at Gabe. He wasted years producing beautifully written, critically

acclaimed literary fiction that no one wanted to read, and then what happens? He comes up

with Sam Haynes, the occult detective. The rest is history.”

History, occult, and romance all spelled out in purple prose, I thought as Savant read

aloud from his latest masterpiece. He kind of reminded me of a hunky Vincent Price, but the

audience loved it. They stayed silent as the proverbial grave while he read. Not a whisper,

not a snicker. When he finished reading, he took questions. Lots of questions. His fans

wanted to know everything from Where He Got His Ideas (at which he turned up his elegant

nose, beckoning for the next question) to Was He Seeing Anyone.

“I’m seeing everyone,” Savant drawled and tapped his forehead, either to indicate the

Third Eye or that his busy social life was giving him a headache.

Maybe the bubbly helped, but the fans drank it right up.

Friedlander listened and ate pizza rolls like they were going out of style. Every so often,

as when Savant graciously referred to me as “Andrew,” he would smile nervously in my

direction.

And then a customer asked what Savant was working on now. Apparently this was the

question he’d been waiting for. He rose to his feet, shaking back the cape.

“As you know, I’ve made a fortune telling stories about the occult and its practitioners,

but my current project is not a mere work of fiction. During my research, I’ve uncovered

evidence of a real-life, secret cult, a sinister organization which has preyed upon the young

and naive for the past two decades. A cult right here in this very city . In my next book, I

plan to expose that cult and its leaders to the world.”

Bob Friedlander dropped his paper plate. Pizza rolls scattered across the hardwood

floor. I stooped to help retrieve them and saw out of the corner of my eye that Bob was

shaking. I glanced up. His round face was white, perspiring; he looked terrified.

I turned. Gabriel Savant beamed at his audience, most of whom were smiling and

chattering, delighted to learn that another of those pesky cults was soon to be history – and

a best-selling book. At the back of the room, however, stood a small group of young women.

They were dressed in black, lots of leather and lace, makeup and hair inspired by Halloween.

Elvira: the Early Years. They appeared to be hissing at Savant.

* * * * *

“I love this house,” Lisa sighed. “I’ve been so happy here.”

The first Saturday of each month I had brunch with my mother, at the ancestral ruins

in Porter Ranch in the North San Fernando Valley.

The brunch tradition began when I left Stanford and broke it to her that I would not be

returning to the nest. It shouldn’t have come as a shock – or even as bad news – but as she

had chosen not to remarry after my father’s death (despite a legion of eligible suitors), I was

all Lisa had in the world. As she rarely failed to remind me.

“It’s a beautiful house,” I agreed.

The house smelled of pine trees and cinnamon and apples. It felt warm and

Christmassy. In some ways it still felt like home. I’d taken my first steps in the marble foyer

(an initial attempt to make a break for it). I’d learned to drive in the quiet surrounding

streets. I’d experienced my first fumbling sexual encounter in the upstairs bedroom beneath

the fake open beams and poster of a boyishly grinning Robert Redford in The Natural.

“Although it really is too large for one,” she said, as though she had suddenly noticed

those additional sixteen rooms.

“Maybe you should think about moving,” I said heartlessly.

I had underestimated her as usual. “If I were to…move…do you think the house would

suit you and Jake?” she inquired innocently.

I inhaled my white-chocolate pear tartlet and spent the next moments wondering if the

last thing I saw would be the mental picture of me and Jake picking china at Neiman Marcus.

“Darling,” Lisa gently protested when I could breathe again. “You shouldn’t talk with

your mouth full.”

“You’re not serious about Jake and me moving in here,” I said.

“Why not? You seem awfully fond of him, and he’s…he’s…” I could see her searching

for something nice to say about Jake. “He’s a very efficient sort of person.”

The “why nots” were so many that I was speechless. The worst part of it all was that for

one split second I seriously considered it.

Seeing my moment of weakness, she moved in for the kill.

“It’s wonderful that you’re feeling so well these days, Adrien, but it doesn’t do to push

yourself too hard.”

“I’m not.”

She shook her head as though it were all no use. “The economy is so dreadful right

now, especially for small businesses.” As though Lisa had the foggiest idea about the

challenges of running a small business. “And when you talk about needing to expand, I

simply can’t help worrying about the stress and strain of an additional mortgage on you,

darling. Whereas this house is paid for free and clear.”

Like a fool, I said, “Even so, there’s no way I could begin to afford the upkeep.”

Her violet eyes widened at my naivete. “You’re going to be very wealthy one of these

days, darling,” she chided. “I know I could prevail upon Mr. Gracen to arrange something

with your trust fund.”

“Don’t start that again.” Funny how that money was absolutely untouchable when it

was for something I wanted that Lisa didn’t approve of, but right there at my fingertips if I’d

give in to whatever she wanted for me.

“If your poor father had realized that you would end up sacrificing your health

struggling to make ends meet –”

“Lisa, where is this going?” I broke in. “Are you thinking of selling the house? Is that

what this is about?”

I was amazed to see her turn pink.

“Um, sort of,” she said. An un-Lisa-like comment.

When she didn’t continue, I prodded, “And?”

“Actually, I’m thinking of getting married.”

Chapter Two

In the silence that followed her words, I heard one of the Christmas ornaments fall

through the branches of the ten-foot noble fir taking up a quarter of the dining room.