Page 4 of Thunder Road

“Well, you’ve got me hooked. I wonder what Vic’s heard about the club.”

“When you find out, let me know,” Pete said. “This is right before the Myrtle Beach Monster Motorcycle Mania rally. Coincidence?”

“Shit. I managed to forget about that. It’s the season, right?”

Pete nodded. “As soon as the back-to-school stuff goes on clearance, it’s spooky time.”

Simon had mixed feelings about Halloween. As a kid, he loved the costumes and candy. As a folklore professor,the cultural celebration fascinated him. And as a medium, sometimes the press of spirits at a time when the Veil was thin seemed overwhelming.

He and Vic decorated the bungalow and gave out candy for Trick-or-Treat, and they usually got invited to someone’s Halloween party or went to a shindig at a favorite bar.

But those with abilities remained watchful. After the autumn solstice, the balance favored darkness over light until spring. And while most people gave little notice to anything except the time change, those who dealt with magic and energy recognized a real, primordial shift.

Simon made sure to renew the wardings on the shop and bungalow, recharge their protective amulets under the light of a full moon, and reconsecrate the sigils and runes that provided a powerful deterrent to dangerous supernatural entities.

Despite all the precautions, Simon relied on his psychic radar and the warnings of helpful ghosts to keep the darkness at bay.

“Has Vic finally adjusted to the ghost stuff?” Pete asked. It was a fair question, given how skeptical Vic had been when they first met.

“Mostly. He doesn’t doubt that it’s all true, and he believes my abilities are real. He knows more about what goes bump in the night than he used to. Honestly—Vic sees enough darkness with what the living can do that I’m just as glad he doesn’t know all the dangers from the other side.”

Simon went to get another cup of coffee and sat at the breakroom table to take a few minutes to get ready for Edwards. He closed his eyes, stilled his thoughts, and focused on his breathing. Ghosts with something to say could usually get his attention even when his mind was busy; tuning in was easier when he silenced the internal chatter.

He had never given the motorcycle rally much consideration other than when it bogged down traffic or the roar of the enginesmade it hard to think. Vic rode a black Hayabusa and sometimes enticed Simon to ride behind him, but he never felt completely comfortable on the bike.

Vic, on the other hand, loved to ride but viewed the clubs with skepticism. Most were just enthusiasts having fun, but a few left a wake of vandalism and public nuisance complaints behind them, a mess for the cops to handle.

In the ether, Simon sensed the low hum of spirits gathering. Even non-believers and those without a whiff of paranormal ability could pick up on the shift, which gave rise to the season’s stories.

Pete poked his head into the room. “Mr. Edwards is here. He’s at the front counter.”

Simon released his meditation, thanking the energies and invoking their protection. Any time mortals interacted with the other realms of existence, there was risk. Simon knew that all too well from readings that went dangerously wrong.

Just in case, he kept an emergency flask of salted holy water laced with colloidal silver and iron filings, a mixture likely to repel most supernatural creatures.

Simon walked up front and saw a man with long gray hair waiting at the counter. The visitor wore a leather motorcycle vest over black jeans and boots and looked the part of a bad boy biker.

“Mr. Edwards? I’m Simon Kincaide,” he greeted his client, concentrating on learning everything he could from their initial contact.

Edwards looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties, and the lines around his eyes and sun damage to his face suggested those were hard years. He had a trim build, still solid. One hand rested on the counter, and Simon saw old broken knuckles that hadn’t healed right.

A hint of darkness clung to the man like a geas—or perhaps, Simon thought, it was the weight of a bad bargain made more than half a century ago.

Edwards extended his hand, and Simon shook it, picking up more psychic information.He’s not just nervous—he’s scared.

“Please, have a seat.” Simon ushered him to the table he used for readings in the shop’s alcove, separated from the main area by a curtain.

Edwards sat, and Simon took the seat across from him. The man smelled faintly of old sweat, cheap aftershave, and worn leather.

“I want to make a trade,” Edwards blurted before Simon could ask any questions. “I want them to take me this year and I don’t know how to let them know.”

Simon was grateful for the research Pete had done because otherwise the man’s outburst would have made no sense. He suspected that he knew what Edwards meant, but he needed to be sure.

“I don’t think I follow. I’ll be more help if you can please start at the beginning.”

Edwards looked around nervously as if he was afraid of being overheard.

“Don’t worry. Pete will make sure we’re not disturbed, and you can count on his discretion,” Simon assured his guest. “How can I help you?”

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