CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Grant and Reynolds, and the thing that had been Regina Bright, heard the echoing scream from the far mountains.

“It is over,” Gina said, a whisper.

And now, as the other two watched, her smoky form began to lengthen and fill out. The smoke vanished, and, slowly, in its place appeared something that looked very much like Samhain. The face was less rigid, the eyes less hard, the long-fingered hands softer-looking.

Before Reynolds could speak, Gina said, “Yes. I will be the new Lord of the Dead. It is fitting, don’t you think?”

She turned to Grant, and her thin red lips smiled. “Things may be a bit different from now on, Detective. I don’t know if Orangefield will be seeing quite as much of me.”

“Samhain?” Grant asked.

“He is provided for.” She looked out at the line of pilgrims making their way across the barren landscape. “Those are my charges. Perhaps I can make their time here more pleasant than it has been.”

She regarded Grant again. “And you, Detective, must return to Orangefield. It is not your time.” She smiled again. “Yet. And if you forego the cigarettes and alcohol, I may not see you again any time soon.”

“What about you?” Grant said to Reynolds.

The impresario smiled. “I’ll be staying here, of course. I could never leave Gina again. And what better place to write the third volume of my history than the very place that inspired it!”

Reggie nodded.

“We will miss you, Detective,” she said. “I can tell you that your friend Tom Malone is in peace. In fact, he is about to leave us. You have learned a very great secret, one that no man who returns to Earth should know. I will take the knowledge from you, but not the certainty. That will be my gift. Good-bye.”

She leaned over, and kissed him.

And then Grant was suddenly gone.