Page 14 of Demon of Dreams

“No, but honestly, I don’t have anything better to do.” She laughed. “You just have to promise to tag me in your post if you win. I’m trying to build my brand.”

I didn’t even use social media, but now didn’t seem like the right time to mention that. I just nodded and agreed, and an hour later, we were pulling up to the tiniest town I’d ever seen–which was saying something, considering where I’d grown up.

Pointe Claudette, Wisconsin consisted of a general store, a gas station that had already closed for the day, and the Balsam Inn, a ramshackle wooden building that looked like a cross between a Swiss chalet and a haunted dentist’s office. It also looked like it might fall over in a stiff breeze.

Deep snow blanketed the roof, and icicles hung off the eaves. A set of rickety wooden stairs led up to a screen door with torn mesh on the second floor—God, I hoped that wasn’t where the rooms were, if I ended up staying the night.

A faint, flickering green sign announced that the inn had vacancies. A second, much brighter sign announced that they had Bud Light. I supposed that was probably the bigger draw.

Kelsey had gotten a text from her boyfriend on the drive, so with a final wave and a promise to add her to my online contacts, I hopped out of the car and watched her disappear back the way we’d come. I was alone in the dark, just me and the Balsam Inn and a night wind that promised snow.

A smaller, just as rickety set of three steps led to the main entrance. I climbed them, and the smell of fryer oil hit me as soon as I opened the door. It was disorientingly familiar at first, until the scent of sawdust and spilled beer invaded my nostrils too. That wasn’tquiteso reminiscent of Carla’s Diner.

The Balsam Inn was as much a bar as a place to spend the night, I realized as I stepped inside. There was a pool table by the far wall and a dart board underneath a taxidermied stag’s head in the corner. There was only one patron, other than me—a greasy-looking man at the far end of the room, with chin-length dark hair that clung to his neck. He was smoking a cigarette, and he stared at me balefully when we made eye contact.

I jerked my gaze away and looked at the bar instead. There was a display case of baked goods at one end, and a big, old-fashioned cash register at the other. The wall behind the bar displayed rows of liquor bottles and a massive coffee urn. The two taps I could see advertised Miller and Leinenkugel. So much for that Budweiser sign.

A little bell had jangled as I’d opened the door, and the man behind the bar turned to wave at me cheerfully. He was much older than the greasy guy. Seventy, maybe, with white hair and a big, bushy beard.

“Hey there, traveler,” he said as I approached. “What can I do you for?”

His tone was jovial, and between that and his pot belly, he looked like nothing so much as Santa Claus—if Santa Claus wore Hawaiian shirts.

“How do you know I’m a traveler?” I asked, suddenly wary.

“‘Cause we’ve got seventy-three full-time residents in Pointe Claudette, and you ain’t one of ‘em.” The bartender grinned.

That was a good point. I slid onto a bar stool. “Fair enough.”

“Want a beer?” he asked, picking up a pint glass and nodding at the taps.

I flushed. “I’m not twenty-one.”

“An honest one,” he said with a laugh. “That’s a rare commodity these days. Well, how about a pop, then?”

I agreed. He was so friendly, I would have felt bad saying no. Besides, aside from the packet of cookies Kelsey had given me from the reception desk at Silver Waters, I hadn’t had anything to eat since the candy bar this morning. I could use the energy.

“Tom,” the man said, sticking out his hand.

“Cory,” I said, taking it. “Nice to meet you.”

“So what brings you up here, Cory?” Tom asked as he set a bottle of cherry cola down on the bar. “You don’t look like much of an ice fisher.”

“Yeah, not so much.” I swallowed. There was no reason not to ask straight out. I just had no idea what I’d do if Tom said no. There was nowhere else to go.

“I uh—well, this might sound stupid, but I’m looking for—that is, have you ever heard of a place called Vesperwood? Vesperwood Academy?”

Tom went silent, giving me a long, appraising look. Finally, he nodded.

“Shoulda guessed.” His voice was soft. “Don’t know why I didn’t. Ain’t the right time of year, but anyone with eyes can tell you’re not here for snow-mobiling or hunting or any of that stuff.”

“Should’ve guessed what?” I asked.

“Unless you’re one ofthosehunters,” he continued, a wry smile on his lips. “Don’t much like them, to tell you the truth. But I suppose it’d be better for you if you were. Better than being the ones they hunt, anyway.”

“Hunt?” I said, gaping. I’d finally found someone who knew what I was talking about, and I was even more lost.

“If you want to get out there tonight, though, you’d better get going. Big storm coming in.”

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