Friday, August 29, 2014

When Reality and Fiction Collide

I’d like to share an experience I had after finishing my novel Hailey’s Comments. I’d made a goal to query fifty agents and after a few weeks the rejection letters were flying in, each bringing a blow to my fragile ego. My friends own successful businesses, they teach in schools, run preschools, take in foster children- I write stories no one reads.

We were vacationing in the San Juan Islands with my husband’s family. I hadn’t written anything in weeks. When we visited Victoria, BC I knew I had to see Craigdarroch Castle. 
My novel, Hailey’s Comments takes place on a fictional island in the Pacific Northwest. The Dunsmuir home is a stone Victorian mansion, complete with turret and a widow’s walk that overlooks the ocean. In my novel the family matriarch, Helen, is murdered by her grandson, James Dunsmuir.

In Victoria, high on a hill, stands Craigdarroch Castle, but it’s not a castle with ramparts and moat. It’s a stone Victorian mansion complete with turret and a widow’s walk overlooking the ocean. It looks exactly as I’d envisioned my fictional Dunsmuir home. I stood outside on the grounds marveling. When I went upstairs, I read that the home was built by Robert Dunsmuir and after his death became the property of his widow, Joan. Joan and her son James, who shares my villain’s name, had a stormy relationship and were estranged for many years.

Until that day, I’d never visited Victoria, to my recollection I hadn’t any prior knowledge of the city’s prominent families or of Craigdarroch Castle. I’d never heard of the Dunsmuir family. As I stood on the Castle’s widow’s walk and watched the ships moving along the water, I felt a hand resting on my shoulder, pressing me forward, urging me to continue to write my dreams.

(My apologies to the Dunsmuir family. In reality, James was most likely a perfectly lovely person and if he had reasons for being estranged from his mother, I'm absolutely sure it's not because he murdered his grandmother.)

George Albert Smith said, “We are living eternal lives. Eternity doesn’t begin after this life but mortality is a crucial part of eternity. I sometimes have said to my friends when they seemed to be at the crossroads, uncertain as to which way they wanted to go, ‘Today is the beginning of eternal happiness or eternal disappointment for you.’ Our comprehension of this life is that it is eternal life—that we are living in eternity today as much as we ever will live in eternity. the intelligence that God has placed within it, that which has power to reason and to think, that which has power to sing and to speak, knows no death; it simply passes from this sphere of eternal life, and awaits This life is not given to us as a pastime. There was a solemn purpose in our creation, in the life that God has given to us. Let us study what that purpose is, that we may progress and obtain eternal life.”

Does this mean that I will become a bestselling author or that you will become an American Idol superstar? Probably not, but I can write, and I can create novels in every spare second I can find, and when someone  takes the time to tell me they loved my stories and characters—it’s more than enough of a reward. And you can do whatever you like, too, even make music—maybe you’ll be singing in a church, or a convalescent center, but if your music brings joy to you and especially to others, it will be reward enough.

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Beyond the Pale


Hooray! Look what I put up today! Beyond the Pale, the third and final book in the Beyond series.

After their encounter with the Headless Horseman in the Sleepy Hollow cemetery, Petra Baron and her immortal boyfriend, Emory Ravenswood, find themselves thrust into the bustle of modern-day New York City, where the dangers are both living and dead.

A chance encounter with Grigory Rasputin’s daughter sends Emory and Petra to St. Petersburg and the eve of the Russian Revolution. Their goal is to destroy the amulet that insures the mystic’s immortality, but their actions unintentionally set off a war between Heaven and Hell where only love can survive.

Tuesday, August 26, 2014

The Witching Well

My novella for a clean romance anthology set for publication in October has turned into a full length novel. I even think it may be the beginning of a whole series of novels. Please look for the Highwayman Incident, coming soon to all e-reader book retailers. If you would like to be notified of its release, please sign up for my newsletter. The signup form is on the top, right hand side.

We all know clean romance is hard to find, so if you enjoyed the beginning of this romance novel, I would appreciate it if you'd help other readers enjoy it, too, by forwarding this. Thanks! 

By Kristy Tate
Celia Quinn holds Jason West responsible for the demise of her grandmother's dress shop, so when she takes a sip of water from the witching well and is transported back to Regency England, Jason West is the last person she wants to see, or kiss.
Copyright 2014, Kristine Tate


At any wedding, protocol demands that all attention should be focused on the bride, even if the bride happens to be your sister, and even if your sister designed a horrid dress. But Celia defied conventions and refused to look at Mia. Celia knew her funk bordered on lunacy, but she couldn’t shake it. Not even for her sister’s wedding.
The lone man sharing her table several times looked as if he wanted to say something, but kept his silence. Because of all his starting and stoppings, Celia wondered if she frightened him. He looked familiar, although she couldn’t say why. Like someone she knew from a long time ago—but a faded out version. Gray hair at his temples, thick head of hair, wrinkles around his eyes—handsome for his age—and yet, something tingled in the back of her mind, trying to tell her something, warning her.
Celia sat back with a humph and crossed her arms over her chest. The putrid pink dress had a bunchy bodice, giving her a va va voom that, when she first saw it, made her complain first to Mia and then to grandmother.
“It’s her wedding,” Grandma Claudette said. “If she wants you to dress like a cat, you better get used to whiskers.”
And in the interest in peace in the family and not wanting to upset her mom, Celia bit her lip about the dress and vowed that when it was her turn to marry she would do it on the courthouse steps.
And Mia would have to wear a clown suit.
Complete with a red nose.
She caught the man looking at her. His glance slid away.
She shook off the hair standing on the back of her neck feeling and considered leaving, but where would she go? Join her friends on the dance floor? No, her shoes pinched her toes. The dessert table for more cake? No, her stomach was already churning. A drink from the bar? No, she needed to stay sober. She slumped back in her chair, wishing the stranger would leave or her friends would return.
As if he read her mind, the man pushed away from the table and left.
Perfect. Now she was alone. And this should have made her happy, because she wanted him to leave, but it didn’t. She sighed and used her fork to poke holes in the frosting roses on her slice of cake. The blush pink roses matched her dress, which matched her shoes, which matched the ribbon on the bridesmaid bouquets. Celia smashed the cake and watched the frosting ooze between the fork tines.
Beside her, someone chuckled. Looking up, she saw the man had returned. He carried a goblet and a slice of cake sans frosting.
“I asked for a piece without frosting,” he said as he slipped into the chair beside her. He slid the cake toward her. “For you.”
She thought about refusing it, but instead said, “Thank you.”
Without saying a word, he placed the wine flute in front of her. “It’s just water,” he told her.
“Thanks. Too much—”
“Too much sugar makes your teeth hurt.” He finished her sentence with a smile that sent another warning jolt down Celia’s spine.
“How did you know I was going to say that?”
He lifted his shoulder in a shrug. “Just a guess. I could tell that you don’t like frosting by the way you were mutilating that cake.” He offered his hand. “My name is Jason.”
“Celia Quinn.” She put her hand in his and a zing started in her fingers and spread to her center. She left her hand in his longer than necessary, before pulling away. She couldn’t be attracted to this man. He was older than her dad.
“I know a Jason.” She studied him for a moment before her gaze slid to the other Jason across the room. Dark hair, tall, lean—why were the hot guys the most lethal?
“And you dislike him.”
She met the older Jason’s warm gaze and sniffed. “I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t have to say something for it to be true.” He settled back in his chair. “Just like you didn’t say anything, but I can tell you don’t like your dress.”
Celia blew out a sigh.
“You probably think it’s a poor advertisement for your grandmother’s shop.”
Celia combined a shrug with a sigh. “It doesn’t matter. The store’s dying anyway.”
“Why do you say that?”
Celia shot the Jason across the room a glance. She hoped her look told him all the things she wished she could say to his face. He lounged against the wall between the wedding arch and an enormous swan ice sculpture. The black suit accentuated his blue eyes and dark hair. Even the hideous pink tie looked good on him. He caught her eye and lifted his glass, acknowledging her.
She wished she had something other than her bouquet and a dirty look to throw at him.
“Just because you’re losing the lease doesn’t mean you’re losing the business, you know.”
Celia swiveled her attention back to Jason her table-mate and put puzzle pieces together. “Are you related to Jason West?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“You…look like him.”
The older Jason smiled. “I’m not his dad or uncle…”
He was probably too young to be his grandfather, and he couldn’t be his brother. “What do you know about my grandmother’s shop?”
“Delia’s Dressing Occasion? It’s a great shop.”
“It was a great shop.”
“But this dress…” He nodded at the sateen fabric bunched around her like a deflated balloon. “Pepto-Bismol Pink.”
“Mia calls it pearl pink.”
“And you call it putrid.”
She stared at him.
“Maybe not out loud, but I bet it’s what you think.”
“How would you know that?”
He propped his elbows on the table. “Tell me, what are your plans for the store?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Well, since you lost your lease—”
“I didn’t lose the lease.” Her attention shifted back to the younger Jason. “My grandmother was persuaded it was time to leave.” She slumped back in her chair. “We were doing fine.”
“Maybe now you can do better.”
Celia picked up her fork and stabbed at the cake. She thought about joining her friends on the dance floor. Becca and Lacey had both kicked off their shoes. They bounced beneath the sparkly lights. Celia wanted to be happy, too, but she felt like she carried the weight of her grandmother’s store on her shoulders.
“You’re afraid that losing the store is like losing your mom.” The older Jason leaned close. “She’ll be fine, you know.”
“How can you know that? Do you know my mom?”
He nodded.
“You’re a friend of my mom’s?” Celia blinked back a sudden tear.
Jason touched her hand, just briefly, and the tingle returned. “The cancer—it won’t last. She’ll beat it. She’s strong. Like you.”
“You don’t know me,” Celia said. “You might know my mom, but you don’t me, and there’s no way you can know my mom is going to be okay.” She stood to leave. Her toes scream in protest, but she pushed to her feet, ignoring the pain. Unless. She turned back. “Are you a doctor?”
Jason looked down at the goblet. He picked it up and swirled the water. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m good at that…at offending people. I don’t mean to.”
The band began a slow song and couples formed. Lacey and Becca both found partners. The Mia and Brad danced in the center, directly beneath the disco ball. Lights twinkled across the room. It would have been a perfect day, except for the putrid pink dresses, and Jason West.
“Do you know my sister?” Celia considered him. She was sure they hadn’t met.
He nodded. “And the groom. He’s an…old family friend.”
“Are you from Stonington?”
“Not originally, although I lived here for many years.”
She waited for him to elaborate.
“I’m from Darien.”
She settled back into her chair. “Oh. Is that how you know Jason West? He’s from there, too.”
“He’s a good guy, just doing his job.”
Celia couldn’t help it. She made a face.
“I know you don’t think so now, but you should forgive him.”
Celia held up her hand. “I don’t know who you are—”
Squealing cut her off. Becca and Lacey both ran to her side.
“Come on, Cee,” Becca said, taking her hand. “Mia’s going to throw the bouquet!”
Celia let her friends pull her away from the table and lead her across the room. Mia stood on the wide steps, several feet above the clustered bridesmaids and single women in the crowd. Celia’s mom sat in a chair at a table with Claudette, Celia’s grandmother, both looked tired but happy. Celia edged toward the back, close enough to be a part, but too far to be in danger of actually catching anything.
Mia gave her a wicked smile, turned her back, and flung the bouquet straight at Celia. Flinging up her arms, Celia protected her face from the flying flowers.
People around her cheered and Celia opened her eyes.
Becca, aloft in Jason West’s arms, clutched the bouquet. Becca wiggled as Jason set her down and turned to face him. Wrapping her arms around his neck, Becca kissed him full on the lips. She held the bouquet in her hand, and it poked above Jason’s head, looking like a large, floral hat.
“I owe you!” Becca said, pushing away from Jason.
He didn’t respond to Becca but met Celia’s gaze.
She felt shaken by him, although she couldn’t say why. She felt as if his look was trying to tell her something. Something he didn’t know how to say.
He’s a good guy. Just doing his job, the older Jason’s words floated back to her.
Becca disentangled herself from Jason and smiled into her bouquet. “I love weddings,” she said to no one in particular. “They’re such a happy beginning.”
Celia’s gaze wandered back to her mom and grandmother. A beginning always comes after an ending, she thought. Celia gave Becca a tight-lipped smile, ignored Jason, and headed back to her table. The older Jason had disappeared, and Celia gratefully sunk into her chair. Swirling the wine flute, she watched the water form into small tidal wave before she took a drink.
And the world turned dark.

Her body hummed with energy. She found the quiet dark relaxing and rhythmic motion hypnotic and soothing. Crickets chirped and a breeze stirred the trees. Somewhere, an owl called out. The clip-clop of the horses…
Celia eye’s popped open. She sat in a carriage. An obese woman draped in satin and furs sat directly in front of her, snoring, her mouth ajar.
Celia’s own mouth dropped open. She sat up and took note. Same putrid pink dress. Same pinchy shoes. But the wedding, Mia, her mom and grandmother? All gone. Replaced by a grotesque snoring thing wearing a satin tent.
Celia ran her hands first over the velvet seat cushion, then the burnished wood walls, and finally the black, smooth drapes. It all felt real.
But she must be drunk. Or hallucinating. Had she had too much champagne? No. That drink! That Jason person! He must have put something in her water! But it looked like water. It had tasted like water. Celia ran her tongue over her teeth, trying to find an aftertaste, or a hint of something dangerous.
She drew back the curtain and peered into the dark. A brilliant, star-studded sky gazed down on her. No street lights. No lights at all, except for the one bobbing on the front of the carriage. Leaning forward, she craned to see the driver, but saw nothing but a horse’s butt and its swishing tail. As if the animal knew she was watching and he didn’t appreciate her stare, he lifted his tail.
Celia closed her eyes and let the cadenced sway of the carriage lull her back to sleep. When she woke, she’d be at home. In her bed. And she’d never have to wear this dress again.
Celia’s eyes flew open. She sat up straight and glanced at the woman across from her. The woman snorted and nestled her double chin into her fur collar. What was that sound? Was the carriage breaking beneath the woman’s weight?
Was it gun fire? The carriage lurched, stopping so quickly that the portly lady slid off the seat.
“What the devil?” the woman moaned, righting herself. She gave Celia n narrow-eyed look as if Celia had knocked her off the bench.
“Gunshots!” the woman hissed. She pursed her full lips, yanked off an enormous emerald necklace and shoved it at Celia. “Hide this.”
Celia stared stupidly at the jewels. If they were real, she could use them to pay the lease on the shop! Wishing she had a pocket, her mind scattered over options. In her bra? No. The stones were too big and the bodice too tight. Not knowing what else to do, she lifted her skirts and tucked the necklace into the lace garter Mia had insisted all the bridesmaid wear. She patted her skirts back into place just before the door flew open.
“Stand and deliver!” A deep and somewhat familiar voice demanded.
Deliver what? And how could she stand inside of a carriage? Celia crouched on her seat. Slowly, she lifted her head and saw nothing but the silvery end of a gun pointing at her forehead. None of this is real, Celia told herself. It’s the champagne asking her to stand and deliver something.
“Come, come ladies.” The familiar voice sent a tingle down her back.
The man stepped out of the shadows and his gaze met hers, but not an ounce of recognition glistened in his eyes. She thought she knew him, but since a mask hid half his face she couldn’t be sure.
 “My lady.” He swept his arms in a low bow.
“Who are you?” Celia gave the gun another glance. It looked real enough.
He lifted one eyebrow and the corner of his lips in a slow and lazy smile, but continued to point the gun at her forehead.
She tried not to think about the emeralds pinching her leg. She couldn’t look at them. She couldn’t adjust them. She couldn’t call his attention to them in any way.
His gaze traveled over her horrid pink dress and stopped at her mid-thigh as if he could see through the layers of sateen and frilly slip to the garter smashing the emeralds against her.
“May I be of assistance?” Again, that trill of recognition poured over Celia. She knew him. Somehow.
She shook her head, knowing she couldn’t touch him. If she touched him and he was real, tangible, then she would…well, she didn’t know what she would do. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before.
“Are you mute?” he asked, cocking his head at her. His grin deepened. “Or is my charm rendering you speechless?”
“Have you considered that maybe I’m put off by the gun you’re holding to my head?”
“Ah, so you can speak after all. Pity that. I do love a quiet woman.” He placed his hand on his heart. “Please, my dears, join me.”
But Celia refused to budge, and since her companion stood behind her, they both stayed in the coach. She stood, staring at his mouth—the only part of his face she could see—other than his eyes. She found his eyes and lips hypnotizing. Her gaze traveled from one feature to the next, wondering which one she liked the most.
He’s a highwayman! Her inner voice of reason told her. And a figment of your imagination! Those are the best kind of men, she told her reasonable voice.
“I’m sure you understand this is not a social call.” His gaze flicked over Celia and rested on her va va voom bodice. “At least, not entirely, although I do enjoy mixing business and pleasure.”
“Where’s Eddie?” the woman barked over Celia’s shoulder. “What have you done with Eddie?” As she leaned over Celia’s back, Celia’s foot caught on the door’s lip. She would have tumbled and fell if the highwayman hadn’t shot out his arm to steady her. His hand tightened around her, and in one fluid movement, he lifted her out of the carriage and placed her on the ground.
She stood, breathless and warm from his sudden, brief contact. Her breath came in ragged huffs. Not knowing whether she was grateful or disappointed when he stepped away, she hugged herself to keep warm.
A snapping twig drew her attention to three men standing in the shadows. They stood as silent and watchful as the trees. All three had weapons drawn.
“Where’s Eddie?” the woman barked out again.
“Have you hurt the driver?” Celia asked, with a hiccup catching in her throat.
The highwayman flicked his head toward a cluster of trees. “He’s unharmed, except for perhaps, his sense of manhood.”
“What is your name?” the woman whispered.
“My name?” Celia asked, her voice coming out in a surprised squeak.
“Not your name, you goat head! I know your name.”
Celia wondered what her name might be, or her role, or position. Was she a maid? A paid companion? A relation? She shivered, and told herself that she needed to wake. This dream had gone on way too long already. She should have woken as soon as she saw the gun. That’s what normally would have happened. Nightmares typically ended with a major scare.
She tried pinching herself. It hurt, but not enough to wake her.
The woman fixed her attention on the highwayman. “Who are you?”
“Why would he tell you that?” Celia asked, more than a little stung at being called a goat head.
The man chuckled. “You do not need my name, but I do need your valuables.”
Quiet descended, and Celia took note of the clamor of crickets, the hooting owl, and a nearby tumbling river. Country night sounds, usually masked by the roar of constant traffic on the parkway.
“Do you really need them, or do you just want them?” Celia asked.
“What difference should that make?” he asked.
“It makes a very big difference—it’s the difference between greed and—”
He waved his gun in her face, effectively silencing her. “That ring, if you please,” he said to the woman.
Celia watched, wondering what her companion would do.
Slowly, the woman climbed from the coach.
 The horses stamped their feet impatiently and shook their reins. For a second, Celia thought about jumping on a horse and riding away. But then she remembered that she knew nothing about horses and getting one loose from the carriage might be tricky. Besides, even if it wasn’t real, that gun looked like an actual gun, which meant that the bullet might possibly feel real, and she didn’t like pain—real or imaginary.
The woman drew the ring off her finger. “I have a reticule in the carriage,” she told the man. “If you’d like, I’ll give it to you.”
The man barked a laugh. “Not likely.” He motioned to one of the henchmen, his gaze never leaving the two women. “Search the carriage. Tell me if you find any hidden pistols.”
Celia slid a quick glance at the woman, wondering if she was cunning or just stupid.
The second man passed by. He smelled unwashed and earthy. The woman reached out and shoved Celia into him. “Take her!”
The man stumbled under Celia’s sudden weight, but the highwayman reached out caught her in his arms. He drew her to him and held her close. She felt safe there, although she knew that she shouldn’t.
“Hold her hostage! Kill her if you must!” The woman clambered into the coach and slammed the door.
Celia fought to breathe. She knew she had to leave, she knew that staying pressed up against the highwayman was stupid. He had his hand on her belly, his fingers splayed across her. He smelled of cloves and when he spoke, his breath warmed her.
“That was most unkind.” He sounded surprised and disapproving.
The second man scrambled after the woman and flung open the door. Amid the screams, the carriage rocked back and forth.
“I won’t harm you,” the highwayman whispered, his lips brushing against her hair.
Celia glanced at the gun. In the moonlight, it looked very real and very lethal. Almost as devastating as the man holding her in his arms.
He shifted, bringing her in front of him. In one quick moment, he captured her lips.
Celia’s knees buckled. Her thoughts raced back to all those Regency romance novels of her grandmother’s that she had read as a girl. Georgette someone. Hideous, Horrendous, no, Heyer. Yes, that was it. Georgette Heyer. What would Georgette call this? A seduction? A ravishing? Oh my gosh! That was it! She was being ravished by a rake!
Wake up! Her mind screamed. No more kissing!
Oh, but it felt so good. So very, very good.
Panic gripped her. Breaking lose, she ripped off his mask.
Jason West stood in a pool of moonlight, gun dangling at his side. Surprise filled his eyes. He touched his lips, clearly dazed. Taking two steps back, his gaze shifted to the dark, shadowy woods. “Forgive me,” he muttered. “I have erred.”
And with those parting words, he turned and disappeared into the dark.

You can read the second excerpt here: 

Friday, August 22, 2014

The First Chapter of the Soon to be Published Beyond the Pale

I just completed my final edits for Beyond the Pale, the final book in my teen time travel romance. It's now with my formatter. Next week it will be published. 

For those who want a taste now, I'm posting the first chapter below. But first, some disclaimers and explanations.

I know Grigory Rasputin was a real man, and if he still has posterity walking the earth--I apologize to them for demonizing him. Remember, this is a work of FICTION, and I'm absolutely positive that the Rasputin in my novel has very little semblance to the Rasputin of the real world. 

The trail head to the Catskills is in reality about a 2 hour car ride from Tarrytown, N.Y. I have no idea how long it would take to ride a bike there, especially if you had to carry someone on the handlebars.

There really is a Haunted Halloween in Sleepy Hollow. You can read about it here: They even have zombies.

Finally, remember, I'm a storyteller. I don't pretend to be a Biblical scholar. I'm not trying to preach doctrine of any sort. Sure, I tried to tie in things from the Bible, but only as it supported my story. I have never had a near-death experience, nor have I had visions of a pre-life or even an after-life, although I do believe in both. I'm pretty sure  my views concerning Hell don't coincide with  traditional Christian teachings. Anyone familiar with Dante will recognize (somewhat) the Kiev labyrinth, but since Dante died about the same time as Emory, I'm sure he won't mind. 

“I am nothing more than a son of Purgatory—trapped between Heaven, Hell and Earth. I have chosen Earth, but my stay is conditional upon Heaven’s grace.” EMORY

All Hollow’s Eve

Petra woke to screaming. She bolted up, pushed her hair off her face, and tried to read the landscape for tale-tell signs—anything that might tell her where—and more importantly in what century— she had landed. Wood smoke hung in the air, and the mist chilled her skin. The ageless moon looked down, stars winked, and tombstones that looked as old as the night sky had nothing to say. That, she decided, was the problem with time travel. She never knew where or when she might land.
Emory stirred beside her and she reached for him. “You okay?” she asked. His hand felt warm, solid, and real. As long as they were together, nothing else really mattered.
Another scream tore the night, and Petra twisted toward the sound. An old stone church engulfed in an unearthly orange glow stood on a hill, its steeple pointing toward Heaven. Petra wore jeans and a dark hoodie, but Emory, in his breeches and white billowing shirt, looked like he belonged in a living history museum. Which one of them would look out of place in this place and time?
 “I am okay.” Emory slipped into her 21st century vernacular, gave her a crooked grin, and stood. “But someone is definitely not.”
The screams, followed by maniacal laughter, tore through the air.
“Do you think they need help?” Emory asked.
Petra climbed to her feet, drawn to the sound. “We should go and see.”
“Any idea where we are?” Emory brushed dead leaves and grass off his clothes as he headed for the hill. “Or when?”
“I think we’re still in the Tarrytown cemetery.” She considered the deserted graveyard. A skin-pricking feeling that said they weren’t alone tickled Petra. She squeezed Emory’s hand as they walked toward the glowing church.
“Do you think the ale worked?” Emory lifted the flagon they had taken from Washington Irving’s Sleepy Hollow ghosts. Who would have guessed that Kip/Rip Van Winkle’s story was more fact than fiction?
Petra paused at a wrought iron gate attached to a stone wall. Blackened by moss and lichen, it looked old and squealed in complaint when Emory pushed it open. A shiver ran through Petra.
Horses thundered past, and Emory pulled her behind a tall obelisk. They waited in the dark night with their backs pressed against the monument for the sound of falling hooves to fade. Petra peeked but only caught a glimpse of a swirling black cape.
“Irving,” Emory breathed.
Petra nodded. The last time, only moments—or maybe centuries—ago, they had seen Irving, he had looked exactly the same. “I guess we’re still in Tarrytown.” She blew out a breath of frustration, and glanced around the dark cemetery.
“But where is Ichabod Dane?” Emory stepped out of the obelisk’s shelter. “He must be here, as well.”
Petra shivered again, remembering their last clash with the greedy school master. “I’m glad he’s not.”
“Still, we must be vigilant.” He pulled her through the gate, and she trailed after him, keeping a hold of his hand.
Petra thought about telling him that in 2010 no one under the age of eighty used the word vigilant, but remembered that they probably weren’t in 2010 so he could use any word he wanted.
Sounds of screaming, harsh laughter, and galloping horses came from over the hill. Emory glanced at her and she tightened her hold on him. Up ahead, lanterns lined the dirt path.
“Where did the lanterns come from? I don’t remember those,” Petra whispered. Why was she whispering? She didn't know, except for the creepy, not-alone feeling. She glanced at the ground. Was the path too perfect? No meaningful rocks, no potholes. What was on it? Sawdust?
When a creature draped in gauze jumped out from behind a crypt, Petra screamed.
Emory cocked his arm and punched the ghoul in the face, sending him flying backward. Swatches of gauze floated and fluttered midair. Petra caught sight of a pair of Toms shoes and Hurley shorts.
“Oh my gosh, Emory, stop!” Petra ran to help the ghoul-guy to his feet.
With his white makeup now smeared with the blood pulsing from his nose, the ghoul-guy sprawled on the ground. His coal-rimmed eyes blinked open in surprise. “Whatcha do that for?” He sat up, grabbed his gauzy costume and held it to his face to staunch the bleeding. “Man, I don’t get paid enough.” He glared at Emory through narrowed eyes and lowered brows. “What are you? Some sort of moron?”
Emory stood, his clenched fists dangling at his side, his mouth open as if he wanted to say something, but wasn’t sure what.
“So sorry.” Petra tried to fill the awkward pause. “We thought you were someone else.”
“Someone else draped in a white sheet and hanging out at Hollow’s Halloween?” The guy turned his glower toward her, and sarcasm laced his voice. “Yeah, I can see how you could make that mistake.”
“Look, he’s sorry.” Petra sent Emory a pleading glance.
“I am, indeed.” Emory stepped forward and offered his hand. “Please accept my most heartfelt apologies. If I can make restitution—”
“Restitution?” The guy crab-crawled away from Emory before bouncing to his feet and addressing Petra. “You look normal enough. Why are you hanging with this psycho?”
“Psycho?” Emory muttered.
The guy untied the rope belt that hung at his waist and threw off his costume. “I should call the cops.”
“Please don’t,” Petra begged. “I know… I mean, I wouldn’t blame you if you did…but please—we really did think you were someone else.” Petra scrambled in her bag and drew out a gold coin. “Look—for restitution.”
The kid took it and turned it over. “What is it?”
“It’s gold from 1810.”
“Are you freaking kidding me? This has got to be worth a mint!” He handed it back to her. “If it’s real. Which it’s not. Look, just stay away from me. I don’t need this.” He turned away. “I’m outta here.”
Emory waited until the guy had disappeared into the dark woods, before he said, “Petra?” Her name held all of his questions.
She took his hand and pulled him close. Not wanting anyone to overhear, she whispered, “It’s Halloween. We’re still in Tarrytown, but it’s 2010.” Glancing around, she added up the evidence. The starry sky was dimmed by refracted light, traffic sounded on a distant road, and the air smelled different—less like a farm and more like a city laced with exhaust and fumes. She tried to lead Emory toward the town. “We’re home.”
But Emory dragged his feet. “Why was that youth dressed as a goblin? Why was his face painted? Do the men of this age wear face paint?”
“No, at least not most of them.” She laughed and shrugged, so relieved to be back in her own century, she couldn’t care less about anything else. “Some do, but not very many.” She took a deep breath and launched into an explanation of how Washington Irving had made Sleepy Hollow famous. “And now every October it’s a tourist attraction.”
“But why would anyone want to attract these unfriendly tourists?”
When a woman shrouded in black emerged from the shadows and sidled up to Emory, he flinched away with a puzzled look on his face. “This is what I don’t understand.” He waved his hand at her. “Why? Pray tell—why are you dressed thus?”
The Goth girl’s gaze ran up and down Emory and snorted. “Hey! My costume is way better than yours.”
He turned to Petra. “Is this common attire?”
Petra grabbed his arm, sent the Goth girl an apologetic smile and drew Emory away. “No! People pay to come here and be scared,” she whispered.
“People pay money to be scared by hoydens dressed as phantoms?” Emory planted his feet and refused to move. “And why would anyone be scared or surprised if they paid money to be scared or surprised?” His gaze went over her shoulder. “Although, I have to say, that is surprising…and horrifying.”
Petra turned and saw the carnage. Creatures dressed in rags feasted on corpses lying on the cemetery lawn. Blood dripped from their blackened lips and stained their hands and clothes. They lurched from one torn body to the next. “Zombies,” Petra told him.
“I beg your pardon?”
Petra rolled her eyes. “Those are people pretending to be zombies.”
“And what is a zombie?”
Really? They finally arrived in 2010—an age of amazing technological miracles—and she had to explain zombies? She took his arm and led him toward the graveyard gates. “Never mind. When we get home I’ll show you Night of the Living Dead. I can probably find it on Hulu.”
“How am I to pay this no mind?” He waved a hand at the bloody scene behind them. “The Living Dead? And what is a Hulu?”
“It’s a TV show.” And now she had to explain TV. “It’ll be easier to show you than tell you.”
“Where are we going now?” Emory asked.
Good question.
Emory followed Petra into the church. Inside, away from the revelry and boisterous crowd, the quiet chapel quieted Emory’s unease. Aside from the strange, blue lighting radiating from under the eaves, the sanctuary looked nearly the same as it had two hundred years ago: stain glass windows, wood floors, soaring buttresses supporting the distant ceiling.
Petra dropped into a pew and Emory followed, his gaze flitting across the room. They were alone, but the noise of the crowd seeping through the windows and doors reminded Emory that he was a stranger in a strange time and place.
Petra pulled out her contraption and pressed a button. It buzzed and lit up. She must have noticed his puzzlement, because she said, “It does more than make music. So glad it’s still got juice.”
Emory nodded as if he understood. She had carried the thing to both Dorrington, England, 1610, and Tarrytown, New York, 1810. He didn’t remember seeing it with juice, nor did it look as if it held liquid.
“It’s a phone.” She sighed when she must have realized he didn’t understand what a phone was. “Never mind, I’ll explain Alexander Bell to you later, but for right now—a phone is like having a ginormous library in your pocket. It can tell you almost everything you could ever want to know…although you have to be careful, because not all of it’s true. And there are definitely some things you do not want to know. But right now, we do need to know if we can get back to New York, or if we have to wait for a morning train.”
 “Of course. But New York is at least a day’s journey. ‘Twould be foolish to travel so far— ”
She smiled and shook her head.
“’Tis not?”
“No, it’s less than an hour train ride.”
“Ah. I am anxious to ride this train. Is it pulled by horses?”
Petra laughed. “No. It’s…I’m not sure what makes it go. Electricity? They used to have steam engines, and coal. I’m pretty sure it’s electricity now.”
When she saw his blank look, she said, “Wait—you should know about electricity. Benjamin Franklin and his kite?”
“Benjamin Franklin, the statesman, had a kite?”
“Didn’t he? We learned about him in school—how he flew his kite during an electrical storm and got hit by lightning.”
“He never mentioned it.”
Petra held up her hand to stop him. “Never mind. It’s after midnight.”
“Tonight—shall we ask a farmer if we can stay in his barn?”
“No.” Petra grinned at the thought. “People don’t do that in 2010. A farmer might be seriously creeped-out if you asked if you could sleep in his barn with his animals.”
Emory wanted to ask about creeping out and what it meant, other than the obvious of creeping outside, but Petra continued.
“Besides, there aren’t very many farmers around here.”
“There are not?”
“No. Tarrytown is a commuter town with way more investment bankers than farms and barns.”
“’Tis more than one bank?”
Petra blew out a breath. “Right now we don’t need a bank—we need a place to stay.”
Emory watched as she pressed a series of buttons on her phone.
“There’s a Days Inn close by.” She met his gaze. “You can stay there during the night—it’s not just for daytime.”
“Of course, I understand that.” He hated that he knew so little and Petra, with her magic phone, seemed to know everything. “Although I will admit that there is much I do not know.”
Petra bumped his shoulder with hers. “No worries. You can ask me anything, and if I don’t know, you can always look it up.”
She showed him how to connect with a person named Siri. “Watch me. Siri, how do I get to the Days Inn?”
His mouth dropped when Siri replied,Head south on U.S. 9 S/Broadway toward Harwood Ave for 1.8 miles then turn left onto 15/Benedict Ave. Continue to follow Benedict Avenue. Destination will be on your left.”
 “Where is this Siri?”
Petra laughed and slipped the phone back into her carryall. “I don’t know.”
“Perhaps we should ask her. Does she not mind being bothered so late at night?”
Petra laughed again. “No, I’m sure she doesn’t mind. She’s not a real person, you know.”
“No. I did not know.” It seemed that what he did not know could fill a universe.
“Let’s go.” Petra stood, and Emory followed her out the door. She paused on the stone steps before following Siri’s instructions.
“Do you want to try it?” Petra asked as they followed the road that led out of town. She fumbled in her bag for the device. “Go ahead. Ask it a question.”
Emory held the phone and shook it to hear the juice. It didn’t sound as if it held liquid. It felt small, fragile, and incapable of answering any questions at all, let alone any question he could think of. He mentally sorted through all that he didn’t know. What now? Would they find the Kidd Pirate’s treasure? What happened to Dane and Annie? What, exactly, would he do in the year 2010? Finally, he chose the question most puzzling of all.
“Siri, why does Petra love me?”