When Midnight Comes

originally published in 'Trick or Treat' a Love Spell Halloween Anthology, 1997
When Midnight Comes a novella © Lori Handeland, all rights reserved

Free Downloads: Chapter One || Chapter 2 || Chapter 3 || Chapter 4 || Chapter 5 || Chapter 6 —The End!

Chapter One

New York City, 1869

Jack Keegan wandered the streets of his youth. He had come a long way from his boyhood days in this immigrant ghetto of New York City. He’d come even farther from the land of his birth.

Ireland. He remembered her well. A land of beauty so deep and mystical the memory made him ache. A land of ugliness so stark and painful he could still hear the howls of the hungry and the tears of the dying. Especially here, on this dark street where children starved in a land of plenty.

How long since he had said good-bye to this place? To his past? To her?

A lifetime. Where was she now? Was she well? Was she happy? Had she forgotten him? Despite his angry words and desperate need, he had never forgotten her. Despite his wealth and power and position, he was still a child of this place, a child of Ireland.

The mouth of a long, dark alley gaped before him. Jack took a deep breath, welcoming the burn of midnight air in to his chest, then stepped into his past. The smell remained the same—dirt, damp, death, and decay. In the depths of the darkness he heard scuffles and shuffles.

For a moment he saw himself as they must see him, out of place here. A swell ripe for the picking.

A scrape from behind made Jack pause, then slowly turn. A boy, or perhaps a young man, small for his age most likely, growth stunted by starvation and depravation. The silver hint of a moon revealed the hopeless glint to the boy’s eyes and Jack tensed. He had been hopeless once and knew how desperate one became. This child could have been him twenty years ago, except for the knife. Jack had never relied on a knife to get what he wanted. He had cheated and he had stolen, but his wits had been his weapon.

“No need for that, son. I’ll give ye what I’ve got.”

The brogue Jack had fought so long and so hard to erase from his voice returned without warning. The boy’s eyes narrowed with suspicion and his fingers tightened on the knife.

“Here, boy.” Jack reached into his pocket. Without ever making a sound the child sprang forward, plunging the knife into Jack’s chest.

As Jack fell, he heard someone screaming his name from a very long way away. Jack recognized the voice—a voice that had haunted him for the past ten years.

“Lucia,” he whispered. And then he died.