The Awakening

Book 5: Alliance Vampires

by Heather Graham

Genres: Paranormal Romance

Synopsis

There is no escaping

Despite a floundering marriage, Megan O'Casey and her husband Finn still make good music together. Which is why they head to Salem, Massachusetts, Megan's hometown, booked to perform a weeklong series of concerts culminating on Halloween. But as soon as they arrive, Finn seems different - sensual beyond belief one moment; cold and ruthless the next. The locals - even Megan's relatives - regard him strangely, with a distrust bordering on hatred.

The nightmare within

Something powerful is arising, a malevolence that may have already claimed Finn for its own. As the full moon approaches, Megan senses that she, too, is in mortal danger. But there are forces watching from beyond the pale of life and death. Whose side they're on is the least of Megan's worries. What they could reveal about her is what she's running from…

Release date: March 19, 2013

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 496

Sample

Megan was screaming.

In the terrible reality that was happening, she heard her own voice.

In the darkness, she knew the sense of a spiraling fear that threatened to become overwhelming, to smother her. She had a sense of fatality, and she saw the shadow figure, saw him entering the room. Adrenaline raced through her, desperation, the sense that she must move, must fight for survival.

The sound continued—it was all she heard and she screamed and screamed, knowing the deadly menace that had come to her. She knew, as well, that she had said something, done something, to precipitate what was happening. She knew each step as it occurred, the figure appearing, the fear, the terrible understanding of what was to come. She felt the violence as he came upon her, his touch upon her hair first, then her clothing, the blows against her as she resisted. The violation of her flesh, the hands around her throat . . .

Faceless, he was faceless, but she knew him, she had to know him.

Had to know his hands. Around her throat, then his hands, pressing her down, and she knew she was going to die. She wasn’t sure how . . . Would the hands so powerful against her flesh crush the life from her, or was this only to subdue her? Would there be a knife blade, a pressing against her throat, creating a rich spill of blood . . .?

Whichever, it was coming, and she knew that it was coming, and she still couldn’t see his face, only the darkness, and she was suddenly certain of a welling of sound, soft and low and underlying the chilling shrill of her screams, a sound of chanting, voices, many voices . . .

Whispers, laughter.

Eerie laughter, evil laugher . . .

She screamed louder, fought more wildly, desperate now not just to save her life, but to still the cackling sounds that seemed to enter her very soul, wrapping around it, crushing the life from it, as the hands upon her seemed to be doing with flesh.

She kicked, tried so hard to keep screaming, but she had no breath, no sound could come, no air could come . . .

Only the pulse, the thunder of her heart.

Fight, fight . . . even as a darkness deeper than night fell before her eyes. Kick, scratch, fight . . . claw at the hands . . .

The hands . . . that slipped as she dug her nails hard . . .

Screaming, still, the sound of screaming . . .

“Megan! Jesus, stop! Megan!”

Hands, again, on her shoulders, shaking her. She struck out, hard, desperately.

“Megan! Damn! Megan, wake up!”

She awoke, stunned, still hearing distant screams, but they were coming from her.

“Megan!”

Finn straddled over her then. His right hand was vised around her wrists; he was rubbing his jaw with his left. He stared down at her, his eyes as brilliant as twin knife blades, his face ashen.

“Megan! What the hell is the matter with you?”

Abruptly, her screaming stopped.

She was drawn from the incredible reality of the world she had entered in her sleep to the true reality of life. And in real life, she was in a quiet bed and breakfast in a quiet, historical town that only went a bit crazy during the month of October.

“Finn! Oh, my God, Finn!”

She tried to pull her arms free.

“Are you going to sock me in the jaw again?”

“I didn’t!”

“You did.”

“I’m so sorry . . . please!”

He eased his hold. She reached up, curled her arms around his neck, shaking, nearly sobbing.

A dream. It had been nothing but a dream.

He didn’t push her away, but his shoulders were as stiff as boards. When she drew back, the look in his narrowed green eyes was wary, distant, and accusing.

“Megan, Jesus Christ, what the hell was that all about?”

“I had the most awful nightmare.”

“A nightmare—and you had to scream like a thousand hounds were after you, here, now!”

He was interrupted by a hard banging on the door.

She bit her lower lip, wincing. Finn jumped up and reached for the terry bathrobe she had discarded before bed that lay upon the floor by their side.

He opened the door. From the darkness of the room, Megan could see the dimly lit hallway. Mr. Fallon, the groundskeeper and jack-of-all-trades at Huntington House, stood grimly in the doorway.

“What goes on here, Mr. Douglas?” he demanded sternly.

“I’m so sorry. It seems that Megan has had a nightmare,” Finn explained.

Mr. Fallon gave Finn an up and down glare that implied he didn’t believe a word of it. In fact, it looked as if he were about to call the police, and see that Finn was charged with some form of domestic violence.

“Sounded like a bloody murder!” Fallon said.

Megan couldn’t just hop up and explain herself. She was naked. She called out weakly from the bed. “I’m fine, Mr. Fallon, really. I just had a horrible nightmare. I’m so, so sorry!”

“Well, then, it’s a good thing you’re in this wing of the house,” Fallon said brusquely. “You’d be waking up the whole household, with such caterwaulin’! Do you have these nightmares often, young lady?”

“No, no . . . of course, not!” Megan called.

“As you can see,” Finn told Fallon irritably, “everything is perfectly all right in here.”

“Actually, young man, there’s not all that much I can see—since it’s so darned dark and all. But we don’t take kindly to folks fighting around here—not in Huntington House. We’re a fine establishment with a good reputation.”

“Of course,” Finn said.

“The Merrills have a reputation in these parts, too,” he said, referring to Megan’s family.

She wasn’t sure if the reputation her family had garnered was good or bad.

“I’m honestly sorry, Mr. Fallon. There were too many tales filling my head when I fell asleep, I believe.”

“Humph!”

“I had a nightmare,” Megan said, her tone quiet but firm. She thought she resented Mr. Fallon. She was suddenly certain he didn’t think much of the Merrill family at all.

“See that you keep it down,” Fallon said. “There can be no more such outbursts—sir!” He had started speaking to Megan; he ended with a word of warning for Finn.

“Good night,” Finn said.

Fallon nodded, and moved off. Reluctantly, so it seemed.

Finn closed the door. Darkness descended with the night-lights gone from the hall. But a second later the room was flooded with light as Finn hit the switch at the side of the door. He leaned against the door, crossing his arms over his chest, staring at Megan.

“He thinks I was beating you.”

“Oh, Finn, surely not—”

“Everyone knows we’ve just gotten back together.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Fallon doesn’t know a thing about us.”

“Well, he seems to know all about your family, and therefore, he probably knows we’ve just gotten back together, and he surely thinks you made a major mistake and that I was about to slit your throat before he arrived.”

“Finn, stop it. Surely, somewhere in his life, sometime before, someone has woken up from a nightmare, screaming.”

“You think? I’ve never woken up before next to a woman screaming loudly enough to burst my eardrums.”

“Dammit, Finn, I’ve said I’m sorry! I didn’t do it on purpose! I had a dream, a really terrible nightmare. Someone was going to kill me!” she said, surprised to feel a hint of the fear rising within her again, as if it would choke off her speech. “In fact, a little sympathy would be in order.”

He stood, still distant, staring at her for a long moment. Even the way he looked now, far too tall for the terry bathrobe, legs seeming impossibly long and honed beneath the white hem, she loved him so much. From his tousled dark hair to his bare feet. Things were so tenuous between them, now. Before . . . once, before, she would have flown from the bed and into his arms. But only a month had passed since they’d been back together, a month since he’d driven up the East Coast to Maine, come to her folks’ house, and laid everything on the line.

“Finn!” she said, still shaky, and growing angry herself.

“Excuse me, you nearly dislocated my jaw, Megan.”

“Why can’t you understand? I was deeply sleeping. I had a nightmare. A really terrifying nightmare.”

A muscle twitched in his cheek. Hair wild, arms folded over his chest, wearing the ridiculous robe, he was both imposing and appealing. He had a great face. Not too pretty. Classical, masculine structure, strong chin line, solid, defined cheekbones, fine, full mouth, dead straight, aristocratic nose. Not small, not too prominent. Deep green eyes set beneath a broad brow, rich dark hair. He was a natural athlete, thus in good shape no matter what his situation in life. Now, though, they were in the cool autumn of October in Massachusetts, they had just come from a week in the Florida Keys, and he was solidly bronzed and sleek, and ever more appealing.

She turned, lying back on her pillow, facing away from him.

A moment later, he was at her side.

She felt his fingers feather down her back. “All right, Megan, I’m sorry.”

“I imagine it was the fireside tales,” she murmured, still resentful, but not wanting the argument to go on.

Wrong thing to say. “You’re from here!” he said with something that sounded like a snort. “You’re the one with family around here. And you were frightened by stories about Salem?”

“They were different stories, not really about Salem, and certainly not in the historical sense,” she said.

“Oh, right, let’s see, All Hallow’s Eve is coming, and evil is something that grows, that feeds on the atmosphere, and clings to the places where man’s cruelty to man has been strong? Get serious, Megan, consider history, and that would be almost anyplace on earth.”

“Of course, you’re right,” she said stiffly.

“Ah, but then, a full moon will be rising. And the fog and the mist will swirl, and there are those living today who believe in the dark powers, who mean to raise the dead from their unhallowed graves, and set dark winds of evil free to haunt the world.”

She sat up, suddenly feeling defensive. “Finn, contemporary Salem is a lovely place peopled by those who scoff at witchcraft, and those who believe in their pursuit of Wicca as a real religion, those who have darling shops and make a nice income off history, and those who run great restaurants and couldn’t really care less. And yes, sadly, the victims of the persecution here were surely innocent of the crimes attributed to them, but do you know what? There always were—and perhaps still are—those who believed in witchcraft, or not witchcraft, Satanism, or whatever you want to call it, and they do bad things in their belief. Damn, Finn—think about it! Are there still bad people out there? Wow. Yeah, I think so. So I listened to stories about the evil in men’s hearts, in their beliefs in the powers of darkness and things that go bump in the night, and I had a bad dream. That’s not so bizarre, or unforgivable.”

He laid back down, fingers laced behind his head. “And you have a cousin who operates a witchcraft shop.”

“There’s nothing evil about Morwenna.”

“I didn’t say there was.”

“It isn’t illegal to be a Wiccan now. It was illegal to practice any form of witchcraft in the sixteen hundreds.”

“Right.”

“Morwenna believes in earth and nature, and in doing good things to and for people, especially because any evil thought or deed is supposed to come back at a Wiccan threefold.”

“And her freaking tall, dark, and eerie palm-reading husband, Joseph, is a fucking pillar of the community?” he said sarcastically.

“Why are we fighting about my cousin and her husband?” she asked a little desperately.

“Because I’m starting to think it was a major mistake to come here,” he said.

“You wanted to come,” she reminded him curtly. “This was a good move for your career.”

“I didn’t think you’d come home and turn into a screaming harpy.”

She turned her back on him once again, hurt more than she could begin to say. A mistake? Had it all been a mistake?

From the moment she had first seen Finn, her first day of college, she had begun falling for him. She’d never wanted someone so badly in her life. She had just about chased him shamelessly, but it had been all right, because he had returned her mad obsession. In a matter of days, she’d just about lost all thought of her classes, eager, anxious, desperate, to be with him at any given time. They’d eluded their friends time and time again to spend their precious hours together. At first, there had been no arguments—in truth, they hadn’t talked enough to argue, they’d wanted nothing more than to touch, to be in one another’s arms, naked, making love. The unfailing flame of simple chemistry had been so strong that they’d defied all advice and married one weekend, standing before friends and the priest in a small town in southern Georgia. For a few years, they had lived in the bliss of the young and innocent. Finn had graduated, and scholarships and student work programs had ended. Megan had another two years to go. Finances grew tight and music equipment was expensive. They’d begun to struggle. There were arguments about what made money, what didn’t, what was good, what wasn’t. The differences between them which had at first seemed so charming became points of friction. She had hunches and intuitions; he was entirely pragmatic. She was from Massachusetts, and other than her initial, abandoned adoration for him, she tended to a New Englander’s reserve. Finn was from the Deep South, ready to plow into any situation and offer anything they had to anyone. She’d always been a good daughter and student, he’d been a bad boy at times, suspended for fighting now and then in high school, barely squeaking into college with a music scholarship just because he’d had such a natural talent. She was close to her parents; his were divorced and remarried. He made dutiful calls once a month, and sent cards and presents to his little half siblings, but they seldom visited either of his parents. Finn loathed his stepfather, barely tolerated his stepmother, and had been on his own from the day he had graduated from high school. Then his father died of a heart attack, and he was torn between resentment that he hadn’t even been remembered in the will, and guilt that he hadn’t made more of an effort to communicate despite his unease about his stepmother. He’d started spending long hours out when Megan thought he should have needed her most. He took more and more out of town work. Jealousy, doubt, mistrust . . . the little enemies that form together to tear down a relationship began to flourish and grow. Then, slowly, little shadows of doubt and anger began, and then, for Megan, the final, agonizing, hateful straw, the flutist Finn brought into the band they had formed when they weren’t working together as a duo. She didn’t leave right away; she was still too desperately in love. And arguments were too easily solved because anger was such a vivid emotion, and fights too easily solved by giving into the heat and adrenaline of the moment, falling back into bed, and rising later to discover that nothing had been solved. At last, the doubts moved in too deeply, and she had no intention of losing all self-respect for herself, or letting her own hopes for a fulfilling career become crushed by standing in the background, giving way completely. They’d had a fight in which she’d gotten mad and hit him in the head with a loaf of bread. They’d fought on the balcony; neighbors had seen them. The bread had become a wine bottle in the retelling, and in some stories, she’d beaten Finn, in others, he’d beaten her. Rumors had spread. He’d been furious with the things said about him, more concerned with rumor than with her, and so, she had left.

But there was really no way to leave Finn behind completely. She had always loved the look of him, the feel of him, the deep quality of his voice, the sound of his laughter. The scent of him. Her folks had been living in Maine at the time, and she’d gone home, and taken work with an old friend who was a guitarist, singing light rock and folk music at a coffee shop. The pay hadn’t been great, but the hours and perks had been wonderful—great coffee, good food, and time to work on the songwriting that was her true love and passion in life—as far as her career went. Living with her parents wasn’t difficult, their home in Maine was huge, and she had an entire wing of the place to herself—a carriage house that had been beautifully remodeled into an apartment.

She had been away for six months, wondering whether or not to sign the divorce papers, when he had shown up. And when they had come together then, he had been passionate, and honest, forgetting pride completely. There had never been anything between him and the flutist, any other musician, or any other woman, period. He couldn’t live without her, and he wanted her back.

She could have melted on the spot, and in her way, she did, throwing herself into his arms, practically sobbing, ready to strip him then and there. And since then, they had talked, about everything, and she felt both secure and cherished. They’d gone back to New Orleans, and she had never been more certain about a decision in her life. She loved Finn; she would forever.

Still, she wished she hadn’t screamed here, in Salem. Despite their deep commitment, the bread episode was still there, back burner. Forgiven by both of them, and yet, a memory that was not comfortable.

It was amazing that a rumor had come so far, all the way to Massachusetts. Here, where she was known, as well as her family.

She hadn’t actually grown up in Salem, but in close-by Marblehead. And though she was able to see many members of her extended family, they hadn’t come for that reason. Finn had come home one day to tell her he’d received a really top quality financial offer to entertain at a hotel in Salem for the entire week before Halloween. A man named Sam Tartan, head of entertainment and community relations for the new hotel, had read an article about them, and had thought they’d be perfect. Finn had been a little skeptical at first, wanting to make sure they hadn’t received the offer because Megan’s family had pulled strings.

They hadn’t. Neither of her parents had ever heard of Sam Tartan. When she’d made an anonymous phone call, she’d learned that the hotel entertainment exec hailed from somewhere in the Midwest.

The money was truly impressive; the prestige of being offered such a solo gig was equally persuasive. With a fair amount of excitement, they had accepted the offer.

First, they were going on a vacation, taking the honeymoon they’d never had before, and spending time in Florida. Sunny Florida, and then spooky old Salem. While they were gone, the workmen could do some of the necessary repairs on their home in the French Quarter, and it would all be perfect. Perhaps Finn hadn’t realized just how far rumors had gone, and that her family members would all stare at him, wondering if he was a wife beater, if Megan shouldn’t have stayed as far away from him as she could.

She turned, wanting then to make amends, wishing she’d never touched that loaf of bread.

To her surprise, he was no longer lying awake. His eyes were closed, lips slightly parted, and he was breathing deeply and evenly.

“Finn?”

He didn’t answer.

Megan slipped out of bed, frowning, but he still didn’t awaken. She walked over to the big, overstuffed antique chair by the fireplace and found her terry robe, wrapping it tightly around her. She pulled back the draperies to the balcony door, hesitated, then slipped out.

October in Massachusetts. A cool breeze was softly moving, but it wasn’t uncomfortably cold outside. The sky was beautiful and strange, a deep blue, almost black in places, and light, almost ethereal in others. As she looked down at the street below, she saw a whirl of fog, and she found herself remembering the words of the crusty old storyteller who had been at the fireside tale-telling earlier in town.

Ah, but though those caught, hanged, and pressed to death, as old Giles Corey, were most probably true innocents, those earlier guardians of justice might not have been so foolish in their fears of evil, though they were daft in their methods of discovery. Think my friends, when there is goodness, there must be evil, and evil is rooted in the very history of mankind. Throughout the years there have been stories of man, and of beasts, and of those creatures who fall somewhere in between them. As there have been angels, there have been devils. There is the Good Book, and there are works of the greatest demonic frenzy, and there have always been, as there are now, those who seek the secrets of the Devil, of imps and demons from beyond, of the savage beings we remember only in the deepest, darkest, recesses of our hearts. It’s said, you know, that All Hallow’s Eve is the night when the dead may rise . . . especially if they are so bidden, if, perhaps, they are called from the fires of hell to walk upon the earth once again, and inhabit the lives and souls of man.

A log had fallen in the fire then; half the old man’s audience had jumped and cried out, and then laughed. Megan had done so herself. She hadn’t imagined that she would come back to their rented room, dream of evil, and scream in the night.

The fog below appeared to be blue. It seemed to spiral, puff, curl, and move like some living thing itself.

She wasn’t afraid of fog . . .

She felt the lightest touch against her nape. Fingers, lifting her hair, softly, gently. She closed her eyes and smiled.

Finn had awakened. He was behind her.

That was his ritual. He would come to her. Stand in silence. Touch her hair, lift her hair, press his lips against the flesh of her nape. She felt him touch her, then. The hot moisture of his lips, the warm, arousing moisture of his breath. In seconds, his arms would come around her. He would tell her that he loved her. And being Finn, he would bring his hips hard against her while he held her, and probably whisper that if she was going to scream, he should see to it that she was screaming for all the right reasons, because the things he could do to her were just so good that she couldn’t begin to help herself . . .

She felt his hands, sliding over terry cloth, beneath it, touching her flesh . . .

His touch fell away. She thought she heard him breathing. . . waiting. Waiting for her to turn into his arms, melt into them as she always did.

“Finn . . .”

She spun around, ready to do just that.

He wasn’t there.

She was alone on the balcony.

The breeze suddenly turned colder. The eerie blue fog was rising from the street, moving quickly, coming higher, as if it were eager to engulf her.

There were two other families staying at the bed and breakfast, a thirty-something mother and father with their children, a boy of about twelve and a girl around ten, and a younger couple, late twenties or early thirties, on their own as well. As Finn and Megan walked through the house to the dining room, where breakfast was served, Finn couldn’t help but wonder if the others had heard Megan screaming in the night.

They had.

He knew, because as he approached, he heard them all talking. Then, as he and Megan came into the room, all six stared at them for a split second—they were like a tableau, frozen in time. Then—as if on cue—every single one of them stared down into their plates, as if suddenly finding an intense interest in toast, bacon, eggs, or cornflakes.

“They all think I’m a wife beater,” he couldn’t help whispering to Megan.

“Don’t be silly,” she said, but they had both frozen for a second as well, and she hadn’t spoken with much assurance.

“Ah, well, let’s brave it out!” he murmured, squeezing her hand, and giving her a slight wink. He didn’t know why he had been so shaken up himself. She’d had a nightmare. His anger had been uncalled for, and today, he was determined to make it up to her. Part of the problem, he knew, was that he really loved Megan. Desperately. He’d thought once that he wasn’t going to explain himself, or beg forgiveness for what he’d never done. But he knew differently now. Not that he didn’t still believe she should have trusted him; he just understood that doubts and life without really talking could undermine a marriage, tear it apart. And he wasn’t going to let it happen again.

“Good morning!” he said cheerfully, and with Megan’s hand in his, he approached the large oblong table. Two seats had been left vacant for them, and he pulled out a chair for Megan. She sat, something of an awkward smile on her face.

“Morning,” the thirty-something wife said. Finn thought that her husband nudged her leg beneath the table.

Susanna McCarthy, Fallon’s female counterpart—as tall, skinny, and dour looking as the man himself—entered with a coffeepot and served them both without a word. “How did you want your eggs?” she asked them, eyeing them as if she were forced to feed escaped convicts.

“Scrambled, please,” Megan said.

“Over easy, if you will,” Finn told her, determined to smile no matter what. He was also going to break the ice at the table, let them think what they wanted, then. “I’m Finn, and this is my wife Megan,” he announced to the table. “Weren’t all of you at the hotel storytelling down at the square last night, too? Saw you all in the lobby here, briefly, but I think we’re following a lot of the same events, as well.”

There was a brief silence, then the twenty-something man spoke up. “I’m John, and this is my wife, Sally, and yes, we were at the storytelling thing last night, too.”

Sally, a pretty little thing with blond hair down her back, spoke up, “Yes, and was he something! I must have jumped cleanly out of my chair at one point.”

“He was great!” the little boy said, speaking up. “Great! Some of the stuff is just hokey, like if you go to some of the haunted houses. But he was great.”

“Very scary,” Megan agreed, smiling at him. She had a nice way with kids. She really looked into their eyes, paid attention when they were speaking. Finn didn’t doubt that, one day, when they had their own, she was going to be a wonderful parent. He wished he was as sure about himself.

“Hey!” the boy said. “I can tell you what to do and what not to do, if you don’t want to hit the hokey stuff,” he said.

“Joshua!” his mother said sternly. “Maybe they want to discover the places on their own.” She looked at her son as she spoke, then looked over at Finn and Megan as if she had to, but wasn’t necessarily happy about it.

“We’d certainly love to hear his suggestions,” Megan said sincerely.

“But you’re from here, aren’t you?” the father said, looking at her.

“From the area, yes,” Megan admitted. “But when I was young, most of this wasn’t even here yet. A lot of them are fairly new businesses.”

It was then that Joshua’s little sister, a cute little redhead with a smattering of freckles, spoke up. “That’s right! Mr. Fallon said that your family goes way back here! So, if you know all about the ghosts and stuff, why were you screaming last night?”

“Ellie!” her father said, aghast.

Megan laughed, and the sound was light and real and had the charm that her laughter always did. “Ellie, just because I know about some of the stories already doesn’t mean that they can’t still scare me. In fact, you and your brother were certainly very brave, because I came back here, went fast asleep, and then had the worst nightmare you could ever imagine!” She looked at the parents of the two with apology. “I’m so sorry, I guess I did wake everyone up.” She shook her head. “I just had a terrible, terrible dream.”

She must have been believed, because the father seemed to relent at last. “Hey, we were woken up by peacocks at the last place we stayed. I’m Brad Elgin.”

“And I’m Mary,” his wife said.

“And I’m—”

“You’re Joshua, and you’re Ellie,” Megan finished. “And it’s very nice to meet you, and please, even though I am from these parts, they change a bit every year. Finn and I are always up for suggestions. And my husband hasn’t been here before. Ever! So, he may want to trust your judgment, just in case mine is a little tainted at times.”

“Well, actually, I’ve been through here once,” Finn said, glancing at Megan. “I got it into my head to drive up alone from New Orleans to Maine, and I’d never done it before. I wound up taking a few wrong turns off the highway, so I have had lunch in the center of town.”

Megan grinned at him. Usually, he had a great sense of direction. She’d found it amusing that he’d gotten lost in New England, and sweet, as well, since he’d been on his way to find her.

Susanna came back in then, not saying a word as she set down their plates of eggs, bacon, and toast. She didn’t even respond when Finn thanked her. She was halfway back out the door before she paused to say, “Cereal and such is on the buffet table.”

There was silence for a moment again after she left.

“Well, you’ve just got to take your husband to the museum right by the Conant statue—that one is the best so far,” Sally said, cheerfully taking up right where they had left off. “We were all just agreeing on that when you two came in.”

“Right,” John agreed, squeezing her fingers where they lay on the table. “And Brad, you were saying that the kids really enjoyed the Pilgrim village.”

“Yeah, it was cool, to