STAIN (My Soul To Wake Book 1) by Tara Oakes Page A

the delicious scents serve as an appetizer.
    I unfold my stash of bills and ready myself for the cashier. When it’s my turn, I order three hot apple ciders, two fritters, and a large popcorn. A small cardboard box is prepared with my refreshments and handed to me in exchange for the cash. I balance my goodies carefully as I navigate through the growing crowd back to Nina and Court.
    “Does this make it better?” I ask Court, holding out the food as an offering.
    “I don’t know. You get the walking demigod and I get popcorn. How is this in any way fair?” She’s being stubborn, of course.
    I nod my head. She does have a point. “Okay. You can have the apple fritter. I’ll take the popcorn.”
    “Deal.” She reaches into the box and relieves me of the snack food. Nina helps herself to the remaining fritter and I hold tight onto my popcorn.
    Now we can move on.
    I’d given the girls all the details of our walk and night ending kiss as we were getting ready to leave the hotel. The two of them were drooling, literally drooling, and more than a little jealous. I feel a tad guiltily for feeling good that they’re jealous of me for a change.
    I rip off a piece of Court’s snack and wink at her jokingly in thanks.
    “Okay. So you’re going to his place tomorrow night, right?” she asks, while chewing her food.
    The tour guide gathers us all together, getting ready to set out on our adventure. His assistant hands us each our very own taper candle, slit through a red plastic solo cup to catch the melted wax.
    I take my candle and eye it suspiciously. “Nina? Is this a bargain basement tour? Couldn’t we have paid the few extra dollars for the legit one?” I turn to Court, popcorn in one hand, candle in the other. “And we might go to his place after the museum,” I add.
    The crowd bottlenecks into a solid line.
    “We’ll have to find a salon in the morning and get you a wax. A pedicure, manicure, maybe a salt scrub.” I can see the wheels turning in her head.
    “Court,” I threaten her with my eyes. “No waxing. No salt scrub. I will, however, get my nails done.”
    “Ladies and gentleman!” the brown, shaggy-haired hippie of our tour guide calls out, silencing our conversation. “Welcome to tonight’s midnight candle tour. For the next hour, we’ll explore some of the most haunted and historic sights the city has to offer. You’re more than welcome to take pictures, but please no video.”
    I munch on my salted popcorn, listening to the man.
    “If anyone should become separated from the group, just call the phone number on the back of your ticket and Cory over here,” he points to the person who handed us our candles earlier, “will come fetch you to rejoin the group. If you have a hearing impairment, please step to the front of the line to hear me better. And, feel free to ask questions at any time.”
    Several people, mostly of the older variety, step forward to the front of the group. We set out at a slow pace. I quickly learn that our tour guide’s name is Aaron.
    “We’ll start and end our tour here, at the Salem Witch Memorial, dedicated in 1992, almost 300 years to the day of many of the atrocities.”
    There’s a small sign indicating exactly what Aaron’s just told us. 1992. Huh. That’s the year I was born. Three hundred years after all these terrible things happened.
    “Take a moment to look around. Use your candles or flashlights to help read any of the inscriptions in the stone. Each person, 14 women and 6 men, were tried, convicted and executed for witchcraft. Each has a memorial inscription along the wall.”
    The small courtyard with several trees inside is rectangular in shape, a stone half-wall outlining the perimeter with what looks like several seats or benches protruding out. The crowd begins to walk in form along the wall reading the names.
    When it’s our turn, I toss the remaining contents of my popcorn and cider into a nearby trash can, not willing to desecrate the