Taylor adds, “We’re never one hundred percent sure, the snake leads, we follow.”
Falling back against the seat, Carmen joyfully exclaims, “I want to punch him, see if he’ll remember then.”
“You are going to get us killed, Carmen,” I retort.
“I doubt it. I doubt that even though Nathan doesn’t know you, even if he tried, he couldn’t kill you.”
Someone is purposely doing this, wiping his memory, forcing him further and further away from me. A small part of me believes this may be greater than just the Qualms. I don’t know very much about them, but ever since leaving my apartment, maybe the mischief began with them. The very first day I left, I heard Mom’s voice in my head, speaking to me as though she was fully aware of my situation, hinting for me to search for him. Maybe that him was Nathan. I began living my life the way I wanted and started accepting that Nathan was dead. Everything became easier and was nearly, dare I claim, perfect—waking up with a smile equals perfection in my eyes. Shortly after my desired normal, the hourglass happened. It led me to the blind women, with a believable story who just about convinced me Nathan was alive. I think I believed it the moment she spoke those words.
They were giving me hope. They knew this entire time that Nathan was alive, and maybe they needed me to lead them to him because he’s been doing a better job than me at staying under the radar.
I hate Chislon’s mysteriousness and how he feels he’s this guide but doesn’t help me accomplish anything. But he’s not led me wrong yet, and if he’s right about the . . . what was it . . . ? Essezichet. The Qualms have been playing me since the first time I saw that hourglass sitting on the bookshelf. They’ve been formulating their plan, maybe, even longer than that. But how?
I slam on the breaks.
Carmen thrashes through the two front seats and Taylor throws her hand against the dash. “What. The. Hell, Tracey!” Carmen snaps, trying to adjust herself.
“I have no choice than to go after Nathan, but what if I’m leading our enemies to him at the same time?” My shoulders rise as I add, “Everything I’ve done has been exactly what they’ve wanted. The Qualms, they want me and him, and every step I’ve taken has been in preparation for their plan.” I ramble on about my assumptions and theories, as I’m trying to make sense of it aloud.
“You’ve busted your ass in fighting against those stupid Qualms, Tracey. Don’t start doubting yourself now. Maybe . . .” Carmen starts, leaning between the two front seats. “That shit Chislon told you was true, maybe you are leading them to Nathan, and maybe you are setting up the pieces to their game. But. And hear me out before you two shoot me down. Would it be better for you to play the game with Nathan or alone?”
Taylor and I stare at Carmen. “You’re right,” I say to her.
Nodding once, Carmen quips, “Why, thank you. I put some thought into that one.”
“Look at that.” Taylor points to our left, at a partially lit warehouse with steel pipes spaciously climbing the brick walls, and boxed windows evenly spaced apart and making it easy to visually separate the three floors. The building is mostly blanketed by shadows with the exception of where the glow of a soft yellow light shines above the metal doors on the sides of the building we can see from here.
“What about it?” I say with a shrug.
“I got this feeling. We’ll find Nathan later, just stop there first.” Taylor waves me in the direction of the building, flipping her hand twice. “That looks like Uncle Donald, Carmen.”
A slender man emerges from the dark side of the building, crossing the path to a doorway lit by a lamp hanging over the entrance.
Carmen leans across me and stares intently out the glass. “It does. Tracey, go over there.”
“I will not go over there. We’ll park on this side of the street.” Ever since we talked to Mrs. Waturstrom about her showing up in my dreams and maybe knowing something about Lunis’ plan and murder of Natalia, I’ve wanted to get the scoop on Uncle Donald. How someone who they’ve seen dead, can be alive?
Actually . . . it shouldn’t be that far-fetched considering the circumstances.
The man who we suspect to be Donald pulls open the door by an attached metal handle and enters the building. He saunters stiffly as if the movement is complicated for him.
We creep from the car to the building. Taylor catches the door from closing and pulls it open. The air from within the building blows out freezing cold. I shiver on entry, and will my body warm, something I’ve not been able to do before. It’s dark, lights from outside dimly shining through the windows are what illuminates our way, but just barely.
Donald awkwardly strolls through a door to our right. He limps or walks as though his legs don’t bend, or as if he has metal in his hip. All the above makes me skeptical as to if it is Donald in that body and not something similar to that man Olar and I saw at Lunis’ house who had the same type of questionable movement.
Carmen takes the lead as we silently tiptoe behind him. I watch our backs, scanning the area to make sure we go unseen. It’s not at all quiet here; people are running up and down the stairs on the upper levels, others ramble in rooms, and phones are ringing. I know it’s my ears making things louder and clearer than what they are, but I’m kind of freaking out. It feels like we’re walking into a trap and someone is going to bust us.
I jump from a nudge against my arm. Crap, Taylor! Don’t do that. You scared me!
She points and grabs Carmen’s arm to pull her back with us. We duck in the shadows of a nearby wall and Mrs. Waturstrom crosses our path. She takes Donald’s side and they enter a room a man on the other side of the door welcomes them into.
What are they saying, Tracey? Carmen asks.
Triple sets of steps come in our direction. My heart pounds, and I press us against the wall. I have to throw my hand over my mouth to muffle my rushing breaths. Their footsteps are heavy but slow. Cloaking my eyes, I survey the on-comers.
I think they’re just passing by, Taylor says. She points to the three shadows stretching past the wall that’s guarding us against three men we can’t see on its other side.
With the film blanketing my eyes, I search for the heat of their bodies, spotting them heading in a different direction than the one that would lead them past us.
I blow a silent breath. We’re clear.
Okay. What is she saying? Carmen urges.
I train my ears to listen closely to what’s being said from within the room, trying to block out the echoes and ruckus going on in this place.
“He is not functional,” Mrs. Waturstrom argues, rage rising her voice.
“He moves and breathes. That’s what they told you he would do.” A man’s smooth voice follows. He’s not nearly concerned with her aggression as he subtly responds.
She’s not happy about him like she purchased him or something. Let’s get closer.
We scamper across the floor and line the wall by the door, resisting peeking into the room.
“Would you like to try someone different?” The man asks. “Someone who’d be more . . . involved with human life.”
“Yes. I want someone that can talk back to me. Something like we’ve seen the others come back as.”
“These are spirits of fallen Faylamen. They aren’t meant to be placed inside of a full-grown man’s body to live. You cannot expect much. If you want more, go sell your soul.”
“Your work is inadequate. I’ll go to them.”
The man laughs. “Let’s go downstairs and try something different, Cynthia.”
We shuffle around, moving away from the door. Hinges whine from inside the room and they shuffle about, though no one approaches the door we surround. We peek inside. The three of them walk through what could be a closet that leads down a flight of stairs. I snag a peek behind me before the three of us head into the room. Taylor pushes closed the door behind us, and we creep to the door they entered.
Well . . . this one sure tops the cake, following a d
ead man, a deceitful aunt, and I don’t know what the other guy is, down a flight of stairs to see just how they are putting these things into bodies.
Making the choice to be with Nathan has brought me through some journeys I’d never thought I’d embark on. It’s given me an abundant amount of confidence that I can overcome anything for myself and the people I love. But this same life has also given me the most insufferable misery I’ve ever experienced, the most loss I’ve ever witnessed, and an abundance of hate I wish I could overcome. How ironic?
We creep down the stairs, stopping before the landing that leads to an opening where three wood caskets, four chairs placed around two tables, and a seven-foot glass case occupy the space.
Mrs. Waturstrom and Donald sit in two of the chairs at one of the tables furthest from us, nearer the glass case. Donald, dark-skinned, bald, and an inch or two shorter than Mrs. Waturstrom, stiffly sits upright. His wife rubs his hand as they wait.
The man accompanying them approaches Donald, helps him stand, and walks him to the glass case. Donald steps in and turns to face the man as he’s closing the glass door. It seals shut and a white mist sprays into the small, closed off space, clouding it. In a matter of seconds, Donald sinks to his knees and his head hits the glass. He appears to have died, turning pale, his body so limp there shouldn’t be a sliver of life left in him.
We stay tucked in the darkness of the stairwell, like sitting ducks, asking for someone to descend them and see us.
“How long will it take this time?” A heavy, uncertain tone laces Mrs. Waturstrom’s question. Her presence feels nervous, an unfamiliar disposition for her. Soft, sorrowed confidence would describe the presence of the kind little nurse who helped at my high school. Prior to getting to know her, I thought she was a kind, aging lady, but she’s easily changed my mind after Natalia died. She turned out to be someone I never would’ve expected, and seeing this puts the cherry on top of the whipped cream.
“Give me a week.” The gentleman who led them down here turns away from the glass case. “I’ll talk to Lunis and see if he knows any willing Faylamen, who wants to infuse the body of an old man. Your chances are slim to none, but it never hurts to ask.” He laughs, husky-like.
“Your humor amuses me,” she nags.
“Sarcasm. Ha!” he guffaws. “You would be humorous to a lot of people, Cynthia. People die, it’s what they do. Humans, Sephlems, Faylamen, animals, the list goes on. And when they die, their bodies are designed to remain dead. You, however, are selfish. Your husband—mate—has been dead for years. The moment you found out Lunis can—”
“Hey!” she barks. “I don’t need you to go over my life story about my husband! I know what happened, I know what I did,” she spits.
He turns up his wide nose, reflecting his disgust as if she smelled of a sewer. “You are the worst kind of person.”
She snarls and slams her hand down on the table. Pointing, she exclaims, “You cannot judge me! I am a person who will go to all ends for her mate.”
The man looks at her as if she’s lost it. Throwing his arms in the air, he says, “Your mate is dead, you imprudent woman”
She smashes her fist against the table. “He is not!”
“Proven by the teardrop under your eye, by the body that lies lifeless against that glass.” He throws a point behind him. “Your mate is dead. And he will remain dead. No matter what extent you go through to bring his body back, he will never be your mate. But we will continue to waste our time with you,” he mumbles under his breath derisively.
“You better!” she demands.
“Says the woman who gave up her sister for another chance at bringing back her dead husband.”
Taylor strikes from the stairs. I reach for her, just short of snagging her shirt. Lunging at Mrs. Waturstrom, she tackles her. They hit the floor, Mrs. Waturstrom falling backward from the chair. “Tell me you didn’t!” Taylor shouts. “Tell me you didn’t sell out my mother!” She whales on her aunt, her body morphing in and out of control as her beast tries to break through.
The man laughs as he moves against a wall, watching their quarrel as if this were a WWE match. Carmen and I enter the area, neither of us strong enough to break Taylor away from her aunt. They battle words like bullets, fists like missiles.
Mrs. Waturstrom demands Taylor to stop, and when she screams for help, Carmen jumps in.
The man remains leaned against the wall, arms crossed as he watches with pleasure. Cloaking my eyes, I near him. “Can you tell me what’s going on here?” I point to the glass holding Donald’s body.
He smiles cheerfully, enthused by my curiosity. “What’s your name?”
“Lauren,” I spit out, immediately wanting to take it back. I don’t like the name Lauren . . .
“Hi, Lauren. I’m Karthik. You’re interested in this kind of stuff?” He looks me directly in my eyes as he speaks to me as if he can see through me, beyond their darkness.
I look away, remembering long ago when Lunis gazed upon me with the same inquisitive glare. Nathan had said he could be looking through me. For his answers, maybe? “Yes,” I lie. “I have an interest in it. Can you explain it to me?”
“You are her niece?” he asks, pointing to Mrs. Waturstrom.
I juggle lying or telling the truth. I’m unsure which would be the better choice to get the answers I’m after. I don’t know what all he knows.
“You are,” he says with a mischievous smirk. “I’ve seen you before. That’s why that other one is upset. You two are the children of the mother she turned over to Lunis to bring her dead mate back.” He smiles wider, as if he’s figuring out the pieces to a puzzle. “You are not the daughter but mated-in.” Carmen comes to my side, and he turns his attention to her. “The question is . . .” His gaze slides back to me. “Whose mate would you be?” he questions slyly.
“Let go!” A loud crack sounds behind Carmen’s words. The yelling ceases, making it stone quiet.
Karthik chuckles. “Looks like I don’t have to get another Faylaman to fill her mate’s body. Wouldn’t you say so, Lauren?” he implies wickedly.
I blink, trying to see beyond the person he’s showing me. There’s no possession, no other entities. I can’t prove he’s human.
There’s a chatter that grows louder upstairs. I don’t allow the worry to show in my expression, but we both shift our gazes to the ceiling before they fall back on each other.
“No one ever wants to be possessed,” he says, looking past our shoulders, I assume to the glass case behind us. “And we—the living—are selfish, not wanting to let go of the dead. We, as flesh, are weak and hurt when others move on. It causes us to go through extrinsic tasks and request things of our foes.” He looks at me head on. “Give ourselves to our enemies, lie, kill, and deceive.”
Then he shifts his gaze to Taylor, now standing on my other side. “We seek out people who have been gone for years to get something small, but giving something bigger at a cost we cannot accommodate. We are left to battle with our choices for the remainder of our lives until death resurfaces and finds us. Right, Lauren?” He nods at me once. “And when death resurfaces, it not only takes you away, but it fills you. And many times, others.” He walks around us to the glass case.
The chatter nearing the door upstairs tells me we should be getting out of here, but there’s something forcing me to stay and hear him out.
“Lauren, I can tell you all about this.” His finger slides along the glass, screeching. “How bad do you want to know?”
“Not that bad,” I respond without hesitation, heading for the door.
“Wait,” he says quickly. “You are Nathan’s mate. The death . . .” he breathes slow.
His mention halts me mid-step. It’s not what he said, I suspect people know who my mate is. Everyone knows, except Nathan. But it’s how Karthik said it as if a little birdy just whispered it in his ear and he had to say it aloud because of his disbelief or astonishment for the news.
“The mate
of death, before me.” I twist around and meet his stone-gray eyes. “Everyone wants you two,” he whispers in apprehension and a bit of shock.
“I don’t know what you mean.” I try to put him off.
“The look in your eyes says you do.” He smirks. “I will not turn you in. I am shocked to meet you. Shocked to see that for all these years, what everyone has been searching for actually exists.” He takes a step forward. “If I may,” he says, extending his hand.
I swat it. “You may not.”
He meets his outreached hand with his other and then pulls them to his chest. “Tell me, you and your mate, you create something powerful, yes?”
“No,” I say strongly. “My mate is dead.”
“Impossible,” he whispers, astounded. “No . . .” The news seems to murder him. He stumbles about until he finds a seat. He falls onto the chair and takes the edge of the table in his grasp. “It . . . It can’t be.”
“He is.” I motion for Taylor and Carmen to come on. “Excuse us.”
“Wait.” He jumps in front of my exit. “They will see you if you go that way. There’s another way out. But before you go, I’ll answer your question.” He nods, requesting I agree.
Slowly, as if a thought enhanced with every stride he takes across the floor, he makes it before the glass case that Donald’s body is slumped in. “As you might’ve heard, his body hosted a Faylamen that didn’t agree with the body. One of many actually.” He shrugs once. “Maybe it was the wrong size, or it smelled weird. Like a shoe. Hahaha.” His husky laugh’s deep and devious. “There could be a number of reasons why this didn’t work out for dear old Donald.”
I recall seeing Scott, how he moved about well enough but the expression on his face relayed he wasn’t ‘involved’ with the world around him. But, that doesn’t go for the guy we saw at Lunis’ house. He, too, seemed as if he was getting used to the body, but it was a Qualm in him. “How does that explain the Qualms inside the body of my friends, or taking on their images?”
“I will get around to that shortly.” Karthik drags two chairs around the table where two others are already placed. “Please, sit,” he offers.
Finite: A Dark Paranormal Romance (The Sephlem Trials Book 4) Page 19
