by K.E. Rodgers
Chapter 4-
“Where are you going, Jackson?” Clarissa asked as she followed him out the front door of the tavern of Happy Haunts. But instead of turning right like the others ahead of them he had turned left and was heading up St. George Street toward the Old City Gates.
“I’m just going for a walk,” he answered back, not turning around even as he heard her following him. “It’s not quite dawn yet and I’m not tired enough to go to sleep.”
Suddenly Clarissa appeared before him. Ghosts had the ability to move from point to point in space, a shifting of the atmosphere that was exciting to watch. Or it would have been to Jackson if he didn’t find it so annoying.
Blocking him from moving forward down the road he was forced to stop. Placing his most fearsome glower on his face, Jackson folded his arms over his chest and stared down at his new sister.
“You don’t want to come back to the house and watch a movie with me then?” Clarissa didn’t need restorative sleep like his kind did. Many times when Corrigan was passed out upstairs Clarissa would come down to his room and they’d watch old movies or the Syfy channel. Lately though they’d both become addicted to watching the re-make of the Doctor Who show from the 60’s on BBC America.
It had helped in those first few months to have her there, someone he knew from his old life, someone who was as new to being in the world of the dead as he was. When he’d wake up to find himself in the unfamiliar room in Ambrose’s house it was Clarissa he’d see sitting at the edge of his bed, smiling at him and telling him it had only been a bad dream. How she had known he’d had bad dreams, Jackson couldn’t guess. But Clarissa always seemed more aware of the world around her than most.
Jackson had stopped waking up in the middle of the day when the others were asleep, finally sleeping through until the afternoon. He’d grown used to things, but it didn’t mean he had to like it this way. And despite Clarissa’s many talents she couldn’t give him back the one thing he wanted; his life.
“No,” he answered tersely, trying to walk around her. She stopped him with a hand. She was a Death Bokor which meant she had the power to control him. Clarissa was reluctant to use her bokor gifts against the family. But occasionally she would, if the circumstances warranted them. “Let me go, Clarissa.” Jackson felt like he was suspended in thick air, his body lethargic and unable to respond to his brains demands. She’d gotten better with practice, relearning her dark craft.
Clarissa looked up at Jackson, her blue eyes taking in more than the visual image of her brother. Her expression was sad as she released him from her hold. “I know you need your space. I only want to protect you, Jackson.”
“I don’t need to be protected, Clarissa. I’m a flesh-eater. I’m the scary thing that people should be afraid of. What do I have to be afraid of but myself and the fact that at any moment I’ll have a mental snap and consume the city?” He looked about at the empty streets, the closed business and restaurants. “I can’t be left to wander the streets for fear that I’ll break the family rules. I’m not stupid, Clarissa. They don’t trust me and quite frankly I don’t blame them. I’m trouble. My parents saw it. I’m as good as dead to them.” He laughed bitterly. “Well I am dead aren’t I, so it’s not so fucking far off.”
Clarissa sighed. She was really tired of his moody and caustic personality. One melancholy prone Irishman was more than enough, she didn’t need another to add to her emotional plate. “The black is so last year, Jackson,” she said, pulling at his t-shirt. “You’d look so much better in blue. I remember when you’d wear colors.” She touched his scruffy cheek. “I remember when you used to smile.”
Jackson pushed her hand away from his face. “I like black. It’s a color standard in the fashion world. Plus it’s easy to coordinate.”
Her face scrunched as she tried to keep the tears for him from falling. Ghosts didn’t cry normal watery tear, rather they cried tears of light; energy. Then her face became impassive, hard.
“Death doesn’t wear black,” Clarissa said in a voice that she only used when she was expending her bokor powers. It was enthralling, a transitory voice that lead all her prey to her whims. “He wears many colors, but black is not one of them.”
“Death can go fuck himself,” Jackson shouted at her shocked face. Pushing her aside he walked away from her.
“I wouldn’t speak of death so lightly, Jackson. He is rarely ever forgiving.”
Jackson turned to say something rude back at her, but she was gone. Clarissa had simply disappeared, vanishing into the night. He turned about with a sigh, continuing down St. George.
He hadn’t meant to be cruel to her. Of all of them, he should be the nicest to her. But it seemed the more she tried to coddle and help him the more he wanted to lash out at her. He didn’t want to be near people, he didn’t want this new family of flesh-eaters, he didn’t want anything these people were trying to provide for him, home, friendship, kindness, understanding. He just wanted…he just wanted…
“I just want to die.”
