by Sara Clancy
Suddenly, the scream died. His muscles went lax. Without the tension to keep him upright, Benton slumped against her with all of the strength of a rag doll. Nicole was quick to bundle him into her arms, taking on his weight, cradling his head to make sure he didn’t crack it against a bedpost. She had utterly failed to get the rust colored bloodstains out of the carpet from the last time.
Once she had his trembling body securely propped against her, she ripped off her headphones and tossed them to the side. Cold sweat dripped from Benton’s skin. Oddly enough, that had been the hardest thing to get used to when she had started sharing a bed with Benton. Not the screaming, or the 2 am wakeup call, or the fact that he was an unrepentant pillow hog. She could take all that in stride. But waking up to find that her bed had transformed into a bog was unnerving and honestly a little gross. It made for a lot more laundry.
There was a startling amount of strength in his trembling arms as he looped them around her waist. Tightening like boa constrictors until she was sure something inside her was going to pop. Slick with sweat, his face slipped over the skin as he struggled to hide in the crook of her neck. Nicole grimaced. The spiderweb of cracks that now split her window into a thousand pieces was a bad omen on its own. But he only ever transformed into a strangling vine when his dreams sunk to a level of depravity that he wasn’t used to. And that was a deep pit.
Holding him tight, she began to whisper the words that he needed to hear the most at these times; reassurances that he was safe, that he wasn’t the person he had been in his dreams. He didn’t do those things. She punctuated every sentence with a repetition of his name, reminding him of who he was. Each night shoved another person into his head and, sometimes, he lost himself in the crush.
“It’s alright, Benton. I’m right here.”
It terrified her that he still flinched at the sound of his name, like it was something he didn’t recognize. Logically, she knew that it was Benton cradled against her. It didn’t stop a voice in the back of her head from whispering that she held a stranger. One that had proved themself to be a murderer. A sadistic one at that.
His nails scraped harshly against her spine as he balled his hands in her sweater. Still quaking, he squeezed her tighter, crushing the air from her lungs. It hurt, but she didn’t try to squirm away.
“It’s okay, Benton,” Nicole said, fighting down the tremor in her voice. “I’ve got you.”
He was still shaking when her bedroom door slammed open. Logan’s massive bulk filled the doorway, sleep in his eyes and his handgun cupped between his hands. Benton threw himself hard against Nicole, seemingly trying to protect her and use her as a human shield at the same time. She rubbed his shoulders reassuringly.
“What’s going on?” Logan snapped, blinking wide. “What should I shoot?”
“Nothing, dad,” Nicole sighed. “Benton, calm down. It’s pointed to the floor, his finger is off the trigger, and the safety is on. He’s not going to hurt us.”
Benton continued to squirm while a proud smile chased the sleep from Logan’s face.
“Good observation skills, Angel. You got that from me, you know.”
“Like hell she did,” Dorothy’s voice came a moment before Logan lurched forward. “Get out of the way, you giant dimwit.”
Logan rocked his shoulders just enough to let his far smaller wife slip through.
“Love you, too, my gorgeous queen,” he grumbled with a grin.
Despite her annoyance and iron will, the corner of Dorothy’s mouth twitched with amusement. Logan smelled the blood in the water and smiled a shark-like grin.
“Can you be serious for five seconds?”
Logan started to fiddle with his watch as if to set the timer.
“You’re an adult,” Dorothy hissed.
Logan gasped, looking as mortified as possible while flattening his hand against his chest. The standard issue gun in his hand ruined the effect of a shocked old lady clutching her pearls. Nicole stifled a giggle just as a pained whimper escaped Benton. The sound snapped her back into the moment. Horrified to realize that she had let her attention wander, she quickly drew up her legs, creating just enough room for her mother to sit down. They had learned early on that it wasn’t a good idea for the Constable to crowd Benton until he was ready.
“Okay, Benny-boy, you know the deal,” Dorothy said, her tone professional but warm.
It was the kind of tone she used to get the most out of her witnesses. After a few attempts, Benton twisted his head, essentially turning to face her without releasing his grip on Nicole. Whatever words he was going to say were lost in a raw grunt of pain. His body convulsed, tightening around Nicole until she gasped. Logan jerked as if he wanted to rush forward. He was held off by his wife’s raised hand.
“He starts to get crippling headaches if he doesn’t give a name in a timely fashion,” Dorothy explained. Shifting her attention to Benton, she softened her voice. “Come on, Benton. Just give me the name.”
Grinding his teeth, he struggled to get his head up. Dorothy cupped his shoulder with one hand, keeping him stable, while Nicole slipped out from under him. His fingers clenched her sweater tight enough to make it rip, scrambling to draw her back.
“It’s okay, Benton,” she told him, stressing his name to give him another anchor. “I’m just going to make us some spiced hot chocolate. I’ll be right back.”
His hands trembled.
“If you need me, yell. I’ll come running.”
Her promise seemed to do the trick and, at last, Benton nodded. The moment her sweater slipped from his grip, he pressed his balled fists to his temples.
“I’ll be back as quick as I can,” Nicole assured.
She managed to suppress her need to check on them until she reached the door. The pain was clearly taking its toll on Benton. He had drawn up one knee, pressing his forehead against it while he clawed at the sides of his skull. But he had started to talk, softly mumbling his story while Dorothy took notes on her phone. Nicole forced herself to start moving again. They had their established routine, and she wasn’t in any position to change it now. Constable Rider got the story. Nicole dealt with the aftermath.
Pushing past her father with a whispered apology, Nicole hurried down the stairs, setting herself to the task of getting back with the comforting drinks as fast as possible. It normally didn’t take them that long. Everyone was careful not to say it out loud, but they all felt the seconds like lead weights upon their backs. All Benton knew with absolute certainty was the victim’s name and how to contact them. He never had any idea when the murder would happen. They could have weeks to track the intended victim down. But it was just as likely that they only had seconds.
Dawn had already broken, filling the house with a muted light that did little more than her nightlight upstairs. Still, she flicked on the overhead lights before she began bustling around the kitchen. The neon glow did terrible things to her head. Pain welled behind her eyes, adding to her general nausea. For the first time, it occurred to her that she couldn’t remember ever getting into the bed. Pausing, she thought back, trying to grasp the last thing she could remember. Vague notions of leaving the reservation floated across her mind. Any attempt to grasp the thought only made her head pound harder. She decided that there was enough time to deal with that kind of stuff later.
Setting a saucepan of milk to boil, she pulled out a tray and set out three mugs. Oh, right. Dad. She added one more to the set and rushed to the pantry. Checking off a mental list, she piled the ingredients into her arms.
“Cookies,” she chimed out loud.
She almost lost the collection of items as she reached for the Tupperware container. It was another close call when Logan suddenly rounded the corner.
“So.” He stretched the word out as he crossed to the kitchen table.
The metal framed chair groaned as he dumped himself into it, the legs skittering over the tiles with a sharp squeal.
“So,” Nicole parroted back,
admittedly showing more attention to the drinks than her father.
Logan looked at her expectantly. It became increasingly distracting.
“Do you want a hot chocolate?” she asked, lifting his mug to wiggle it invitingly.
Logan threw his arms out as if asking the universe at large if it were witnessing it.
“Are we really going to ignore this?”
Nicole’s interest in the conversation had drifted somewhat when she had realized her dad wasn’t eager for a drink. Focused on getting the measurements right, she hummed.
“Ignore what, Dad?”
Having a musclebound man thrashing his arms about over his head like a startled Muppet gained her attention instantly.
“What’s going on?”
Logan’s jaw dropped along with his arms. At a point Nicole couldn’t recall, he had placed his handgun in the center of the table. He began to tap his index finger against the handle.
“Seriously? You too? I trusted you.”
“I’m going to need more information,” Nicole said.
“This is normal to you?”
That was when it clicked. “Okay, I admit that the nightly routine is a little hard to get used to at first, but you’ll adjust soon enough.”
Logan blinked at her. Long and shocked. “Yeah, okay, admittedly that is weird. But I feel that we should put that aside right now for a more pressing issue.”
“Alright.” She stopped everything and turned to face him fully. “What’ve you got for me?”
Logan pursed his lips in mock thoughtfulness. “Oh, here’s a question. Does he normally sleep in your room?”
Nicole snorted. “You stopped me for that? You had me worried for a second.”
Turning back to the counter, she resumed squishing a red chili pepper with the side of her knife, not stopping as her father spoke.
Logan leaned back in his chair, making it groan again. “It just seems that, as a father, I should raise the question. You know?”
Nicole shrugged. “I can see that.”
“So?” Logan pressed. “Think you can throw an answer my way?”
Adding cinnamon sticks and the crushed chili to the simmering milk, she shrugged. “It’s just easier to be in the same room.”
“Yeah.” Logan drummed his hands on the tabletop and clicked his tongue. “Can’t cross a hallway. It’s a whole three feet. How can anyone cross such a vast distance without proper supplies?”
Confusion slammed into Nicole, making her whip around to face her father. Her head was not grateful.
“What are you talking about?”
Her father hooked an arm over the back of a neighboring chair, the picture of nonchalance. “I remember what it’s like to be a teenager. All hyped up on hormones and disco music.”
A burst of laughter escaped her lips. Not at her father’s poor attempt at a joke, though.
“What?” Logan asked.
She turned back to her milk, careful not to let it burn. “I don’t exactly remember everything that happened tonight, but I’m guessing that you’ve actually had a conversation with Benton, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Can you really see him making a pass? At anyone? Ever?”
“Oh, hell no.” Logan made a sound between a snort and a laugh. “That boy’s got way too many issues, and absolutely no game.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
He jumped one shoulder. “You’re not exactly known for your impulse control, angel-girl.”
Shock made the block of chocolate slip from her hand. It crashed into the saucepan, causing the contents to slosh to over the rim. The small flames of the burner hissed in protest at the liquid invasion. The scent of burning milk snapped her out of her daze. Caught between cleaning up the mess and stirring in the chocolate, she stammered.
“Dad, you’re insane.”
“Am I?”
She twisted around again, glaring at her father in challenge. One day, she’d be too old for him to make fun of. She looked forward to that day. Logan squished up one side of his mouth, clearly intent on driving her into madness.
“He’s kind of a pretty boy, isn’t he?”
“Dad,” Nicole groaned. “You’re not funny.”
“I’m hilarious,” he shot back.
“Can you do me a favor?” Nicole rushed to say before he could continue.
A broad smile stretched her father’s lips, turning him a good few years younger. It didn’t take the suspicion out of his eyes.
“Sure thing, Angel.”
Nicole motioned to the kitchen door with her chin. “Go up and listen in on mom and Benton.”
“Huh?”
“Just for a minute or two,” she insisted with an innocent smile.
His eyes narrowed.
“Hey, I’m not going anywhere,” she said, exaggerating the care it took to stir the contents of the saucepan. “Once you get back, we’ll pick up this conversation again.”
Logan hesitated, leaving only the soft bubbling of the chili hot chocolate and his tapping finger to break the silence of the room.
“Five minutes?” he clarified. “Then we start separating you two.”
“Five minutes,” Nicole agreed. Adding, once he was halfway out the door, “Then we’ll discuss it.”
Logan paused, turning to her with a raised finger and an open mouth. All that came out was a long-suffering sigh. Shaking his head, he left the handgun on the table as he silently disappeared into the murky depths of the house.
Nicole kept an eye on the now bubbling concoction as she set about cleaning things up. The innards of the chili peppers wafted into the air on the steam, making her eyes water. On Nicole’s next trip to the pantry, she pushed up onto her toes, retrieving the bottle of scotch her parents kept on the top shelf. She was filling the mugs when her father came back into the room. He dropped hard into the chair, grinding the legs into the tiles. Nicole didn’t say anything. She just offered a kind smile, a pat on his shoulder, and poured him a small cup of scotch. Logan drank it. All the while, his eyes stayed locked on the kitchen window, watching the morning light gathering its strength. Nicole waited intensely but was still surprised when Logan finally broke the silence.
“How old was he when he started having these dreams?”
Opening the Tupperware container full of homemade cookies, she selected a few.
“Full dreams? Around ten, I think. From what I can gather, he had little flashes before that,” she said. “He doesn’t like to talk about it, and I try not to push.”
Logan took another mouthful of scotch, still staring absently at the window. The haunted look in his eyes made guilt bubble in the pit of her stomach. She could have given him a little more warning. Knowing there was nothing she could say that could help him, she delicately placed the open container before him and started returning everything to the pantry.
There wasn’t enough time to push the bottle all the way back onto its high perch before she heard her father grunt and gag. Stifling a giggle, she gave the bottle one last push and hurriedly retrieved a glass of water. Choking and red in the face, he downed half of the glass in one large gulp, glaring at her the whole time. It was a relief to see some fire back in his eyes, so she didn’t put much effort into hiding her smile.
“There’s chili in the cookies,” he said between heavy breaths.
“I know.”
“Why is there chili in the chocolate cookies?” he demanded.
She shrugged. “They’re Benton’s favorite.”
“They’re an abomination,” Logan grumbled.
It was hard for him not to laugh at a prank, no matter how bad or ill-timed. But his smile didn’t last long. He gulped down the last of the water, dragged a hand through his hair, and braced a forearm against the table.
“He’s just a kid,” he whispered.
“I know,” Nicole replied. “I guess that doesn’t matter when you’re a Banshee. Their visions don’t really come with a child safety set
ting.”
“He’s still just a kid.” The outburst made Nicole jump. Her father noticed. Squeezing his eyes shut, he scrubbed his hands over his face again, trying to gather himself. “I don’t want you talking to him about this.”
“Dad−”
“No, Nicole,” he snarled. “I know you like to think you can take on anything, but I’m your father. And I say that you’re too young to hear stuff like that.”
“Really, it’s okay. I can handle it−”
“It involves a baby.” Logan spat the words out like he couldn’t stand having them in his mouth.
Silence lingered between them before Nicole broke it with a heavy sigh. She deflated with it and solemnly clicked the lid back onto the Tupperware container.
“Not again.”
“Again?” Logan snarled.
“Third time this month,” Nicole said before she noticed her father’s white-knuckled grip on his glass. “They always hit Benton the hardest, not that any of them are easy.”
Her father watched her carefully. “Are they often about kids?”
“I wouldn’t say often. But enough.”
“One is enough,” Logan mumbled under his breath, his lips barely moving as he resumed his staring contest with the window.
“Yeah, it is,” Nicole agreed softly. “But you never really know which victims will stick with you. There was this one that kept me up for weeks. About an old man in a nursing home. They…” She let the sentence trail off into crushing silence.
Dad doesn’t need that in his head, she decided. In truth, she wasn’t sure she could force herself to say it all out loud.
Logan nursed his scotch, spinning the glass between his fingers. “How often does he dream?”
“He really doesn’t like being examined. He calls me Lady Frankenstein every time I suggest it.”
Her father stared at her over the rim of his glass. “How often?”
“On average, he can get about three hours of uninterrupted sleep before the first dream hits. It’s a struggle to get him to sleep again after that. I can get him into a fitful doze but not much else. In that state, he’ll statistically get about four or five hours of peace.”
