Godsend (The Circle War Book 1)

by Matt King

  His heart raced on the way to the station. Meeting a patient for the first time was always so exciting. It was like starting a new puzzle, and he couldn't wait to begin sorting out the pieces. He turned off his radio once he got close. The parking lot was empty, save for a few taxis on the curb. He took the spot closest to the door and maneuvered around a woman holding out her hand for change on his way inside. He pressed the lock button on his car keys once he was past, then clicked it again just to be sure.

  In his skinny jeans and button-down shirt, he had no shot of blending in with the people milling around the ticket counter. Rows of uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs were taken up by folks who just as easily could've been mistaken for homeless as waiting for the next bus. At least half of them were sleeping. The whole scene was depressing. He shook it off and concentrated on finding his patient.

  He chose one of the empty seats near the back to do his detective work. The person on the phone sounded young, but not boyish. A late teen, maybe. Looking around the room, he saw only one person that fit the description, a young man of about fifteen sitting between his parents. He assumed his caller would’ve been alone. Regardless, he watched the kid for a minute or two just to make sure. If he was clinically depressed, he had a strange way of showing it. The boy was nothing but smiles as he giggled at a movie on his laptop.

  Jeff got up and walked over to the ticket counter to grab a schedule. A man wearing a faded American Bus Lines uniform chewed on a toothpick, never taking his eyes off the TV in the corner of his booth.

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  The man raised an eyebrow without turning around.

  “When does the next bus leave?”

  “Nashville at four o’clock, Lexington at five, Raleigh and points east at seven. Charlotte is canceled. Thank you for choosing American.” The man’s eyebrow lowered when he was through.

  Charming. On the way back to his seat, Jeff saw on the schedule that another bus leaving for Raleigh was listed as departing around the time that the boy had called. The next one on the list was Nashville. He’d missed his chance.

  “Crap,” he muttered. He balled up the schedule and tossed it in the trashcan by the door. There went his shot at finding a publishable case. It was too early to write off the fall semester, but unless things picked up, he had nothing left in his crop of patients but a bunch of self-absorbed college kids with no real treatable psychosis to speak of.

  With a half-hour of stop-and-go traffic staring him in the face, he decided to use the bathroom before he went back to the office. He nearly tripped over an overturned trashcan near the door. The inside of the bathroom smelled like someone had poured a gallon of bleach on the floor and left it there to mingle with the filth. A couple of urinals stood next to a handicapped stall. Glancing at the bottom of the divider, he saw a pair of beat-up tennis shoes pointing toward the commode. What kind of person used a toilet instead of a urinal to pee? The kind with self-confidence issues, he thought. He stepped toward the urinals.

  The man opened the stall door quietly when he was through and went directly to the sinks. Jeff finished up and turned to join him.

  His heart froze in his chest when he saw the reflection in the mirror. The guy from the stall was younger looking—maybe seventeen or eighteen, judging by his features—with dark hair parted in the middle, falling in long strands on either side of his face. He was taller than his slumped shoulders let on. He wore loose-fitting khakis and a black hoodie, but not one of the trendy designer ones. His was made of cheap cotton. The thinning areas around the elbows gave it away.

  “How's it going?” Jeff said.

  “…Fine.”

  That’s the voice. It was his mystery caller, all right. He was sure of it. He decided to throw caution to the wind while they were separated from the eavesdropping ears of the lobby.

  “You know, I was hoping I would find you here.”

  The boy shut off the water and looked Jeff over quickly as he dried his hands on a paper towel. “Do I know you?” he asked.

  “I think we may have spoken on the phone.”

  A sudden rush of fear flooded the boy's eyes. Jeff grabbed him by the elbow before he ran out the door.

  “Hold on a sec,” he said. “I came here to help you.”

  “I don't need your help.”

  “Is that why you called my office? Because you don't need help?”

  The boy took his fingers off the door handle, but couldn't bring himself to look Jeff in the eye. “I made a mistake,” he said. “I shouldn't have called.”

  “But you did, and now I'm here. We’ll just talk for a bit. No pressure. Maybe you could start by telling me your name.”

  The boy cleared his throat. He stepped back toward the mirrors. “It's Michael.”

  “Michael, I'm Dr. Jeff. How long are you in town for?”

  “Dunno. I'll leave on the next bus out, I guess.”

  “To go where?”

  Michael stayed silent. He swayed on his heels for a moment before trying for the handle again.

  “Wait!” Jeff said. He put his shoulder against the door. “Just give me five minutes and I swear I'll leave you alone if you still don't feel like talking.”

  A shadow appeared under the door. Someone on the other side pushed it open a crack.

  “Occupied,” Jeff said as he shut it again and pushed in the lock.

  “You can't do anything for me, okay?” Michael sounded worried. “Just let me get out of here.”

  “I know it seems like too much for someone else to understand, but whatever it is, I promise that I've heard it before and I've helped others with it. I work with students every day, Michael. I'm very attuned to the pressures of people your age. And I can see that you're hurting.”

  Michael looked back at him. “It's better if you don't get involved.”

  “Are you worried that I'll talk to someone? You should know that whatever is said between us today is confidential. I consider you a patient. Anything we talk about in here is protected information that only you and I know about.”

  One of the fluorescent lights above the sink flickered. If he didn't know any better, Jeff would've sworn that he saw the pupils of Michael's eyes change. For a second, they had a red sheen to them.

  “You're not saying anything.”

  “I can't.” Michael's reply was barely a whisper.

  “Why? You'll carry this around forever unless you talk about it.”

  “I just can’t, okay?! She doesn’t want me to.”

  Jeff saw the outburst as an opening, one he meant to keep his foot in.

  “Is it your mother?”

  Michael shook his head. He turned back toward the sink counter, probably to hide the fact that he'd started to cry. Jeff could hear him sniffle.

  “A girlfriend, then.”

  “No.”

  “So tell me who it is, because you're old enough to speak your mind, Michael. No one should tell you otherwise.”

  “You won't understand. You can't understand. She's says you’ll only try to confuse me.”

  “Does she have a name?”

  Michael laughed under his breath at the question. It was unsettling to hear. The depths of the boy's emotions swung to the other extreme far too quickly. Part of that excited Jeff. Part of it made him wish that he'd never picked up his office phone.

  “Her name is Amara,” Michael replied. He shielded his words like the walls might be listening.

  “How did you all meet?” It was a grounding question, one meant to keep him in some semblance of reality since he seemed to be slipping farther away by the second.

  “She says she's always known me. She said she made me this way for a reason.”

  “Made you what way?”

  “Made me a weapon.”

  Jackpot. There it was. The kid was a wealth of publication-worthy psychosis and they hadn’t yet begun to scratch the surface of his problems. Jeff planned out his approach while Michael stared at himself in the mirror. Th
e first thing he had to do was call Dell Matthews at Hemstead Ridge. If Dell couldn’t handle Michael at his facility, he had an in at Brighter Meadows in Raleigh, and Brighter Meadows cases were the things careers were built on.

  “Michael, I want you to do something for me, okay? I want you to relax in here for a couple of minutes while I make a few calls. You don't need to worry about anyone else coming in. I'm going to be right by this door to make sure you're alone. Do you think you can wait for me?”

  Michael looked lost in thought. He studied his reflection, frozen in place, until his eyes widened and his breathing turned shallow.

  “Michael?”

  “It's coming,” he said.

  “Talk to me. What's coming? Is she speaking to you again?”

  “No. He is.”

  “Who—”

  “You need to go.”

  For a moment, Jeff thought he saw the red light glance over Michael's eyes again. He tried to make himself relax. He was getting too caught up in the moment, matching Michael's anxiety with his own. They could talk about the second voice later. “What did he say to you, Michael?”

  Michael stood against the sink with his head hung low and his stringy hair covering his face. “Please,” he said, whimpering. “Please just leave me alone.”

  He’s not talking to me anymore. The veins on Michael’s hands stood out as he clutched the front of the counter. Jeff decided to give him time to settle down. Someone else knocked on the door. He shooed them away without taking his eyes off the boy.

  Eventually, Michael relaxed his rigid stance and let out a flurry of breaths. He nearly collapsed against the sink. He began to sob.

  “That's it,” Jeff said. “You're going to be okay now. We're going to work this out together.”

  “I hate him,” he answered. “I held it in, but I'm not strong enough to do it again.”

  “You are strong.”

  “No. Not strong enough. Not yet.”

  Michael's slid on his back down the wall until he sat on the floor. Jeff crouched to stay on his level.

  “Is someone telling you to hurt yourself?”

  His answer was slow and hollow. “I can't be hurt.”

  Delusions of grandeur. Another symptom to add to the list. He decided to go ahead with the question that he really wanted Michael to answer. “Are they telling you to hurt other people?”

  Michael met his stare with tear-stained eyes. “I'm going to hurt them all.”

  Jeff stood. The interview was over. He grabbed the door handle and pushed it down until the lock sprung. “I need to make my call now, Michael. I'm going to get you some help, but I want you to stay in here until I get back. Two minutes.”

  When he opened the door, Jeff ran into a line of men waiting to get inside. He pulled the door closed and stood against it, still holding the handle. “I'm sorry, guys. I can't let you go in there right now.”

  “Why the hell not?” a man in the back of the line asked.

  “I have a patient in here that needs medical attention. You can either hold it or use the ladies’ room.”

  The mob turned away with a chorus of grumbles.

  Jeff pulled out his phone and brought up his contacts. He found Dell’s entry and tapped a button to make the call.

  “Good afternoon, Hemstead Ridge Hospital. This is Dr. Matthews.”

  “Thank God you're working today,” Jeff said.

  “Working and answering my own phone. You got lucky.”

  “I don't know how lucky I feel right now, actually. I've got a kid here that needs an escort.” Needing an escort was their code phrase for sending strong-arms to deal with potentially violent cases. “How quickly can you get someone down to the American Bus terminal?”

  “That's not too far away. Whatcha got for me?”

  “I can fill you in on the way. You are coming with them, right?”

  “Sounds bad. You okay down there?”

  “For now.”

  “Consent an issue?”

  “Not sure. We may need to find his parents.”

  “All righty,” Dell said. “Be there in five.”

  Jeff hit the sleep button on his phone. He leaned his head back against the door, took in a deep breath through his nose, and held it in for a moment before letting it out slowly. Better get back in there.

  A loud crashing sound echoed from inside the bathroom, followed by another noise that sounded like a fuse blowing. A woman in the lobby shrieked. Jeff pulled the door open and ran inside.

  “Michael?”

  The only light in the room came from a flickering yellow fluorescent tube hanging by a wire above the sinks. The air smelled of ozone. Jeff's stomach fluttered. He wasn't prepared for this kind of psychotic break. The urge to flee was overwhelming.

  “It's too late for that,” a low voice murmured from the stall.

  “Too late for what?” He held a hand up to block the strobing light so that he could find Michael in the darkness. When he saw the boy's eyes, Jeff couldn’t help but gasp.

  “I've seen that face before,” Michael said, “just before it all goes to hell.”

  “What's wrong with your eyes?”

  “You said you could help. You said you could fix me.” Michael got up, and when he moved into the little bit of light given off by the broken fixture, it could barely cast a reflection on the white ash covering his skin. “Now do you see?”

  “No,” Jeff replied, even though he saw very well what Michael had become. What he meant to say after it was please don't kill me, but he found that words were impossible to form.

  Michael's eyes were entirely red, glowing with a dull crimson. “I told you I couldn't fight it anymore. It's too powerful. Do you know what Amara told me?”

  “Michael, don't.”

  “She said that I'd get used to it. That eventually, I'd learn to love it.” He laughed to himself. Violence shone through its thin veil. “She said that's why she chose me.”

  Someone jimmied the handle on the door behind them. “What's going on in there?”

  “I envy you,” Michael said. He looked past Jeff to the door. “I envy all of you.”

  “Why?”

  Michael's skin began to crack. Thin streaks of red light began to break through.

  “Because in a few seconds...you'll all be dead.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Can you hear me, Michael?

  Yes, he said. You’ve come back.

  I told you I would. My prince, such pride I feel for you. Such admiration for your bravery.

  They’re dead. All of them.

  Yes, she said.

  One of them wanted to help me.

  You need no help, Michael. Not from them. Soon, they will all be against you, but you will be ready.

  There's so many bodies. So many more than the other times.

  You are becoming more powerful. With each kill, you gain strength, strength that you will use to destroy your enemies. Can you feel it, Michael?

  Yes.

  And do you like it?

  The answer he wanted to give stalled on his tongue. I don’t know. It scares me.

  It is natural to be scared, but this is all happening for a reason. I have great plans for you. She has great plans for you. All of those people who’ve mistreated you through the years. All of the ridicule you’ve endured. This is your path toward freeing yourself from that pain. In the end, they will all pray for your mercy.

  He paused. Will I have to keep running?

  No. No more running. They will come for you soon, and you will let them take you.

  No!

  Quiet your fears. I will not abandon you. This is for your safety.

  I don’t understand. I can’t stay here. The police are coming. I can hear the sirens.

  Let them take you. There are other people after you, Michael. People like you. You will be safe in the mortal's prison for now.

  I can see them. They’re shouting at me. They look so angry.

  Remember their faces
, my prince. Remember their rage. When they see you at your most powerful, those faces will turn to fear, and the world will suffer your vengeance.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “C'mon, get up.”

  “Wuh?” August could barely lift his eyelids far enough to see to the end of the bed, but he was pretty sure that the figure blocking all the light from the front windows was Bear. “What time is it?”

  “You missed breakfast. Get your clothes on. We're going for a walk.”

  “Unless it’s a sleepwalk, I’m not interested.”

  There was a moment during his stretching yawn where he remembered why Bear might be so adamant about getting him out of bed. It was enough to shock him out of his groggy stupor. He threw off his covers and grabbed his jeans from the floor. “Boy, I…am…starving. I think I’ll grab a bite to eat before we start.”

  “It's quarter past eight,” Bear replied. “Work started a long time ago.”

  Of course it did. August took a clean shirt from the bag and pulled on a pair of wool socks. Bear stood patiently by the door, waiting but never giving August a second's reprieve from his watchful eye. Instead, he frowned at the slow pace of his boot-tying.

  “So what's with the field trip?”

  “You'll see.”

  “Can’t I get a hint?”

  Bear held the door open without answering, motioning for August go down the stairs first. There was a brown bag waiting for him at the bottom. His name was scrawled on the front in crooked letters.

  “I feel like I'm in kindergarten again.”

  “Daddy put in a few biscuits and ham. You can get some water at one of the wells.”

  August opened the bag and grabbed a biscuit. He chewed on the thick bread while Bear led him toward the fields, gradually pulling away with a few determined strides. It was enough to set August back by a dozen yards, and that was just fine with him. More time to figure out his story if Bear confronted him about the snakes. Or plan an escape route.

  The last bit of morning dew wet the toes of his boots. They cleared the barns—without stopping to pick up any tools, August noticed—and headed down a grassy path that bordered the left side of the cornfield, running parallel to the highway. The farther they got away from the section of the field where he'd met his snake friends, the more curious he became about Bear's intentions. They were getting close to a line of scrubby pines where they’d be out of sight from both the farmhouse and the road. Whatever the man was planning, he didn't want witnesses.