Nemesis

by Cat Bruno

  The only reprieve I got was when I visited the Getty; that was worth the trip alone.

  We had decided to drive north to Santa Barbara, where a room had been reserved for us at a five-star hotel across from Butterfly Beach. Perhaps because of who had booked the room for us, we were immediately upgraded to a bungalow, which turned out to be colorful, charming, and elegantly rustic. The gardens surrounding the resort are lush and blooming, and the scent of blooming roses fills the air. I felt as if I was in the Mediterranean for the few nights we were there, and the peace that came with that feeling was calming and welcome. A haven in the middle of a tempest.

  But I know you must not be thinking about the room’s décor or the croissants we ate each morning. It is late, and if you have read so many of my words already, then I beg a little more of your time. The end is near, my friends. You wonder if we talked? If we made love or fought. If he threatened to leave me after the campaign. If he spoke to Elizabeth. Some of that I can answer: we made love, we didn’t fight (not even an argument), he made no mention of a divorce or the prenuptial agreement. I would guess that he talked or texted Elizabeth, but I can’t be certain since I didn’t check his phone.

  Oh, it has dawned on me that you might be wondering what my plans were. Let me be blunt: I had no desire to ruin such an amazing trip by killing William.

  From Santa Barbara we traveled to Solvang, a Danish-inspired town with several wineries. William thought I would enjoy the European architecture, and I did, but I still could not drink red wine so I sipped on various flavors of white during our night there. It was a small town without much to explore, and we headed north once more around midday. That night we stayed in a house perched atop a bluff and overlooking the navy waters of the West Coast

  I think it was around midnight when I realized that William might kill me.

  That must not come as a surprise. After all, he is brilliant and deceptive, with access to and experience with all sorts of crimes. If anyone knew how to plan the perfect murder, it would be someone like him. If this had been a tale of fiction, that realization could be interpreted as a plot twist.

  After dinner, we had driven back to the house with several bottles of wine and a small chocolate cake. I cannot remember which of us suggested that we sit on the patio, but the view was lovely, even in the rising darkness. The home’s owners – friends of his father – had installed a glass railing system around the patio’s perimeter, necessary since the outside area sat atop the cliff. However, the transparent glass allowed the panoramic scene to exist in its full glory, without interfering or obstructing and blended well with the home’s modern design. The property itself was isolated, a rarity in Central California, where lands with ocean views sold for millions of dollars.

  By now, and after so many pages read, you must be far wiser than I was. A house owned by an old family friend? Located in a remote area? A deck overlooking a rocky bluff? Let’s add several bottles of wine, my friends, and William’s insistence that we keep the outdoor lights off so that he could gaze upon the stars.

  If pressed, he could not identify a single constellation.

  Thank the gods that I had dumped out two of my glasses of wine when he had not been looking.

  “We need some music,” William declared.

  Soon after, electronica beats thumped through speakers in the living room. He left the sliding doors open so that the frantic tempo reached the patio. Before he sat down, he opened another bottle of wine, and I smiled as he poured me another glass.

  The plan was to stay at the house until Friday, which was for another two nights. The owners had rented it for the following week, and the cleaning company would need a day to ready it. Our next stop would be Big Sur, my one request.

  Cue the horror movie music.

  Was that a bad joke? Maybe if I had drunk as much as William offered, my one request might not have been fulfilled. Luckily, I caught on to his plans early enough that I did not die that night, or either of the other nights we stayed.

  The way he looked at me, however, proved my fears to be realistic ones.

  “Come, Dani, sit with me over here.”

  His gaze was knife-like, sharp and shining, and he had been too drunk to veil it from me. William had moved to the edge of the cement deck and sat with his legs beneath the lowest railing. The opening was wide enough that his legs squeezed through, but little else could fit. Knowing that, I joined him.

  “I could live out here,” he mused happily.

  “We couldn’t afford it,” I laughed. “We’re Ohio rich, not West Coast rich.”

  “You don’t think we could be West Coast rich?”

  “Maybe one day,” I lied.

  “Tom thinks I’ve secured a quarter million by coming out here. That’s going to pay for a lot of television commercials. And I’m already ahead in the polls.”

  Our conversation centered on his career for the next half hour, but I did not lower my guard and scanned our surroundings for any sign of the phonoi. The demon-like spirits do not kill justly and are named as servants of slaughter. Their faces are pale and deformed, their voices shrieks. To look upon them is worse than even Medusa’s stare. Their blackened eyes are mirror-like and empty. Their teeth are many, pointed and thin. In place of hands, they have talons stained with the blood of their victims. The phonoi cannot speak because they have no need to. When they come, you die. No explanation will follow; no pleading will help. You just die.

  Despite our shared lands, I am no friend to the phonoi. The death they bring is murder, without provocation or reason or righteous cause. The death I bring must always be fair and serve only to maintain balance. You should be frightened of them, my friends, and hide or run from them if they arrive. Not all death is as fair as the one that I bring or as gentle as the one Thanatos offers.

  That night, the phonoi stayed hidden. But I could smell them, for they stunk of decay and rot; blood and bile tainted the sea breezes.

  --

  William had drunk too much the night before, which probably saved my life. That he had planned to push me over the railing was clear; the mask had slipped and revealed the truth. His mistake was becoming too drunk to execute it. Would he try it once more? I guessed that he would so I drank less and steered clear of the patio during the remainder of our stay. I drove most of the way to Big Sur, uncertain if the phonoi followed us along the curving cliffside highway and fearful that they would attempt to steer me over the edge.

  Our arrival in Big Sur was unremarkable. By that, I mean that neither of us had died yet. We had been married for one week, and by then it was only a question of which of us died first. For my part, I played the loving newlywed: posting pictures of us on social media, texting friends how much fun we were having, sending videos of us along the beaches, all while keeping my right arm hidden. The stitches had dried and pulled at my skin. Beneath the line of black crosses, my skin rose into a river of pink, a scar already forming. Not once did William ask about the injury.

  The two days we spent hiking and exploring Big Sur were perfect, however. Under sunny skies, William and I climbed trails that led to spectacular waterfalls, majestic groves with towering Redwoods, and panoramic views of the Big Sur River gorge. Looking back, I don’t think either of us worried what might come from such elevated trails. We could have fallen, with help or on our own, yet we hiked at least fifteen miles during our time there. The trails were not overly crowded, yet there were always people around, so perhaps that is what offered us some security. My camera was eternally around my neck, capturing videos and stills. It was my shield, too, I think, recording our time together and protecting me from the phonoi, who despise being seen. Would I have trekked so high or so far if I did not have my phone or camera? Absolutely not. Take that as both warning and advice.

  However, despite all of my precautions and attentions, William still searched for an opening. It came as we walked near McWay Beach. Like much of the area, it is a combination of rock and sand, with crags
and bluffs overlooking the curving coastline. Visually, the effects are a stunning contradiction of bleached stone, overgrown trees and shrubs, and azure waters. Some lookouts have been closed for safety reasons, but often it is those ones that offer the best views. Naturally, William suggested that I might get the best photographs from these forbidden angles.

  Area Closed, the sign read.

  Below, foamy waters bubbled against the bases of rocky hills that slithered like snakes. There was no sandy stretch to lie upon. Not here. You did not come here to sunbathe or read, relax or meditate. You came to admire the powerful beauty that the passing of time has shaped.

  But you also might come to die.

  “I have never seen anything so spectacular,” William said as we stared down at a small inlet reflecting the dusky, darkening skies. “Will you photograph it for me?”

  Even without the phonoi crawling up the rocky cliff’s edge, I would have known what he planned.

  As I stepped near a hip-high, wire fence that blocked off one half of the overlook, I saw the white-faced demons scurrying among the rocks. Their black eyes, large and long, housed the shadows of Hades. With claws extended, they climbed higher; the scratching of talon against rock caused my skin to prickle. Arms as thin as twigs bent in odd directions beneath their tattered and blackened robes.

  Let them come. I do not fear death.

  “I don’t want the fence in the picture, Dani,” my husband called out.

  Others might not have played along with his ruse. But I refused to fear the phonoi and walked along the edge until the fence ended quite arbitrarily, for the drop was still deep. The fence only covered an area of rock that extended far into the water, to prevent anyone from accessing a steep cliff that jutted over the ocean. Look, but don’t leap, it suggested.

  After lacing up my hiking boots more tightly, I carefully stepped around a wooden post.

  “How far should I go?”

  “Be careful!” he warned as he walked along the path I had just traveled.

  Only the fence separated us.

  I snapped several photos before he was close enough to grab me. Behind me, scattered strips of clouds covered a quickly descending sun. Streaks of yellow-orange bordered the water. Above, the clouds burned maroon and purple. Boulders dotted the sea, their triangular tips gray-blue against the setting sun.

  How calm the water was! Poseidon slept, unbothered by the nearby phonoi.

  Now it was my own choice to lift my camera, but I did not turn toward the demons. The prismatic sunset lining the horizon was far too mesmerizing, and I hurriedly snapped.

  “Hey!”

  My heart pounded hard against my breast, and my breath froze. It was not William who yelled out.

  Two men, both thickly bearded and browned from a summer spent in the sun, motioned to me.

  “There’s a park ranger heading this way. You might want to make your way back around to this side.”

  The one who spoke stepped toward me with a pace that made my pulse quicken more. He was short, although his hair curled big around his head for extra height. My eyes read his cream-colored shirt, which advertised a brewery out of Montana. Behind him, the other man stood. Tall, thin, and unconcerned. The type of man who never donned a mask. Had I not noticed him, I might have panicked as the shorter one reached for me.

  “I’m good,” I muttered without moving.

  It was not until I stood back from the cliff’s edge that I finally eased my breathing. William joined me, white-faced and icy. I looked beyond him to where the phonoi gathered, but they had disappeared, retreating back to the sea, which now rocked with rolling waves.

  “Didn’t mean to scare you,” the man said with a shrug. “They give citations out here for just about anything.”

  I recovered quicker than William and said, “Thanks for the heads up.”

  Finally, William walked to my side.

  “She’s a photographer. A professional one, I mean,” he told them nervously.

  “Yeah, I get it, man,” the tall one stated smoothly. “We’ve been here for a few weeks and don’t want to leave. Each view is better than the last.”

  “I can see why,” I laughed as I tried to lighten the mood.

  Did they save me? I admit to thinking that the small one readied to push me, hired by William who feared he would not have it in him when the time came. Two things surprised me: that William wanted to kill me himself and that these two strangers saved me from that death. Fate and time both watched over me, kin from days long gone.

  When I got to Rhamnous, I would honor and thank them for their favor.

  “We’re on our honeymoon,” I admitted as I laced my fingers through William’s.

  “Oh, shit, man, that’s awesome. Congrats.”

  “A few nights in San Francisco then we head back east,” I added.

  The four of us chatted for another few minutes before they continued on. I thanked them again for the warning, but realized that neither of them understood what they had stumbled into. William’s silence suggested that I was not wrong.

  I survived the honeymoon. Is there a t-shirt for that? We flew home three days later after having spent ten in California. Our remaining time was uneventful, however I did notice that William had put the mask on that I knew best. For now, I was safe. The phonoi had returned to their caves.

  Beyond the Gates of the Sun

  This is when I tell you how William died. We had been home from California for nearly a month, and our lives had returned to normal.

  He woke early and worked late at the office or on the new house, while I went back to my regular Gazette beat covering crimes and accidents. During an assignment involving a fatal car crash, I overheard one of the cops – an expert in reconstruction – discuss how effective safety restraint systems, including airbags, had significantly reduced the number of deaths. He had been surprised that the accident had resulted in the driver’s death, although he guessed he would learn that a seatbelt had not been used.

  “Who doesn’t wear seatbelts anymore?” he had scoffed.

  If you have been reading closely, you might have concluded that I planned on disconnecting the four fuses connected with William’s car’s safety system. Did this plan have a guaranteed success rate? No, especially since I have very limited experience with cars. Despite my research, the detective’s statements troubled me enough that I abandoned the idea of sabotaging his air bags. After all, what if I caused a car accident, yet he lived? The consequences of that would ruin us both.

  Which meant I had to start over. Throwing away the pistol had been a terribly short-sighted choice, I admit, and one made without enough thought. I still had the ability to contact some of the heroin dealers I had met during the months I worked on the feature, but that idea fell apart, too. I was beginning to fear that there was no clean way to kill William, and, as Dandelion Jackman, I was not a great murderess. But those were the thoughts of Dandelion. Nemesis, on the other hand, had no such worries, I would learn.

  Unlike mortals, the gods do not need to research or prepare. They act – selfishly, impulsively and recklessly. Nemesis was no different. So those days I spent planning? The advice that I have given you? While it applies to most of you, those who have been blessed with divinity will find your own way.

  My memories from those days, the ones after William’s death, are misty and veiled, as if I watched from afar. However, I will try my best to tell you what happened.

  The evening had started like any other. I returned to an empty house, with only a text from William reminding me that he was meeting his dad at the Village house, as we called it. His parents had decided to relocate to Columbus to help with the campaign and had rented a home nearby. After a quick sandwich, I watched a few hours of television and decided to go for a walk. The early fall evening was cool so I dressed in black yoga pants and a black sweatshirt and pulled my hair into a ponytail. (I wore no disguise is what I am hinting at.)

  About an hour later, I arriv
ed at the Village house despite no plans of meeting him there. William’s father had left by then, but I found my husband in the kitchen, haloed in a bright glow from a freestanding spotlight that he had set up in the hallway.

  “There’s nothing left in here!”

  In response to my exclamation, he dropped the screwdriver he was holding to the floor.

  “You scared the shit out of me, Dani!”

  “Sorry,” I laughed. “I went for a jog and thought I’d stop by. What are you working on?”

  I sat on the floor next to him and looked around the room. The cabinets and countertops had been removed, as well as all of the old appliances. Most of the carpet had been ripped up as well, and a plastic covering lay across the hardwood floors. Just above us, a square of the ceiling had been removed, exposing wires and wood boards.

  “Are you replacing the light?”

  As he dismantled a chrome fixture, he answered, “The one that was here was far too dim for me to get any work done at night.”

  “Can you change a light yourself? That seems quite complicated.”

  “My dad showed me how when I was a teen. I just haven’t had to do it in years.”

  William hadn’t told me much of his plans, despite this being our new home. The light fixture lying across his lap was not one that I recognized, nor was it one that I would have chosen. It was edgy and modern, angled and linear, and not an aesthetic fit for the centuries old house. None of that mattered, so I just watched him piece it back together.

  “Do you want to order food?”

  “Sure, just get me something you think I’ll like.”