by A. L. Larsen
I exhaled slowly and shifted in my seat, nervously picking at the rough edge of a fingernail. I stared at the back of the driver’s head, at his close-cropped black hair under his chauffeur’s cap, just for something to focus on. I very nearly asked him to start driving, to get me out of here.
Nearly.
My Aunt Claire used to ask me if I wanted to visit my mother. When I first came to stay with her at age twelve, she’d ask every month. Then it became several times a year. Later on it became once or twice a year, when it became clear that my answer was always the same: no.
I’d been so angry. I was still angry…but maybe not like I had been. I was angry at my mother for being such a lousy parent. And angry at her for choosing drugs over me. But the way I felt about my mother didn’t have the edge to it that it once had. It wasn’t a sharp, palpable thing anymore, like a knife in my gut. It was now more of a dull, quiet ache in my heart.
It really was time to lay this hurt and anger to rest, to make peace with my past. To…forgive her? Could I do that? Could I forgive my mother for wrecking the first twelve years of my life? For making me grow up too fast, for making me be her caretaker at a time when I was the one that should have been taken care of?
I took a deep breath, and exhaled again slowly. I didn’t need a caretaker anymore. I didn’t need her. But I could choose to forgive her. And that would help me set aside all that pain and anger and move on with my life.
I was going to do that.
Flush with resolve, I threw open the door to the town car and practically ran into the building, not giving the driver a chance to get the door. I marched up to a woman in uniform behind a big desk, and tried to keep my voice steady as I said, “Um, hi. I’m here to see Miranda Harper.”
“One moment.” The woman could not have looked more disinterested as she typed something into the computer before her. But then she sat up a little straighter and typed something again. She frowned slightly. “Could you spell that for me?” I did as she asked. She pressed some keys again, and then looked at me and said, “There are no inmates by that name in this facility.”
“Sure there is. She’s serving six to eight years. It’s not like she escaped or anything,” I said with an attempt at a smile.
A second guard came up beside the first and asked, “Problem, Lil?”
“This young girl’s looking for someone she thinks is incarcerated here, but the name’s not in our system.”
“Let me take a look,” the second guard said. Lil vacated her seat, and the newcomer sat down and asked me for the name again. She typed it in as well, and got the same result. She glanced up at me and asked, “What relation are you to Miranda Harper?”
“She’s my mother.”
“Maybe she was transferred. When was the last time you visited her here?”
“I…I’ve never visited her here,” I admitted quietly.
The guard studied me for a long moment, then went back to the computer, her long fake fingernails clicking rhythmically on the keys. “Could be she was transferred. Let me access the records. Do you know her social security number or prison i.d. number?”
“No.”
“Date of birth?”
I recited the information.
“Oh, there she is,” the guard said after a moment, scratching her lower lip as she scanned the record on the screen. “Miranda Louise Harper. Released from this facility in March of this year.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“She was released. Didn’t she make contact with you?”
I experienced a feeling like ice water trickling through my chest as I mumbled, “No, she didn’t. Are you totally sure you have the right Miranda Louise Harper?”
“It’s right. The birthday is a match. She was released on March sixteenth of this year.”
“She was serving six to eight years,” I stammered, trying to make sense of this. “Why would they let her go early?”
“That’s not uncommon. Sentences are often cut for good behavior and various other reasons.”
“But…but that means she didn’t come and find me when she got out of jail.” My voice sounded funny to me, a bit too high, like a little kid’s. “She was out in time to see my high school graduation. She was out in time to help me when Aunt Claire was dying. But she didn’t come and find me!”
“Why don’t you sit down? You’re looking kind of pale. Do you want a glass of water?”
I shook my head. “Are you sure she’s not here? Absolutely, one hundred percent sure?”
The guard swiveled the monitor to face me. And there was all she had told me, spelled out in black and white. My mother had been released from prison.
And she didn’t come find me.
A choking sob escaped me, and the heads of everyone in the waiting area swiveled in my direction. “I hate her,” I ground out. “I hate her so much. I was ready to forgive her. But I will never forgive her for this! She abandoned me three times, first when she started using drugs, then when she went to jail, and again when she got out and didn’t come find me. I hate you, Miranda Harper!” I yelled, my voice coarse with pain and emotion.
“Sweetie, you should sit down,” the guard said, coming around the desk and taking my arm.
But I pulled out of her grasp, half-blinded by tears, and ran from the reception area. I shoved open the heavy door to the outside and ran to the town car and threw myself in the back seat. And then I completely lost it. I curled up on the upholstery and started sobbing, my entire body shaking. Juan had the sense not to ask what was wrong. He just pulled away from the curb and left the parking lot. I kept on crying.
After who knows how long, I finally ran out of steam. I’d induced an intense headache and lay still as I pressed a hand to my forehead, staring at nothing as I took several shaky deep breaths.
“You ok?” Juan asked after a while.
“No,” I mumbled. But then after a minute I sat up and took a deep, shuddering breath and ran the back of my hand over my runny nose. “Scratch that answer. I’m fine. I don’t know why I’m acting like this. Miranda Harper was always a terrible parent. Granted, not telling her only daughter she’d gotten out of jail is kind of a new all-time low, even for her. But I honestly don’t know why I’m so upset about this. I should have learned by now to take being disappointed by my mother in stride.” Juan handed a bottle of water over the seat to me, and I thanked him before unscrewing the lid and chugging half of it down.
I blotted my eyes on the sleeve of my blue sweater and said, “It just kills me that I was ready to forgive her. What a mistake that would have been! Clearly, this woman doesn’t deserve my forgiveness. What she deserves is the trophy for worst parent of the millennium.” I sighed and pressed my eyes shut and leaned back on the seat.
“Do you know what I went through this year, Juan?” I said after a while. “I took care of my aunt while she was dying of cancer. It was so far beyond difficult.” My voice cracked a little, but I kept going. “During that time, my boyfriend, who was also my best friend, dumped me. So I went through all of that alone. And turns out, I didn’t have to. Because my mother had been released from jail, and if she’d bothered to come see me, she could have helped me take care of her sister.” I took another long drink of water.
“But no,” I continued. “She was probably too busy chasing her next high. She didn’t give a crap about anyone but herself.” I sat up a little straighter and felt dizzy suddenly, reaching my hand out to steady myself on the front seat. “Damn, too much crying. I’ve given myself such a headache. And my mother’s not worth all those tears. In fact, I vow to never again shed another tear for Miranda Harper. With you as my witness, Juan, I swear I’ll never cry over that woman again.”
I met his eyes in the rearview mirror. They were the palest blue I had ever seen, ringed with dark lashes. And they were watching me closely. A wave of dizziness washed over me, and I murmured, “Didn’t you have dark brown eyes when we started out, Juan? What did you do, put in con
tacts?”
The interior of the town car spun around me, and I put my head down on the seat. “Ugh, I think I’m getting sick.”
My head lolled to the side, and I noticed a thick, dark brown ponytail tucked into the collar of the driver’s black jacket. “Oh man. You’re the wrong Juan. Something super bad is happening, isn’t it?”
It was impossible to focus, the swirling lights and colors of the freeway adding to the surreal distortion of everything around me. “You drug me?” I mumbled. My tongue felt like it was too big for my mouth. “Was it in the water?”
I made an uncoordinated grab for the door handle, and the automatic locks clicked shut. The lunge for the door sent me toppling onto the floorboards. I lay face down on the coarse carpeting, but couldn’t find the strength to pull myself up. Darkness closed in, narrowing my field of vision. I had no choice but to give in to it.
Chapter Eight
When I came to, my head was pounding and there was a metallic taste in my mouth, like I’d bitten down on a penny. I was in a small, run-down mobile home, a heavy chain looped several times around my waist, binding me to a wooden chair. Something held my wrists together behind my back, my fingers laced together. And I wasn’t alone. A figure in black sat across the room from me, arms folded across his chest.
As soon as I realized what was happening I began to struggle, pulling at the chains and yelling, “Oh hell no! I am not doing the damsel in distress thing! This is not ok with me! Does this have to do with Alastair? It does, doesn’t it? Did you seriously just take a girl prisoner so her big strong knight in shining armor will come save her? That’s totally sexist! You should be ashamed of yourself!”
The man said nothing, staring at me without blinking.
I took a good look at my captor then. He was young and startlingly beautiful, big and broad-shouldered, with flawless olive skin and really long black-brown hair tied back from his face. His eyes were the palest aquamarine, almost but not quite colorless, ringed in lashes so dark it almost looked like he was wearing guyliner. And he was dressed in black leather from head to toe.
“You were driving the car! What did you do to Juan? He damn well better be ok! Is he? Tell me what you did to him!”
No response.
“Is he ok? Is he alive? Tell me!” I yelled, even though it made me feel like my head was about to split open.
He gave a single nod.
“He is? He’s ok? Do you swear?”
Another tiny nod.
I spent a long time glaring at him and trying to pull free of the chains. But they wouldn’t budge. Eventually I stopped struggling and put all my energy into perfecting my glare.
“You jerk,” I growled after a while. “You let me spill my guts to you! You should have interrupted me. You should have said, ‘Oh, excuse me miss, I’m actually a scumbag of a kidnapper, so maybe you shouldn’t keep talking.’ But instead, you let me tell you all that personal stuff!”
He remained perfectly passive.
Time passed. Minutes, maybe hours. Every now and then, I burst out in a violent fit, trying again to break free of the chains. But then I’d again realize the futility of this, and lapse into inertia.
The silence was getting to me. This person’s stillness was getting to me, too. It was eerie. He literally hadn’t moved. If I’d had the ability to throw something at him I would have, just to verify that he was still alive.
Every few minutes, I peppered him with questions.
“What are you planning to do to me?”
Nothing.
“This has something to do with Alastair, doesn’t it?”
Nada.
“Are you a member of the Order?”
Zilch.
“You are, aren’t you? Which means you’re nephilim. I mean, no way are you human. Those eyes alone are enough to bump you right over to the supernatural side of the chart.”
Zippo.
“Hi,” I tried after a while.
Goose egg. Empty Set. Nix. Naught. In other words, his response was: nothing.
I gave it another shot. “Hello.”
Cricket, cricket.
“Buenos Dias. Guten tag! Ahoy mate! Bon Jour. How’s it hanging?”
He blinked! I took that as a major victory.
I studied him for a good long time while he stared back impassively. And then I said, “That’s a whole lotta look you’re sporting there, champ. Kinda the Terminator circa 1984 meets Magic Mike,” I told him. Heck, I was already his prisoner. What more could he do to me if I pissed him off?
Well, ok, plenty. But I wasn’t a sit-there-and-shut-up kind of girl.
He kept staring right back at me, but with a little response this time, just the slightest tilt of his head, as if I was something he’d never seen before.
“So, what do they call you?”
Silence.
“Conan? Hulk? He Man, Master of the Universe? Blade? Hercules? Ice Man?”
More silence.
“No wait, I’ve got it: Leather Van Der Pants. That’s gotta be it.”
His brow twitched almost imperceptibly.
I leaned back and grinned, savoring my latest victory.
I just could not take the silence. So after a while I tried to goad him into conversation by saying, “That’s actually a really good male stripper name. And clearly that’ll be your next line of work after this kidnapping gig runs its course, just based on the hair and that outfit. So feel free to use it. I’m guessing those pants already come with strips of Velcro down each leg so you can rip them off, because they look too damn tight to get out of any other way. So you’re set!” He coughed into his fist, then cleared his throat. I knew an almost-laugh when I saw one, and smirked at him. My biggest victory to date!
“So you’re human after all! I mean, kind of,” I said. “It’s bad enough you’re running around wearing pretty much an entire cow. If you also failed to have a sense of humor, there would clearly be no hope for you.”
He was staring at me unblinkingly again.
I too went back to staring. Though obviously, he wasn’t impressed by my menacing glare.
Eventually I started up again. “So, back to your stripper career. You know, the hot bod, leather outfit, and oh-so-luxurious hair aren’t enough. You also need the dance moves. You know any of those? A little running man? Bump and grind? Lick ‘em and stick ‘em? Jazz hands? Shake and bake? Squiggle hips? Ok, I admit, some of these names I’m making up. But you can still use ‘em. Just invent a move to go along with them. I suggest pantomiming riding a horse while brushing your hair. Women love that.”
He bit his lip, got up abruptly and left the room.
“That’s right pretty boy, run from the comedy! You’re not man enough to take it. Booyah!” I yelled after him.
Well, damn. How was I going to entertain myself, now that I was all alone?
It was two hours before he came back into the room and took up his position by the door again, big arms crossed over his broad chest. Or maybe it was ten minutes. How would I know? I was bored out of my mind and didn’t have a clock.
I was feeling a bit irritable by now, and demanded, “What am I supposed to do if I need to go to the bathroom? Hmm? Have you thought about that? Because it would be a serious violation of my civil rights to let me pee myself. It’s in the Bill of Rights, you know. You have the right to bear arms. You have the right to free speech. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. You have the right not to wet yourself while being held hostage by a male stripper named Leather Van Der Chaps.”
“It was Van Der Pants earlier. That was funnier,” he said.
I beamed at him. “Hi. My name’s Luna. I’m so happy to see you’re not in fact a humorless cyborg sent from the future. I was really beginning to wonder.”
“You are without a doubt the most bizarre human being I’ve ever encountered,” he told me. He had a very slight French accent.
“Merci. And by that comment, I see I was right. You’re defini
tely not human. Was I also right about the fact that you’re a member of the Order?”
He nodded slightly.
“Hmm. I expected you to be scarier.”
He frowned, just a little.
“So are you going to tell me your name? Or do you want me to stick with Mr. Van Der Pants?”
“What does it matter what my name is?”
“Van Der Pants it is!” I exclaimed.
He sighed and said, “It’s Athos. And you don’t have to worry. I’m not planning on harming you.”
“Do I seem worried?”
“Well, no.”
“What kind of name is Athos?” I asked. He stared at me and started to say something, but I cut him off. “I’m kidding. I know it’s the name of one of the Three Musketeers. The broken-hearted one, as a matter of fact. So, did your parents name you that after Alexandre Dumas published the newspaper serial? He was French too, of course. Which would mean you were born this side of 1844. Am I right, or am I right?”
“How does someone who threw part of the Miranda Rights into the Bill of Rights know that?”
“Please. I can recite the Bill of Rights word for word. I just threw in the bit about a lawyer to get you to crack a smile.”
“I don’t believe you. What’s the fourth amendment?” He was playing with me now, a sparkle in those pale blue eyes.
“It protects against unreasonable search and seizure.”
“And the eighth?”
“What, you think I just happened to guess right with the fourth? The eighth prohibits excessive bail and cruel and unusual punishment. Am I right?”
He grinned and said, “I have absolutely no idea.”
“Luna one, male stripper zero,” I quipped.
“I’m not actually a male stripper, you know.”
“Then why are you dressed like one?”
“This is a uniform.”
“I know. At Tex Beefcake’s All Male Review.”
He leaned back in his chair and stretched his long legs out in front of him, crossing his ankles in his huge motorcycle boots. “This is the most bizarre and entertaining conversation I’ve had this century,” Athos said.
