by Kristie Cook
Her gaze went to the floor. “I wasn’t sure it was real."
No further words were needed. Monroe had a talent for seeing things no one else could see. Visions, her mother called it. Her parents considered it an esteemed gift. As practicing Wiccans, her family valued the rare ability. It often frightened Monroe, mainly because she couldn’t always discern vision from reality. She’d never admit it, but she saw this as a failing. I felt it meant she was incredibly powerful. The more real a vision appears, the more ability you must have. The concept made sense to me.
I moved to the bed. “Let’s put in a comedy,” I suggested, my tone light.
The window incident had me freaked out, my eyes moving restlessly from the side of my room to the bed. Monroe settled in next to me, and we went through her movies, popping in one we knew we’d both laugh at before settling in for the night.
The sky beyond my window grew darker, the crickets outside grew louder, and my Grumpy Care Bear nightlight made up for the lack of light as the sun faded completely. Sleep came to us. The dream engulfed me. But, used to it as I was, it only woke me up once that night.
I stared at my bedroom window as I came to, my heart beating fast. The window mesmerized me. Maybe it was a mix of the dream and Monroe’s vision but I swore I saw a face. It seemed familiar to me, and I squinted. It was gone. One blink and it was no longer there. Grumpy Bear scowled back at me. Weariness carried me away again.
Chapter 2
In spirit, she is her mother. The mystery of her life will be hard to unravel. She will grieve. But, as her mother before her, she will own her problems even when it seems she has given up. This I trust.
~Bezaliel~
My alarm clock buzzed, and I threw my pillow at it. It missed and fell on Monroe instead.
Her hoarse voice rose from the floor, her grumbling muffled.
I peered over the side of the bed and grinned. “Oops.”
Pushing herself off of her sleeping bag, Monroe glared at me. The clock face read 5 a.m. Sundays tended to dawn early, and it wasn’t wise to ignore an alarm. It was a religious thing. Today, of all days, you didn’t oversleep. At the Abbey, Sunday was a day of reckoning.
I sat up, my gaze flying to the window. Light warred with darkness beyond the glass panes, shadows slowly retreating, the crescent moon still visible in the lightening sky. Fog wove along the grass and among the trees, its misty fingers climbing up bark and brick. Tiny sparkles glinted off a small pond in the distance, and there was an exuberant chorus of bird calls. It was a comforting, beautiful sight, but the vision of a face plagued me.
“I guess I’m gone,” Monroe muttered.
Her gaze followed mine to the window. Neither of us mentioned the previous night, our reluctance obvious.
I nodded. We didn’t talk much in the mornings. It was too damned early for conversation.
Monroe threw her stuff into her bottomless overnight bag, walked over to the door, waved at me, and left to drive home in her pajamas. She’d climb back in bed as soon as she got there. She was not a morning person. I wasn’t much better. I fought the urge for sugar-laden coffee and artificial flavored lollipops.
My head fell back, my eyes on the ceiling. “Sleeping late …” I motioned at the bed, “Yeah, that should be a priority.” My aunt was constantly lecturing me about the need to pray more. Sleep certainly qualified.
The snooze on my alarm went off, and I slammed it against the wall before getting up with a groan. Donning a dark skirt and white-cotton button-down shirt, I ran a brush through my hair, and made my way to the door. Will power is an amazing thing.
Once downstairs, I avoided the dining room, referred to as the refectory, and moved to the back stairwell. The longer I could avoid the Order, the better. Sunday was free advice day. Unless you wanted it, it was best to avoid it.
Organ music filtered from the church across the yard, and I moved into the building, slipping silently into the last pew to watch my sister play. Amber sat alone, her back to me as her fingers glided over the keys. The organ was a haunting instrument, and Amber played it well. She’d learned from Sister Mary a few months after our parents passed, and I appreciated the discipline it must have taken. She was a fast learner and desired approval. That same desire was the reason the Order had taken to Amber so quickly after our move. She had, out of the two of us, always sought acceptance. I tended to withdraw.
Amazing Grace filtered through the room.
Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound.
That saved a wretch like me.
“You’re here early,” a voice said.
Scooting over, I grinned. “You are too.”
Harold Grayson settled next to me with a chuckle. He was an old man in his seventies who lived on the edge of Abbey property and tended to minor maintenance issues. His older sister, now deceased, had once been a part of the Order.
Harold snorted. “We lost folk have to be, I reckon.”
I fought not to chuckle. “That we do."
I once was lost, but now am found.
Was blind but now I see.
Harold’s gaze went to Amber. “Your sister has a way with the organ.”
My lips curled, pleasure filling me. I was proud of Amber. We may have grown apart over the years, even to the point of being strangers, but she was still my sister. My senses flooded with nostalgia and music.
Sighing, I ran my fingers over the soft fabric covering the pew. I loved the way the sanctuary smelled, the way the candles glowed at the front. It felt like home.
Amber made it to the end of the song and started over. It was one of her favorites. Mom used to sing it to us when we were children. My eyes closed as the memory assaulted me. It was an old one. Mom was singing as we helped her make the beds. She always turned it into a game, throwing the sheet up and letting it billow down on top of us. She’d catch us up in it and hold us there until we yelled to be let free. As soon as she let go, we’d beg for her to do it again. And the whole time, she would sing. She loved to sing.
“She’ll be one of them,” Harold whispered abruptly.
I froze, my smile slipping as the memory left me. “Sir?”
He patted my hand. “Just the rantings of an old man, my dear."
I stared at his profile. One of them? The Order?
“How have you been, Dayton?” Harold asked, his gaze glued to Amber’s back.
Thoughts raced through my head as I worked to keep up with Mr. Grayson’s abrupt change in conversation.
“Okay, I guess.”
Harold snorted. “They’re too hard on you.” There was something eerie about his words, something knowing.
I stared at Amber, my discomfort rising.
Harold’s hand slipped onto my shoulder. “Our mistakes don’t define us, Dayton. Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise. Our mistakes make us stronger, wiser. If we didn’t make mistakes, we’d be open to much more temptation. Hard lessons learned are harder battles fought."
I swallowed tears. It had been a difficult year for me. What did Harold know? Was there talk outside the Abbey?
My imagination perked up, lifting to attention, and I saw newspapers flipping toward my face from across the room. Headlines flashed neon.
Blackstone Abbey: Estranged Niece Arrested. Blackens Name; Local Order Responsible for Rebellious Orphan …
The images nauseated me, and I shifted. The imaginary headlines ripped and vanished. I had no desire to read them.
My heart thudded as I peered at the old man askance. His face was full of understanding and compassion. There was no censure there.
“Thank you, Mr. Grayson.”
My voice was unsteady, my smile small. He winked at me before sitting back in the pew.
Amber kept playing, the song weaving its soul-searing magic as the congregation began to filter into the church. Chatter and music weaved in and out of the room as people visited, and I snuck away from the pew to the stairs at the back of the sanctuary. No one stopped me to talk. I wasn’t known for minglin
g. The stairs led up to the balcony, and I walked up them slowly, my thoughts on Mr. Grayson and Monroe. The night and morning had been a strange one.
“You should be sitting on the main floor,” a voice said from behind me.
I jumped. Aunt Kyra. Instead of responding, I kept climbing. A wall of imaginary flames seared my back. If anyone could be a dragon, it’d be my Aunt Kyra.
“I feel closer to God in the balcony,” I said.
Climbing the last three steps, I took a seat on the front pew.
“Do you?” she asked.
The organ continued to play.
Aunt Kyra peered over the balcony at Amber. “Why don’t you try to fit in at the Abbey, Dayton?”
I looked up at her, my eyes meeting hers before scooting away. We both knew what she was asking. It wasn’t about getting along with her or the Order. She wanted me to feel a desire for service. I had none.
“You’re old enough now to be considering a place in the Order,” she added.
I didn’t so much as blink. She knew my thoughts on the matter. “I don’t want the same thing as the Sisters. I have aspirations outside the Abbey.”
Aunt Kyra sat beside me, and I glanced at her, startled. This was new.
“Sometimes destiny doesn’t give us a choice on what we do with our lives, Dayton."
I paused. What was she getting at? I didn’t want to be a part of the Order. Was she telling me I didn’t have a choice?
As the only Abbey in a state dominated by Baptists, Methodists, and Presbyterians, I knew my aunt struggled with the low number of initiates called to service. What I never understood is why we didn’t have a bigger congregation or a larger number of Sisters. There was a Catholic church in almost every county. As the only Abbey, I always wondered why she wasn’t swamped with women who would otherwise have to leave the state. I certainly didn’t feel the calling.
“Destiny has nothing on free will,” I finally said.
Kyra’s hand fell on my shoulder, and I froze. It was finally here, a show of affection after seven years of living under the same roof. Seven years of no hugs, no tenderness, no emotion had culminated into this moment, a comforting hand on my shoulder. I waited for a feeling of warmth to overcome me, but I felt nothing.
“You should give the Order some thought, Dayton."
Her hand disturbed me. I should be enjoying this moment.
Glancing up at Aunt Kyra, I realized her gaze wasn’t for me. It was for Amber, her eyes frozen on the organ below.
Sighing, I shook her hand loose. A sigh, if done right, could translate a lot of different emotions. This one spoke three languages: irritation, weariness, and acceptance. The last was reserved for my sister. It made me feel good knowing Amber had made choices that assured she would belong. She was in her first year of college, did everything the sisters expected of her, and asked questions that hinted at a curiosity for service. I couldn’t make those same decisions. I wasn’t capable of it. I had an innate desire to make myself happy, not to please a collection of women I’d never had a chance to get close to.
“I have given it some thought,” I murmured.
Aunt Kyra shook her head and stood. The music downstairs changed. The service was about to commence. I kept my seat in the balcony.
Aunt Kyra moved away from me, and I watched as she walked back down the stairs. Her long black robe hid her feet and her short blonde hair glowed. She became a gliding Angel with a shining halo. She stopped at the bottom of the stairs to converse with four other Sisters, and I cringed as they glanced up at me. I felt like a sinner in a room full of Angels. I had been judged and been found lacking.
The women looked away, but I didn’t relax. My nerves were raw. Aunt Ky’s presence had shaken me. She’d sought me out. I should be pleased, but I was alarmed instead. I couldn’t help but wonder why.
Lounging against the pew, I snuck a book out from under my blouse. It was a weathered copy of Pride and Prejudice. It was the book I always read in church hidden within my Bible. It probably made no sense why I liked reading Austen during a sermon rather than something more gothic like Bronte. Maybe it’s because the sermons seemed less intimidating if I read something light.
I flipped to a marked page and tried to immerse myself in the book. But Aunt Kyra’s words wouldn’t leave me. Why did she suddenly care about my choices?
Chapter 3
She is being watched. His interest in her has brought her to the attention of unsavory sources. He will endanger her. He will get her killed.
~Bezaliel~
The weekend wore on me as I walked to my car the next morning, balancing my backpack in one hand and a paper cup full of sugary coffee in the other. The weekend had left me with a weird sense of foreboding. I kept peering over my shoulder.
Coffee sloshed over the side of my cup, burning the edge of my hand, and I swore.
Pulling my bag onto my back, I sucked on the burn. My car should really be closer to the Abbey, but my aunt refused. It was a pain in the ass, but at least I was burning calories. I was an optimist at heart.
The old metallic purple ’86 Pontiac came into view and I grinned. My aunt hated the old clunker, but I’d earned it working for old Elsie Davis one summer cleaning out a rundown shed and doing odd jobs on her property and, to me, it had character. To my aunt, it was a mark of shame. The work I’d done had been for charity; therefore, I shouldn’t have expected payment of any kind. I didn’t disagree. After all, Elsie had been charitable. She’d finally convinced my aunt it was a gift. When it wasn’t in use, Aunt Kyra made me park it behind the Abbey near an old shed. It was such a shame.
I ran my hand down its dusty side, leaving clean streaks in the dirt. “Hello, Lady.”
Throwing my backpack into the back, I climbed in before flipping on the radio and pulling out of the drive. It wouldn’t do to be late for school and I still had to swing by Monroe’s. We took turns driving to save on gas.
I had just noticed how bad the trash had piled up on the passenger side of my car when I pulled up to the curb near Monroe’s.
Rolling down the passenger side window, I whistled.
“About damn time,” she muttered.
One look through my car window and she paused. A green flush rose up over her cheeks at the sight of the old drive-thru McDonalds’ bags strewn haphazardly on the seats, and for the first time all morning, I fought not to laugh. According to Monroe, the Goddess had a sense of humor when Fate proclaimed I be born under the sign of Virgo. No one would ever describe me as tidy, and a perfectionist I was not.
She threw open the door. “You should really clean this thing out soon.”
Leaning over, I started knocking junk to the floorboard and smirked. “And give my aunt a reason to think I’m becoming responsible? I think not."
Monroe swiped crumbs off the seat before sitting down, plopping her bag beside her gingerly. It was beaded, big, a loud minty green color, and ugly.
I snorted. Only she was allowed to complain about my car, and I her accessories. This morning, I managed to refrain, but I was sorely tempted to tell her the bag was entirely too retro for our era. Even if vintage was in.
Pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers, Monroe crossed her eyes. “Ugh! It’d take a lot more than a clean car to convince your aunt of anything.”
I threw her a look before shifting the car into drive.
“I wonder if your aunt knows how often you sneak fast food,” Monroe said. She kicked at the trash on the floor and cringed. "Better yet, I wonder if she knows you pay for it by filching money from the congregation."
I coughed. I didn’t filch. I simply did side work my aunt didn’t know I was being tipped for.
"You’d take tips too if you had to help Mrs. Gunther clean out her closets and wash her cat. Her house smells like moth balls and the cat scratches," I complained.
Monroe moved a McGriddle wrapper to the side gingerly. "Her house probably smells better than your car."
“Are
you insulting me, Roe?”
She sat back, flicked a crumb off the seat cover, and grinned. “If you feel it’s an insult, then you know it’s true."
I thumped her in the arm, the car swerving before I looked back at the road. Silence stretched between us, our thoughts occupied.
She moved a piece of gum around in her mouth and snapped two bubbles before finally looking over at me. “I’ve been worried,” she mumbled.
My silence was answer enough.
“This weekend—” Monroe’s voice faded as she looked out the window.
I stole a glance before focusing on the road. It was obvious we had the same thing on our minds, but discussing it made us uneasy. Skirting the issue seemed safer, but it wasn’t like us not to be direct.
I scowled. “I’m a little bothered by it."
Monroe blew another bubble. “Yeah—”
The weekend had been eerie. Even the energy at the Abbey felt different. More intense. I waited for Monroe to elaborate but she didn’t.
I shrugged. I wasn’t going there if she wasn’t. “Maybe it’s just paranoia.”
Monroe snorted. “So we’re crazy now."
We shared a shaky laugh as Monroe moved her feet awkwardly on top of the trash. There was an audible squish.
She squealed before looking down at the floorboard in horror. “I seriously do not want to know what that was!”
I bit my lip, stifling my smile. Monroe was a genuine neat freak and germaphobe. I saw my chance, and I took it.
“You remember that cat I picked up for the Abbey? The one that went missing a few months back?” Monroe nodded. “You just found him.”
I parked lopsided in the school parking lot.
Monroe wheezed. “Oh I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”
She threw open the door and leaned over, her head between her legs to keep from retching.
“Couldn’t handle the Dayton Mobile?” a voice asked wryly from beside us.
I turned to find Conor Reinhardt leaning casually against the side of his black Mercedes. His sandy blond hair was impeccably groomed, and his navy Ralph Lauren tee went well with the brand named jeans he always favored. I knew without looking that, not unlike the pristine white Cadillac Monroe drove, the inside of his ride was clean enough to eat off of. I squelched the urge to stick out my tongue. After all, we weren’t in grade school anymore.
