by Anna Elias
The Spirit inhaled, filling Avani’s lungs with salty air and tilting her face to the warm sun. She watched the birds ride invisible columns of air and studied a new bud forming on one young tree. “The world is too connected for our actions to only hurt others,” the Spirit said at last. “What we do finds its way back to us in one form or another. The need to love our neighbors, and our enemies, is vital to preserving ourselves.”
Avani gave Minako the weathered bear, and Grandmother clasped her granddaughter’s hands. “When what we do is motivated by service to others, and not done in spite of others, at the expense of others, or to control others, everyone wins. Think on this, Minako.”
Her granddaughter shuddered.
The words chilled Avani, as well. Her mind flashed to the ranch, to a hand named Simon who had helped her lead a trail ride one morning. They had returned to the barn and Simon had pulled out a pocketknife to loosen a pebble in his horse’s shoe. Avani froze, eyes wide with terror, as Simon had dug the sharp point around the hoof.
As if by magic, Sonny had appeared at her side. “Shh,” he’d whispered. “Look at me.”
Her eyes had locked on the blade, remembering what those two boys had done to her father.
“Look at me.” Sonny had turned her face to his, pretending to show her something on Sampson’s saddle so the guests wouldn’t notice. “Simon’s removing a stone.” His voice had remained soft, steady. “He’ll be done in a minute.”
Avani had brushed Sampson’s thick mane until Simon finished and tucked the knife away. She’d relaxed, the moment passed, and their guests had never been the wiser. Sonny had not made fun of her or tried to use her fear to his gain. He had simply served her, as the grandmother described.
She was at peace with her decision not to press charges. He had done too many things right in her life to suffer never-ending consequences for the one horrible, selfish thing he’d done wrong.
The Spirit warmed supportively at her thoughts, then wrapped Avani’s arms around Minako. Their souls said goodbye and the Spirit whisked Avani away in a whirling flash of green.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
SAM
Sam leaned back to stretch, startled to find night settling outside his bedroom window. The open curtains framed a view of the decaying pool and courtyard, and it was pitch-black, save the soldier-like rows of amber streetlights starting to turn on.
Sam rolled his shoulders, arthritis crackling as he massaged a knot in his neck. He’d given his old office to Blaze and modified the suite of his first-floor hotel room into a new one, complete with desk, computer, filing cabinets, and an art table to hold construction drawings. Sam didn’t like working this far from the others, but he enjoyed the quiet. Besides, Blaze needed space. The boy captained his new office like the bridge of a starship—using some gadgetry to spy on his stepdad, and others to track the Vessels.
The Vessels.
Sam removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. The Program thrilled him, but he feared what would happen if outsiders found out—if a Vessel were harmed, or if a visiting spirit got injured or somehow stuck in this plane. He had no idea how to handle that and prayed Chief Black and Liam would.
Sam crossed to his kitchenette and poured a second cup of coffee. The dark, nutty aroma sparked happy thoughts of easy Saturday mornings with Fergie on those rare weekends when both could sleep in and read the paper in bed. It never ceased to amaze him how certain parts of the brain could link smells to memories, then tell other parts of the brain to ease or tighten nerves accordingly. The body was intricate and complex, yet designed to run with precision, like the water cycle, the turn of seasons, or the growth of a tiny acorn into a mighty oak. Sam sipped his coffee. He missed his days at the hospital. Not so much in administration, where he’d ended up, but in doctoring, healing, learning. And now he was about to witness something even more complex—visiting spirits that could enter, transform, and manipulate Vessel bodies from within without harming them. Or so he hoped.
He stirred in a splash of milk and held the warm cup between his hands. He scanned the filing cabinets on either side of his desk. As soon as Aaron had time, Sam would ask him to install lockable cabinets around the filing drawers in here to disguise his records about the Vessels, Prism Lake, and the calendar of ship arrivals and departures.
Aaron had done something similar for Blaze—building a simple hinged counter with Blaze’s computer monitor, keyboard, and other devices securely attached. In an emergency, or in the event of another unwanted inspection, the counter would flip over and hide the equipment underneath, storing it inside a fireproof metal base next to the computer’s hard drive. The new “desktop” would display a working phone, a usable laptop, and some file folders, all functional and mounted in place. His quick and seamless design would deter discovery until the true counter could be turned upright once more. Again, so Sam hoped.
Sam returned to his desk as the room phone rang. He sagged. No one called that line except people seeking information about the shelter, or builders, contractors, and inspectors needing to talk about the ongoing renovation. The clock read 8:15 p.m., but the machine did not pick up. He must have forgotten to set it.
“Samaritan Resource Center,” he answered. “May I help you?”
“Good evening, handsome,” a woman replied.
Sam relaxed into his chair. “Well hello, Stephanie. Bit late for you, isn’t it?”
“Pulling permits is my life,” she quipped, then changed her tone. “We got a call today, Sam. From the governor’s office.”
Sam’s smile faded.
“We deal with the Secretary of State’s office on some things, but never the governor. For some reason, his office requested copies of your paperwork—the renovations you’ve already done, plans for future work, and the time we think it will take to finish, inspect, and approve. Not to mention copies of your budget and letters of investment.” She paused. “I don’t know what this is about, but he’s closing shelters left and right. Be careful, okay?”
“Everything will be fine.” Sam tried to sound upbeat. “Thanks for letting me know.”
He hung up and sank into his chair. There was only one reason for Governor Galt to show interest in this shelter. He must have learned Sam was involved. Never mind his political reasons, Ron’s personal spite alone would target this place for closure.
“But how did he find out?” Sam mumbled. Diego had gone to great lengths hiding Sam’s name on the shelter’s paperwork.
Ron had always been a precocious child. As an army brat, he’d cut his teeth on being independent, alone, a leader who always made new friends and followers. He was also a straight-A student, an overachiever in school, sports, everything. Poor Gale. Ron had constantly forced his younger sister to play Black Widow to his Captain America, or Magneto to his Professor X.
Ron had thrived, until the affair. He had just turned thirteen, a critical age for a boy figuring out his place in the world, never mind inside his own skin.
Sam bit his lip. The muscles in his neck tightened to cables once more. He hadn’t thought of her in more than two decades, but the stab of Ron’s resentment brought the whole thing crashing back.
They had been living in Germany when then Lt. Colonel Sam Fullerton had worked at the U.S. Army’s Regional Medical Center. He’d recently hired a surgeon named Katherine, renowned for groundbreaking work with traumatic injuries, to save soldiers arriving from the Persian Gulf War. She had been brilliant, fiery, and a genius with her hands.
Sam’s pulse quickened as he remembered the almond scent of her hair and the velvety softness of her skin. He’d never had an affair, or even been tempted, but this one had consumed him for almost a year. They had taken measures, but protection had failed, and she’d become pregnant. They had agreed on an abortion and she’d moved away right after to work at a hospital in France. Sam’s family had found out from a jealous, less-experienced female doctor Sam had passed over in favor of hiring Katherine.
; Sam took a breath and slowly exhaled. His first and only indiscretion had caused suffering for everyone involved, and he’d wanted nothing more than to make amends and start over with his family. The army had accepted his request for an early retirement. His record was perfect otherwise, and this personal issue had never interfered with his professional duties, so they had fined Sam but accepted his apology and let him retire with honors.
Sam leaned back. The chair groaned.
The affair had devastated Fergie, but she’d accepted his apology, too, forgiving him to keep their family intact. They’d moved back to the States and Sam found work at Chicago General. Fergie had busied herself making their house a home and doing volunteer work while Gale acclimated to a new school and new friends. But Ron had never forgiven Sam for “ruining his life” and forcing them to leave his German home, friends, and school, and the beautiful young Catholic girl who’d become his first love. Her parents had insisted she spurn him after learning about the aborted child, leveling the sins of the father squarely against the son. It had ignited hatred and anger so consuming that Ron had demanded to leave home.
Sam blinked back tears and cleared his throat, wondering what would have happened if he and Fergie had not allowed it. But they had, in large part for Gale because Ron’s resentment and anger fell hardest on her. So, the summer before high school, Ron had moved from Chicago to Norfolk, Virginia to live with Fergie’s sister. At the tender age of fourteen, he’d reinvented himself in his new city, at his new school, with his new friends, telling them all a new and improved life story his aunt knew nothing about. She’d died the year he graduated, and Ron had legally changed his name to complete the revision. Ronald Galt had started college with a brand-new identity and pursued politics as the man he’d wanted to be.
Sam shifted to stretch his legs. He never understood how Fergie had forgiven him for the affair, and he was not sure he could have done the same had it been her indiscretion, but at least he’d wanted to come back, and he’d worked hard to restore the family unit. Ron, on the other hand, had turned his back on all of them. Yet Fergie had forgiven him, too, and somehow balanced an equal love for both of her men until the day she died. Sam could strive for that across ten lifetimes and never achieve anything close.
He held his cup and gazed out the window. The empty pool and weed-choked grounds glowed in the moonlight.
His beautiful daughter could not hold such a balance. Ron had continually poisoned her mind against their father until Gale had pulled away, too. She’d graduated high school, left home, gone to college, married, and given birth to a beautiful daughter. She’d included Fergie in every detail but excluded Sam from everything. He hadn’t seen his daughter again until Fergie’s funeral four years ago. Gale had not brought her family for Sam to meet, had not stayed to visit, and had barely spoken to him. Ron, of course, had not come at all.
The chair squeaked as Sam sank back. He wondered if Ron would speak with him now. Probably not. Ron would feel threatened by political exposure and work twice as hard to shut Sam up.
But how did he know? The question still prickled. Diego remained the owner, in absentia, to protect the shelter and the Program from this very thing. Diego signed documents via email, or Sam forged his name in a pinch. But now that Governor Galt had somehow found out, how could they keep this place from his clutches? And if Ron discovered the Program, his fundamentalist zealotry, along with that of his constituents and supporters, would drive him to destroy the place as some haven of witchcraft.
Ron’s knowledge would lead to a standoff at some point. Sam prayed it might bring them close again. But he knew such a confrontation would more likely divide them for good.
Someone rapped on the open door, and Sam jerked up to see Liam at the threshold. “Hi. What’s—?”
“Come. Quickly.” The soft voice crackled with urgency.
“What’s wrong?”
Liam’s golden eyes dimmed. He hurried off.
Sam lurched to his feet, hands sweating as he fumbled to lock the Vessels drawer. One of them was in trouble—he knew it as clearly as if Liam had spoken the words. He scattered bills and papers across the desk to make things look normal before rushing from the room.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
BLAZE
Blaze hovered over the computer in his workshop, glaring through hostile eyes at Howard’s pixilated image. His deft fingers navigated the remote hidden office camera through his keyboard, zooming in to see Howard check his email, post on social media, and make another call to police in his feeble attempt to find Blaze. Nothing incriminating.
“Not yet,” Blaze growled.
He would never forgive Howard for the ogre’s abusive treatment over the years, for arresting him after he’d discovered the man’s criminal emails or, most of all, for murdering his mom. Though he had yet to prove that last one, Blaze had known it to be true from the moment the monster had told him she was dead. Despite his efforts to stop it, Blaze’s mind clicked again on that well-used link of memory.
He’d been released on good behavior after trying to “save” Javier from the same laundry room fire he had created to help his friend escape. Blaze doubted investigators would ever learn about that, not when the guards were busy trying to hide their mistake of playing cards and leaving the two prisoners unattended to begin with.
Howard had waited for Blaze outside the jail, sitting behind the wheel of a sporty black Mercedes with tinted windows. Blaze had opened the door to the smell of new leather and clean carpets. Old man must have needed another write-off. The two had frowned a greeting as Blaze had stepped in. Neither one had bothered to say hello.
“Where’s Mom?”
Howard had pulled out and driven in silence.
Blaze’s heart had quickened, foreboding creeping up. “Where is Mom?” he’d asked again.
Howard’s fingers had gripped the dark leather steering wheel. “Your mother’s dead.”
Blaze had cried out and doubled over, his brain swirling into a muddled fog.
“It was a car accident. I swerved to miss a deer and ran off the road. We hit a tree. I broke some bones and wound up in the hospital, but your mother ...”
Blaze had convulsed and vomited on the fresh carpet.
“Shit, Liang,” Howard had snapped. “And you wonder why I don’t let you ride in the Bentley.”
Blaze had heaved again, blood boiling in his veins.
Howard had squirmed, defensive and brusque. “We buried her two weeks ago. You would have been there, too, if you hadn’t been stupid enough to land yourself in jail.”
Hot tears had burned Blaze’s cheeks.
The old man had started to sweat. His knuckles had tightened around the wheel. “It was an accident. We have to move on.”
Blaze had glared at Howard with all the hate he could muster. The ogre had puffed up and pretended not to care, but Blaze had noted the sheen of sweat, the guilty twitch in his fingers, and a nervous tic at the corner of one eye. The monster had been lying. His mother’s death had not been an accident at all. Air had wrung from his lungs and he’d thrown up again. She had to have found something bigger on Howard, some action criminal enough to make him shut her up for good.
Howard had regrouped, stuffing all emotions aside as Blaze had seen him do in court. “It’s over, Liang,” he’d said. “I miss her, too, but life goes on.”
Blaze had run away that same night. He’d waited until Howard went out to meet some friends for drinks, then scoured the brute’s computer, desk, and files for any wrongdoing his mother might have found. He’d uncovered a small ledger filled with handwritten entries buried deep in Howard’s desk. Most reflected cash deposits, the dates coinciding with the shadier emails from Matthew Chase that Blaze had first discovered. The entries had also helped the cryptic language in those emails make more sense. He’d copied the emails to a thumb drive and photocopied the ledger pages before returning the book to the drawer precisely as he’d found it.
He�
�d scanned the bookshelves behind the computer, lined with leather-bound legal volumes Howard kept mostly for show, until he’d found the perfect spot to plant the old man’s spare webcam. Blaze had linked it through the wireless router to ensure access from his laptop. He’d stowed his computer in his pack, along with the thumb drive, the ledger copies, a few clothes, some of Howard’s hidden cash, and a special picture of his mother. He’d placed his cell phone on Howard’s desk, clearly severing all ties.
Back in the office, Blaze opened his eyes and sizzled again at Howard’s image on-screen. His attention drifted to the special picture of his mom taped to the monitor next to it—standing with Blaze before his first prom. She had been so proud of him and so sweet to the girl he’d taken, especially knowing his true feelings. If Howard had learned that truth, the former college linebacker would have crushed him.
Doc rushed in. “Aaron hasn’t come back.”
Blaze jumped and spun around. “Geezuz. You scared the crap out of me.”
“I sent him out late this morning for supplies and petrol. He should have been back hours ago. No one has heard from him, and he doesn’t answer his cell.” The edge in her voice drove chills up his spine.
Blaze closed Howard’s computer feed and dialed Aaron’s phone. It rang and rang with no answer. Blaze hung up. “Maybe he went to dinner or hooked up with a friend.”
“I just ... I don’t ... I have a terrible feeling.”
Blaze sighed. Aaron’s attempted suicide hung heavy in their silence.
Liam and Sam rushed in. “Can you track Aaron?” Sam asked.
Blaze jumped for the second time. “Doesn’t anybody knock?”
Sam’s pained expression stopped him cold. “Can you?”
Blaze tensed. “Yeah. Sure. Once he gets the chip.”
“I put it in yesterday,” Doc said. “Why? What’s going on?”
Liam’s eyes dimmed. “His mark is in use.”
