Revelations: Book One of the Lalassu

by Lewis, Jennifer Carole

  “I don’t do partners.” The thought of being responsible for someone else turned her stomach. She was failing enough people as it was.

  Gwen looked up with stricken eyes, muffin crumbs tumbling from her chin. Dani immediately relented. She couldn’t bear seeing her sister hurt.

  “I’ll be careful,” she promised. Gwen’s gift gave her access to the past and present with ease, along with occasional glimpses of the future. But she couldn’t always tell one from the other. The visions had driven her mad long ago. Sometimes her advice was right on target and other times she begged Dani to stop atrocities from hundreds of years ago.

  “If you hunt alone, you’ll fall.” Gwen’s bony fingers cut into Dani’s wrist, surprisingly strong. “Find the invisible man who sees the hidden truths. Find him, Dani.” Gwen’s eyelids sagged, her spate of prescience exhausting her.

  Dani finished washing and rinsing her hair, combing it out and drying it with a towel. The plate of food lay forgotten on the floor. She helped her sister into bed—a thick, feather-stuffed mattress on a sturdy wooden frame. Plenty of heavy quilts and duvets were heaped on top to keep Gwen warm. Her drawing materials were scattered all over the uneven stone floor.

  Tidying the room, she’d gotten a better look at the sketch pad. A weedy field with a cat sitting at the edge and a crescent moon rising above.

  Exactly what she saw now in the gas station’s parking lot.

  “Damn. I hate it when she’s right,” Dani whispered to the sky. Just when she thought this day couldn’t get any worse.

  Find the shadow. Gwen’s final warning echoed through her head. Spinning on her heels, she went back to the rubbish heap. She dug through the trash, searching.

  Beneath a rusted-out muffler was a patch of shadow slightly darker than those around it. When she touched it, instead of cool concrete, she found smooth plasticized fabric. Pulling it out, she discovered it was a torn fragment from a lightweight jacket, dark blue nylon. The shadow was found. Now she supposed she’d have to track down this invisible man. She sniffed at the nylon, catching a hint of gun oil and cheap deodorant. Was the jacket his? Or another path of investigation?

  “You could have been a little clearer, Gwen,” Dani muttered at the sky, tucking the fabric away in her pocket. She’d hang on to it and search for this invisible man. But meanwhile, she would check into other leads.

  Whoever took her brothers had made a serious mistake. Danielle Harris did not fuck around with anyone who threatened her family.

  The Hunt was on.

  THURSDAY

  Chapter Six

  The shrill buzz of Michael’s cell phone cut through his vague and disturbing dreams. Groggy, he thumbed it on and noted the time. Six a.m. “Hello?”

  “Michael? I’m so sorry, but I need help.” Heavy crashes punctuated the woman’s plea.

  The sleep-fog vanished from his brain as he recognized a client’s voice, and he sat up. “What’s happening, Martha?”

  “Can you come over, please? Quickly?”

  “I’m on my way.”

  A muffled grunt of pain and a click ended the conversation.

  Michael’s brain kept cycling with worry as he got dressed. Martha wouldn’t have called if the situation hadn’t been desperate. He’d given her his private number years ago and she’d only ever used it three times before today. Every single one of them had been because of an overwhelming disaster.

  He barely remembered to lock his apartment as he ran out the door. As he drove, he found his mind pulled back to the club last night despite his worry for Martha. What he’d felt had haunted his dreams, and he knew he must be missing some crucial piece of information. Perdition might have a reputation as a sort of East Coast Vegas, but the dark mix of lust and violence wasn’t part of the regular club scene here. Most of the people just wanted to have a good time.

  If he was honest, it wasn’t just the club that he was obsessed with—it was the woman he’d seen. Something about her tugged at him, made him reluctant to dismiss her as a man-eater. He wished he’d gone after her, stopped her from leaving with the blond man. Joe would have helped. But she triggered an uncomfortable wariness, a subliminal warning shivering and shredding the edges of his interest.

  He forced himself to put aside the previous night as he pulled up to the visitor parking of Martha’s modest apartment complex. He took the stairs up to the second floor and knocked on the door. Heavy insulation did not completely shield the shrieks and thuds from inside.

  Martha opened the door and let him in. Her pale eyes were rimmed in red and he could see fresh bruises and scrapes on her skin. Her years hung heavily on her, making her appear much older than her mid-thirties.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Last night, she wouldn’t sleep. She started tearing everything apart and hasn’t stopped. I tried to give her the sedative but she won’t let me near.” Martha gestured helplessly at the fragments of toys and furniture strewn around the apartment, rubbing at her mottled arms and tugging at the wisps of brown hair escaping her ponytail. “It’s been all I could do to keep her in the apartment.”

  Now that he was here, he could feel her exhaustion and fear buzzing and scraping in his mind. She wanted to help her daughter, but at the same time, she was desperate for the screaming and attacks to end. Martha was such a font of patience, but she had clearly reached her limits for the time being. Her emotions were almost insubstantial; she simply didn’t have the reserves for anything stronger right now.

  Ready for anything, Michael slipped across the living room to peer into the bedroom. A preteen girl crouched in the middle of the floor, rocking back and forth, grunting to herself. Sandy-brown hair tangled around her head and debris scattered the floor around her. The brightly painted room was strewn with chunks of compact fluff, fragments of rubber, scraps of fabric, and irregular planks of wood—yesterday, it had been a sturdy bed with a rubberized mattress.

  “Bernie?” he called out cautiously—then ducked as a chunk of wood the size of his head slammed into the wall nearby. Her terror slammed into him with equal impact, literally knocking his breath out of his lungs. As he struggled to inhale again, Bernie screamed as if she had been stabbed and began flailing wildly enough that he risked serious injury getting close to her. She looked like every demonic little girl in a horror film. Michael pulled back into the hall to regroup.

  Beside him, Martha shoved the heel of her uninjured hand across her eyes, angrily wiping away tears. Michael studied the little girl rampaging like a Tasmanian Devil. This wasn’t her first fit of destructive mania, which was why there were only a few pieces of cheap pressboard furniture scattered around the apartment and heavy protective plastic shields bolted to the walls. Bernie had been diagnosed as a delusional schizophrenic five years ago, at the age of six. Michael had been her therapist since then, trying to help her recognize the difference between the real world and the one full of animals and people who tried to get her to do things.

  Michael took a deep breath and made a plan. Bernie could be incredibly strong during her manic fits. She was completely unaware of her own pain or of hurting anyone else, and she threw her entire body weight behind every blow. They needed to get her calmed down long enough to take her medication.

  “I tried to hold off calling as long as I could,” Martha said. “I haven’t seen her like this in years.” She bit her lip hard enough to dent it. The skin under her eyes was gray with exhaustion, and her hands were shaking. Michael had watched her sacrifice everything—career, savings, marriage—for any chance to help her beloved daughter. But the constant stress and chaos took its toll. “I don’t want to have to take her to the hospital again.”

  Bernie quieted for a moment, her eyes flicking back and forth as she watched things invisible to everyone else.

  “You made the right choice, Martha. I told you: you can call me any time, day or night. Can you think of anything that might have upset her?” If they could understand what ha
d triggered the incident, they would have a better chance of bringing Bernie out of it and, more importantly, avoid a repetition.

  Martha shook her head.

  “Okay. I’ll see if I can get her calmed down enough to tell us.” Taking a deep breath, Michael stepped inside.

  Bernie spun to face him, her face twisted. She launched herself at him, tiny hands curled into claws. Michael caught her and folded himself around her in a protective hold, using his wiry frame to keep her still. He’d trained in various martial arts for years and instead of using those skills to hurt, he’d found a way to use them to help heal. Bracing himself, he wrapped his wide hands around hers and opened his mind.

  Immediately he was swallowed in chaos, plunged into Bernie’s hallucinations. Shadowy people were shouting at him, but it was as if he were listening to a badly tuned television. They sounded like the teacher from Charlie Brown, distortion turning the words into random squawks. They hovered all around him, shouting as if volume alone could convey meaning.

  She struggled and screamed loudly enough to set his ears ringing but couldn’t get enough leverage to get away.

  “I’m getting the medication.” Martha said, her fingers white from gripping the doorframe.

  “Give me a minute here,” Michael grunted, adjusting his long legs to pin down Bernie’s flailing limbs. She was unbelievably strong, throwing all her weight against him. Sometimes holding her was enough to break the cycle and allow her to regain control. He didn’t want to force-feed her a sedative if they didn’t have to. Bernie’s terror was beginning to subside, despite her thrashing. Michael shifted slightly, moving from restraint to protection. He wrapped around her, placing himself between her and the shadowy hallucinations that surrounded them, clamoring for attention. She gripped him tightly, her eyes squeezed shut.

  “It’s okay. I’ve got you,” he whispered into her sweat-tangled hair as he cradled her. Through their connection, he sensed she hadn’t been indulging in random destruction. She’d been searching for something. He could sense her desperation as if it were his own. But he had to pull her away from it to break the mania and bring her back.

  “Bernie, it’s Michael. Ignore everyone else. Listen to my voice. It’s Michael.” He kept his voice low and calm, practically speaking into her ear as her fingers dug painfully into his skin. He began to sing softly, a silly little song to the tune of Old MacDonald.

  “Bernie always likes this song, E-I-E-I-O.

  But Michael always sings it wrong, E-I-E-I-O.

  With a quack-moo here and a baa-neigh there.

  Got it wrong, always wrong, every time I sing the song.

  Bernie always likes this song, E-I-E-I-O.”

  He kept singing, making up the verses as he went along. As Bernie calmed, Martha’s anxiety began pricking at him from the doorway. The shadows’ bellowing faded as if on a radio being set to a different station. Slowly he built up the protections in his mind again, leaving just enough room for Bernie’s emotions to seep through. Eventually, he felt it was safe to let her go.

  She blinked up at him, her eyes and cheeks swollen from crying, but she didn’t launch into a new assault. Michael wearily counted it as a success, smoothing the sweat-lank hair away from her face.

  “Thank God,” her mother sighed. “Bernie, honey, are you okay?”

  “Tired. And my hands hurt.” Bernie held out her fingers—the nails were split past the quick and were bleeding sluggishly.

  “I’ll get the bandages, sweetie.”

  Michael watched Bernie carefully as her mother scurried away. This could be the end of the manic episode or it could only be a temporary lull. He wished he knew how to help her more. After five years, sometimes he felt as if he were fighting a losing battle. Martha had tried medication, intensive therapy, even hospitalization, but nothing seemed to help for long.

  “I got lost,” the little girl announced.

  “I know. But you found your way back.”

  “Because you helped. But you won’t be able to help in the new place.”

  “What new place?” Suspicion threatened to sharpen his voice, but Michael forced himself to maintain a pose of nonchalance. He didn’t want to risk setting her off again.

  “The new place I’m going to live. Chuck says it’s scary and that they’ll hurt me.” Tears glistened in Bernie’s hazel eyes.

  Chuck was one of Bernie’s hallucinations: an eight-year-old boy who prompted her to do horrific things like lighting furniture on fire or hitting other children. Michael forced himself to release the breath he was holding. Chuck was rarely a good sign. “Chuck doesn’t always tell you the truth.”

  “He’s mad a lot. His mom and dad forgot him and left him behind. Just like my mom will forget me.”

  “Your mom would never forget you, Bernie-pie.”

  “You won’t forget me, will you? You have to help me. Promise me.” Bernie’s tiny hands wrapped around his, crushing his fingers with the strength of her grip. Terror and desperation roared through the physical contact. Whatever was going on, it was more than a passing childish fear.

  He held her gaze, hoping she could see his conviction and determination. “I promise. I’ll do everything I can.”

  Chapter Seven

  Michael’s hands clenched into fists as Bernie relaxed. Her mother returned with wet cloths, antibiotic ointment, and bandages, preventing him from finding out more. Bernie was silent while they cleaned and bandaged her hands. Together, Michael and Martha inflated an old camping mattress and set it up in the living room with blankets and pillows.

  Bernie crawled into the nest, clearly exhausted. “Please find it for me,” she whispered, clutching Michael’s hand. The fractured image of a brochure swam into his mind, jumping around too much to see clearly.

  “I will,” he promised, tucking her in.

  Bernie closed her eyes and was asleep before they left the room.

  The clock showed five minutes to ten—barely halfway through the morning and Michael was weary enough to collapse, himself. Luckily Bernie had been his first client scheduled for the morning, and his afternoon client was away on holiday. Martha silently offered him a coffee. He gratefully accepted.

  “Thank you so much. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been here.” She rubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand.

  “It was a rough one. Get some sleep yourself while she’s quiet.”

  “There’s so much to do. I have to order a new mattress and clean up the mess…”

  “It’ll wait,” he said firmly. “You should rest. I’ll let Celina know to cancel Bernie’s session with Anne this afternoon so you both have time to recover.”

  “I hate to lose a day…” Martha began.

  “This is a marathon, not a sprint.” He’d told her the same thing many times over the years. “Pushing both of you when you’re exhausted won’t help anyone.”

  Martha’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. She seemed empty, beaten, and battered down. Michael’s heart ached with wishing he knew some way to help her that they hadn’t already tried. “What else is on today?”

  “I have another meeting with Expanding Horizons this afternoon.”

  “Expanding Horizons?” He frowned. “Who are they?”

  “They’ve been calling me for weeks. They have clinics in California for children with severe psychological issues. They’ve opened one here and they approached me about Bernie.”

  “Sounds expensive.” Michael kept his face neutral, but internal alarm bells were starting to ring.

  Martha pulled a brochure out of her purse, still glossy despite crumpling. Michael eyed it as if it were a snake about strike, recognizing it as the one Bernie had been searching for.

  “It’s a live-in facility, state of the art with a multidisciplinary medical team.” Martha smoothed the brochure. “They’ve offered us free treatment. They said Bernie is a fascinating case since there are so few children with schizophrenia. I hate the idea of her living with stranger
s, and I’ve told them so. I suggested an outpatient program, but they said they couldn’t accommodate it. I keep wondering if maybe they can help her and I’m being selfish to hold her back.” He could feel her indecision teetering back and forth. She wanted to hope but had been burned before by fancy establishments that promised all the answers.

  “Ah.” He couldn’t quite figure out what to say. Bernie was terrified of the brochure and what it represented, but he had no way of convincing Martha without more information. Staring at the glossy pictures, he decided to do something he almost never did. He opened his gift wide enough to let him pick up emotional impressions from objects as well as people.

  Martha frowned. “I’m surprised you don’t know. They said Celina recommended us to them.” Her anxiety scraped against him like a rasp against wood.

  “Maybe she forgot to tell me. Mind if I take a look?” He picked up the pamphlet and nearly dropped it as it bit him.

  It wasn’t a literal bite, but his fingers ached as if it were, while needles of agony and despair stung his brain. The bright, shiny photos of attractive young women helping developmentally disabled children took on a sinister cast. Snippets of children crying and dry voices reciting medical terms assaulted him. He slammed the walls of his gift shut. Chuck was right. This is a bad place.

  But how could he convince Martha? Even people who claimed to believe in psychics quickly became unnerved at what he saw. If he told her about his visions, at best she’d cut him off. At worst, he might find himself under investigation. It was difficult enough being a man working with children in these paranoid times. Any suspicion would end his career in a heartbeat.

  He loved working with the kids no one else could connect with. His psychometric gift allowed him to see into their minds through physical contact. Using that knowledge, he could help them in ways no other therapist could.

  “You should trust your instincts,” Michael said slowly. “Bernie’s been making progress with us. There’s no rush to change things.”