by Toni Kerr
Tristan smiled and shrugged. “We all have to start somewhere, right?”
“I suppose. So, what’s the story?”
“I’m not bad. Well, maybe I am.” Tristan raked his fingers through his hair. Why couldn’t they just be friends without asking personal questions? “I’ve just never had formal lessons. That’s why I’m here.”
“Sorry but, how do you grow up and not know this stuff?”
Tristan swallowed hard, debating how bad it would be if he said he had to go. “I didn’t know this stuff was possible until just recently, because I’d never met anyone who could do it.” He risked a look, startled to see her deep blue eyes brimming with tears.
“Is that why Stanley is so protective of you?”
“Stanley?” That shocked him even more. He glanced at Stanley, who was ready to leap into action if necessary. “I just met him last night.” Tristan sighed, then took one of Shaely’s hands in his. “Stanley is...maybe we just shouldn’t see each other.”
“Why?”
“Stanley’s here to make sure I don’t hurt anyone, just like your brother.”
“So, you are dangerous? Half the time I think....”
“I’m not—” Tristan took a breath and started over. “Maybe I am. But it’s not because I’m mean, or because I have anger issues. I just don’t know enough to know what I’m doing, or what I’m not doing. I don’t even know what’s really possible yet.”
“Serious?”
He closed his eyes and bowed his head, then whispered in case his history wasn’t as well-known as it seemed. “There was an accident a few weeks ago—some people were hurt.” He didn’t dare confess to murder. He brought her knuckles to his lips and pleaded for her to understand. “I just need to learn the basics, so I can be aware and control all this mental stuff. I don’t want to hurt anyone by accident—especially you.”
She stared at him for an uncomfortable amount of time. “I believe you.”
“Good.” Tristan smiled gratefully. “Can I see you again? Or is that just way too much to ask...?”
“I’ll make you a deal.” She grinned. “Let me wear your poncho for tonight, and I’ll return it to you tomorrow.”
Tristan shook his head before she could finish.
“Please? It’s freezing up here!”
He couldn’t tell if she was joking or not, or where all the sudden bells of alarm and red flags were coming from. “It’s the only warm thing I have, and I live here—”
“But it’s sexy and totally makes me think of you.”
Tristan blushed, but not even that would make him give up the poncho. It was part of him now. “It’s not sexy. It’s itchy and smells like mothballs. It probably hasn’t been washed in decades.”
They both turned to her brother, who’d apparently decided he’d seen enough. “He’s not giving it to you. Let’s go.”
“I told you to stay out of this! I can take care of myself.”
“I should be going anyway,” Tristan said, so as not to be in the middle. “I have homework and I need to figure out my evening class.... Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Sure!” Shaely said over her brother’s, “No.”
Tristan resisted the urge to touch her face, her cheeks flushed pink with anger. So different from Dorian. A pang of guilt tightened in his chest for comparing the two. He glanced at her brother and took a step back. “I’m sorry we didn’t have time to eat.”
“Maybe tomorrow,” she said, smirking. “If you’re lucky.”
Her brother gripped her arm and yanked her back. Tristan felt a stab of pure hatred and almost took a step forward, right before Stanley plowed into him.
Shaely and her brother vanished before he hit the ground.
Tristan spat out grass and dirt, coughing to catch the breath that had been knocked out of him. “What the heck was that for?”
“You were heading for trouble,” Stanley said.
“He was attacking her! Didn’t you see what he did to her arm? He’s a total jerk.”
“Jerk doesn’t mean kill.”
“That’s low. I can’t believe you think—wait. You don’t, do you?”
Stanley didn’t answer, cocking an eyebrow instead.
“I get it.” Tristan took another deep breath, determined not to lose his temper. Everyone in the clearing seemed to be waiting for something terrible to happen. “I’m sorry you have guard duty, and I understand you can’t hesitate. But I wouldn’t have....” Tristan scratched his head and thought about it. “I don’t think I would have....”
“I would’ve considered it.” Stanley cracked a smile and offered Tristan a hand up. “He’s a serious ass. And she has a seriously nice one. But being you’re on probation, you better think about your actions at all times.”
12
- HISTORY -
TRISTAN SPUN THE SICKLY shade of blue crayon against a flat rock to keep its point sharp, sitting on the ground where he’d met Eleonora. He’d tried checking in for a quick visit, determined to forget about Shaely’s brother, Angelina’s class, and Stanley, only to find she wasn’t at home. Or maybe she just didn’t want to see him. Or maybe she was gone like she said she’d be.
The paper Angelina gave him wouldn’t hold more than a single layer of color, and the color itself had no real richness, but he found that pressing in actual flakes of wax helped for depth. He studied his attempt at recreating one of the ghost buildings from the pile of rubble that had once been Darnell.
To the best of his knowledge, he didn’t cheat, though he probably didn’t need to put so much into it. But the art was to prove himself capable. Not only for Angelina, or himself, but for the faith Landon and Victor showed in bringing him here in the first place. Anyone who saw his assignments would know he was taking the class seriously. And luckily, he already knew how to construct a decent picture.
Daylight settled into a dull dusk, robbing the forest of color, reminding him that he really needed a watch if he was expected to be somewhere at a certain time. He returned to his cabin and looked for something to eat, unable to find the form Victor mentioned for groceries, and settled on water before hiking to the trailhead to wait for his classmates.
An hour passed and just when he decided he’d waited long enough, two boys dressed for hiking emerged from the trailhead to Grumpy’s.
“Donovan’s class?” Tristan asked, relieved to see they were at least his age.
“Yep. I’m Travis, this here’s Henry.” They continued onward together, following the trail of small oil lamps flickering every twenty feet. “Guess we all have the same sentence.”
“How’s that?”
“Not only is it history,” Henry explained, “but Donovan!”
“He’s not so bad,” Tristan said, thinking of Landon’s opinions and his own intuition. He still couldn’t recall a time when he’d actually met the man, but there was definitely a connection.
“According to who?” Travis asked. Both boys studied the forest as if someone might be watching. “Nobody likes him.”
“My sister thinks he’s tall, dark, and creepy,” Henry added.
Tristan listened halfheartedly, unwilling to express his own fears about the class, which had nothing to do with the rumors they were going by. They walked in an awkward silence until they saw a tower of flames alighting the rock wall and branches of surrounding trees.
Te Hono-i-Wairua.
Tristan stopped, grateful to have the poncho covering his nervous hands. Travis and Henry stopped with him.
“You’re late.”
They all heard the voice, but Donovan was nowhere in sight. Travis and Henry glanced at each other apologetically and shrugged, stepping into the clearing.
Tristan strained to see beyond the light of fire. Would he be sucked into another vision if he stepped in? Was he among friends if he did?
“I will not tolerate such blatant disrespect.” Donovan stepped into the ring of firelight and waited.
Tristan steadied h
is nerves.
Donovan wasn’t an enemy to be feared if Landon and Victor would give their lives for him. He was a good man, taking time from his life to teach others, even if kids like Henry and Travis didn’t appreciate it.
If some sort of vision made him unaware of reality, Donovan wouldn’t let anything happen. Not to one of his students. The worst thing that might happen would be making a fool of himself. Which wouldn’t be the first time.
He stepped into the clearing and let the tension in his shoulders melt away when nothing happened, then sat on a log near the fire.
“You all know who I am and I obviously know you, so I shan’t fritter away anyone’s time with irrelevant introductions. You will find the fire an aide to visualization. Look deep, and see upon the time of which I’m about to tell. If you cannot, feel free to leave.”
Henry and Travis glanced nervously at each other and back again to the fire. As Donovan began speaking, flames lashed out in the form of a lush, panoramic countryside.
“1618. Explorers from England sailed to Africa, looking for goods to sell in the New World. With the rumors of gold, they climbed into the mountains of Morocco and discovered a tribe known as the Shironac. The peaceful tribe had never encountered white men before, and willingly took them in, showing and explaining all their ways of life.”
Tristan stared in awe at the walkways strung high in the canopy of trees. They traveled into a cave where miles of tunnels connected small villages, well lit and warm during the harsh winters. Somehow, the fire was creating an interactive, living rendition of history and Donovan’s voice guided the way.
Tristan noticed the brilliant stars above, briefly distracted by the thought that they were underground moments ago.
Donovan’s voice faded to background garble, and Tristan found himself standing in a village of stone, in a different era with no hint of peripheral firelight in the outer reaches of buildings.
A damp breeze circled from the harbor, clinging to his thin shirt, his hair, leaving a salty flavor on his tongue. He made a vow to himself: he would own the night from this moment on.
Music and laughter echoed through the streets, along with the clickidy-clack of horse hooves and the rumble of steel-plated wagon wheels. Tristan wove through the crowd, oddly too aware of each person. He could smell everything, delicious and foul, and pinpointed each source with remarkable accuracy.
The thought made Tristan recoil, but he continued on, unable to stop or change his direction in this strange vision.
Couples socialized in festive gatherings. Musicians played on platforms as people danced in and out of pubs and cafés, some carrying trays of drinks and food.
Power rolled from his fingertips in waves, cunning, maliciously resentful, and more evil-minded than comprehension would allow.
Tristan gagged, suddenly knowing the thoughts and feelings weren’t his.
He fought to escape the mental confinement, lured by a scent with a hint of magnolia. He slipped into an alley, barely the width of his own shoulders, and emerged onto a dirt track. A large brick house with pillar shrubs and iron gates stood before him.
A young woman sat alone in the center of a formal rose garden, waiting for someone. Tristan walked through the labyrinth of trimmed hedges without taking his eyes from the woman.
Long black hair, which she normally wore up, hung in loose curls around her radiant, rose-colored cheeks. Velvet fabric cascaded over the bench like midnight water. The high lace collar did little to cover her neck and chest. Her eyes shimmered with glassy tears.
She rose to her feet; a perfection of grace and beauty. “Why are you here?” Her voice, like a choir of angels, filled his empty soul with love and hope. “I thought we had an understanding.”
Tristan tried to look behind him, confused as to why he was so involved with this place. “Your soul calls to mine,” he heard himself say with a heavy French accent. He touched her soft cheek with his fingertips, breathing in her scent, and brought a dark curl of hair to his lips.
She stepped back after a noticeable hesitation. “We cannot be seen together. You’re French. I’m English. It will never work. Besides, my father has arranged for me to marry another.”
“Why do you care what others would think of our love?”
Wild jealousy and hatred toward a perfect stranger, who would hold her lovely hand in his place, boiled rage in his blood. He tightened his will and tried to contain this newfound power he’d acquired.
“I must do as my father wishes,” she said, turning her beautiful eyes away. “You must leave. Before the one I am to marry finds you here.”
“Let him.”
“I won’t cause myself more grief,” she cried, nearly frantic. “You must go—especially if you love me.”
“If you believe I will step aside for another man....” He caught her arm as she tried to get away and pulled her close. “You were not meant for anyone but me,” he whispered between clenched teeth. “You know this better than your father.”
She twisted in his arms, but he held her firm with her back to his chest. He buried his face in her hair, drawn to the textures of delicate lace and the scent of her flesh beneath.
The sudden rush of blood flooding his mouth broke the spell.
Tristan forced himself away from Donovan’s fire, his stomach revolting in rhythmic heaves. But even away from the fire, the vision continued.
A tall man ran toward him, shouting something in a foreign language. French. A heated argument carried on, apparently about the woman lying limp in his arms and the mansion behind them.
Fury and resentment roared in his ears. With one hand, he flung the marble slab of the bench and crushed the man’s skull against the trunk of a tree with a satisfying thud. No regrets.
He looked down at the wilting woman, seeing only the blood pulsing from her neck.
“What have you done? That was your father!” she whispered, her tender lips as pale as her moon-lit skin. “What has happened to you?”
He kissed her forehead, nose, lips, her ear when she turned away from him, then went back to the weakening pulse of blood flowing from her neck.
Pain lashed through the back of his skull.
Tristan blinked in the darkness, unable to take in a breath. The flames of Donovan’s fire faded in and out. Something solid hit his side, sending him flying to a rolling stop against the base of the rock wall. He scrambled to get to his feet, only to be run over a third time.
He stayed on his side, gasping painfully for air. Real or imagined, he would drown in the thick blood choking his throat.
“How dare you,” Donovan said, barely audible. “Of all my memories, that’s the one that will get you killed.”
13
- PAYBACK -
A HEAVY NUMBNESS crushed Tristan to the ground. His lungs still refused to take in air. Travis and Henry sat frozen like statues, staring at a fire so small, it barely lit their faces.
“For years....” Donovan’s barely controlled voice shook with rage. “It’s taken nearly a century to bury that night!” He grabbed hold of Tristan’s arms, lifted him off the ground, and pinned him against the rock wall.
You invade my most private memories. A knife sliced through Tristan’s mind with Donovan’s sharp voice. I plan to take back every last detail.
There was no way to respond.
Maybe, Donovan said, with a sick sense of politeness, if you can’t comprehend what you’ve done in words, I shall change the lesson for this evening and demonstrate.
The pain in his head throbbed with images from his own life, flashing with the speed of a strobe light. The chaos stopped suddenly, contorting into a thin line of vertical light. The smell of musty cardboard and stomach acid constricted his breathing as he reached for a wadded blanket to cover his head.
He was a child, folding himself into a good hiding place.
Dim light shone through a patchwork of yellowed shipping tape, the only thing keeping the sides of the box together. He held sti
ll and waited.
“Tristan!” His mother’s voice filled him with dread. “Stop this nonsense. I just need to talk to you.” Little brat, one of these days you’ll get every bit of what you deserve. “You’re not in trouble, honey.”
The thudding footsteps came closer.
Where does that kid hide? Maybe he left. Serves him right if he gets hit by a car.
With a click of the light switch, the slit of light beyond tape became brighter. Tristan closed his eyes to make his hiding spot better.
The closet door slid open with a squeaky rumble.
“Where’d this come from?” The blanket he hid under was lifted slightly, then dropped with a scratchy thud. I don’t have time for this. She left the closet door open and turned off the light. “I have to go to work. You’re on your own.” She called from down the hall. He heard the backdoor slide open. “Tristan?” Oh well, Thomas will have to deal with him.
Thomas was his father’s name, so he had to be three years old or less.
Donovan growled to himself. I was looking for something a little more…. Images flashed and Tristan realized with shock that Donovan was inducing memories.
Frozen scenes lasted for split-seconds at a time, stopping without warning. Walls and furniture were a blur, blood rushed to his head with the entire world spinning faster and faster. Someone spun him in circles by his feet, he heard himself scream in high-pitched terror.
This organization is horrendous, how can you remember anything in this mess?
Why would he ever want to remember this stuff?
Memories sped up, then Tristan was sitting in his mother’s lap, looking at a neighborhood street from a living room window. Her hand rubbed his back in gentle circles.
“Just think,” she said softly. “By this time tomorrow, everything will have changed. A little work on the brakes and life will be back to normal in no time. Everything will be perfect.”
Tristan stayed absolutely still, clinging to his mother. He tried to remember all the rules, so as not to end the moment.
Touching, commented Donovan, but clearly misplaced. Flashes continued as Tristan’s head pulsed with each fierce heartbeat. Interesting, there’s a link. Guilt?
