by Su Williams
Dark and malevolent, Thomas laughed. “It’s only a game, Miss Sweet.” His laughter morphed into a sneer. “But I do not like games. We shall see you soon enough.” And then, he phased from the arena.
Nick rolled to all fours and pushed himself to his feet. He stumbled to my side and enfolded my quivering body in his arms. “It’s okay, Em. He’s gone.”
“I wanna go home,” I whined into the folds of his shirt.
“Sure, honey.” Nick directed his voice to the rafters. “Abort. Abort. Code 10-31-18.” The date of his mortal death.
Light flooded the maze and flashing strips on the floor led the way to the exit like the emergency hatches on a plane.
Chapter 22 One Last Breath
On the drive home, Nick remained silent. A scowl twisted his mouth and canyons creased his forehead. Finally, he said, “Sabre’s gonna be pissed that we aborted.”
“Good for Sabre. Besides, how would he know?” I argued.
“Because, he checks the scores. He analyzes every move, every tactic.”
“Well, you can blame it on me. He doesn’t scare me,” I said. But we both knew that wasn’t true. Sabre James scared the hell out of me.
Nick drove through the Garland District with its narrow two-lane main street lined with eclectic shops, and to the quaint little diner shaped like a milk bottle. “You like Johnny Depp?”
“Sure,” I said as he got out of the car.
Nick walked around the car and opened my door. “He filmed a movie called Benny and Joon in the diner next door.”
“I remember hearing something like that.”
Nick opened the door to the Milk Bottle. “But this place makes the best milk shakes.”
The waitress, who was about my age, waved us to a small table at the front corner of the diner. Nick gazed up into the hollow inside of the giant bottle. His fingers caressed the wall, coaxing out its secrets.
“They raised the ceiling back up to its original height after the fire,” he informed me.
I gazed up at one of the black and white photos of the Milk Bottle from the 1930s, when milk was five cents a gallon. As I traced a finger across the picture’s frame, a current jolted up my arm.
Smoke billowed from behind the restaurant and the ‘cap’ of the bottle. Yellow and orange flames illuminated the walls like a scene from hell. A woman across the street was crying, crowds were gathering, and fire fighters scrambled to get a handle on the flames and save one of Spokane’s cherished landmarks. Inside, the dining area was filled with acrid black smoke and the air was hot and stifling. Gloved hands reached for the precious pictures that adorned the walls, historical photographs of the city’s past. The fireman pressed the pictures lovingly to his chest and shuffled out into the night.
“Oh,” I gasped as I pulled my hand away. “One of the firemen saved the pictures. He came in and took them right off the wall.”
“That’s true,” the waitress said. “He was able to get the pictures out before the heat and water could destroy them. They’re a little warped, if you look at them just right, but otherwise they’re okay.”
“That’s amazing,” I said. “Did they ever find out the cause?”
“Not really, but everyone still thinks it was arson.”
The wheels of my brain rumbled to life and Nick’s mouth pinched in a ‘leave-it-be, Em’ sort of way, but remained silent.
“So, what can I get you?” the waitress asked.
“An espresso milkshake, please.” I turned my gaze to Nick.
“Nothing for me, thanks,” he said.
After she stepped away, Nick held out his hand to me. “Come here. I want to show you something.” I offered my hand and he led me to a photo of a crowd of people in the 1930s at the old rail yard that was now Riverfront Park.
“See the old clock tower?” He pointed to the sandstone brick pinnacle with nine foot clock faces. “This was the day President Woodrow Wilson came to Spokane. And you see this person here?” He pointed to blurry figure in a window above the rail yard. “That’s me.”
“You’re so full of sh…it.” I really was trying not to be such a potty mouth. It was hard after living the rocker chick life for what seemed like months.
“It’s true,” he defended. “I wouldn’t lie to you.” A look of chagrin flashed across his face but was buried under a conspiratorial smile. “Sabre took this shot from an adjacent building overlooking the platform. He positioned me up there.”
I scanned his face and found he was in earnest. “That is just too bizarre.”
Nick chuckled and pulled out a chair for me. As I sat down, the waitress brought my shake in a full shake glass and the remainder in the metal mixing cup. I stirred the thick concoction with my straw and contemplated the lump of ice cream in my glass.
“You have that look,” Nick said.
“I have ‘a look’?” I asked.
“Yeah. And you’ve got it right now. What are you thinking?”
“I was thinking we should try to print this diner and find out who started the fire.”
“Emari, that’s not possible. The heat from the fire, the water, time, tons of people; there’s no way there’s a print left to find.”
“Yeah, but how much could it take? If there’s even a tiny spark left, we could find the person who did this.”
“Why? The owners have rebuilt; the place is in better shape than it was before the fire,” he argued.
I shrugged. “I just think it would be epic to solve the mystery. I mean, wouldn’t it be cool if we could go into the city archives of cold cases and print evidence and find the perps?”
“Perps?”
“Yeah. You know, un-sub, perpetrator—guilty party?” I could hear his eyes roll as he thought, Too much Criminal Minds.
“No. How would you explain why you know the information? How you got the information? They’d start suspecting you.”
I shook my head. “Anonymous tip line,” I retorted.
“Emari, let things be. You can’t risk all of us on a whim.”
I scowled at him. One way or another, I was going to find out who started that fire.
“I just have a feeling, that’s all,” I pressed.
“A feeling? Like an intuitive feeling or a prescient feeling?” he asked.
“Honestly? I’m not really sure. I am a novice at all of this Caphar stuff, ya know.”
“All right, if it makes you feel better, we’ll poke around a bit before we go.”
We sat watching the traffic and complaining about Spokane’s crazy drivers. The buds on the trees that lined the sidewalk were gorged with sunshine and popping at their seams. Spring was tumbling into life and awakening my heart from winter’s hibernation. The pull of nature tugged at my insides, stirred my spirit like warm breeze. Once my shake was gone, we said our ‘goodbyes’ to the pretty little waitress, and went outside. I lifted my face to the sun and breathed in a draught of warm air. Nick took my hand and led me to the back of the diner. A three foot gap ran between the Milk Bottle and the famous Ferguson’s next door, where the fire was believed to have started.
“Emari, there’s been rain, snow, wind—firemen, water, smoke, demolition and construction guys here,” Nick argued.
I traced my fingers along the wall, pulled on every shred of memory that was left on any surface. A chaos of activity whirled in my mind. Nick was right. There had been a great deal of traffic in this area. This was probably a pointless endeavor. I squatted down and ran my hand along the foundation, but there was nothing. But, I still couldn’t just let it go. I pushed past him and wandered across the parking lot to the low fence that divided the lot from the house next door, then turned back to the diner. I trailed my fingers over the rough post, pressed my senses, my electrical impulses into the grain, tugging at any shred of memoryprint I could find.
The night was warm and dark. I stood across the parking lot under the shadow of a tree, watching the warm yellow-orange glow creeping like a encroaching dragon, lickin
g up the walls, devouring all it touched.
I gasped and withdrew my hand.
“Em?” Nick’s voice rumbled with concern.
“He watched,” I whispered.
“They usually do,” he said. “Fire bugs like to see their handiwork.”
“Here,” I said. “He stood here. Watched to make sure the fire was going.” Hand on the fence rail again, I pressed my senses into the wood. “Oh! It’s so sad….”
His forehead corrugated. “What’s that?”
“Here,” I said and reached for his hand. I pressed his palm against fence like a father feeling for the kick of his unborn child. “You can feel him.”
Violence and abuse. Screaming. Silence and solace locked in a closet. A leather belt with a metal buckle. A switch from the tree in the front yard. A yard stick to his back. All alone. Black desperate loneliness, and fire-hot rage.
* * *
“You okay?” Nick finally asked when we were over halfway home and I hadn’t uttered a word.
“Yeah.” I slogged back from distant thoughts.
“You won’t be able to find him.”
“No. Maybe not. But I’ll know him if I ever even brush up against him.”
“Would you turn him in? Knowing what you know?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe. I guess.” My heart still remained on the fence rail. My eyes still witnessed the abuse. “He needs help. Psychiatric help, not sent to prison.”
We fell back into silence as I weighed the tragedy of someone else’s life. A tattered heart. A broken psyche. Boiling anger that was appeased only with flame. Now that I knew, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. I didn’t want to know the extended implications of the thing; what this man, this child would become. Who he might hurt in the future. And who he might’ve hurt already.
“Was it worth it? To know what you know?” Nick asked softly, as we sat under the carport in the cooling Hello Yellow Jeep.
“I don’t know,” I confessed.
“You’ve got to let it go, Em. You can’t let it get to you,” he warned.
I huffed a sharp laugh at him. “Yeah? Didn’t you?” From the very beginning, he’d let my pain, my grief, my night terrors ‘get to’ him.
“That’s different,” he argued.
“Yeah? How’s that?”
He was silent, lacking an adequate answer. So he answered like a parent that doesn’t know the answer. “It just is, Em.” I pursed my lips and nodded. “Sometimes, we know things we don’t want to know. There’s nothing within our means to change them. It’s something you just have to file away for future reference, learn from it and get on with life.”
“Sure—yeah—I get that.” But my mind still rebelled, wondering just how many times this guy had been filed away and forgotten.
“Come on. Let’s get you inside before you freeze to death.”
I hadn’t even realized I was shivering. “Yeah.”
His hand engulfed mine as he led me inside like a lost child. He was right though. There really was nothing I could do. And there were so many more pressing things that required our attention. Like surviving an attack by enraged Nightmare Wraith.
Chapter 23 Sara Smile
The world took on a whole different perspective after a hot shower and clean clothes. I soaked under the hot water for nearly an hour, letting the torrent of warmth ease my sore, tired muscles. While Nick got a shower too, I pulled out the mother of pearl box with Ari inside. As I fiddled with the lid, the panel Ari’s creator informed me about fell open in my hand. Under the velvet lined panel, I found four crystal phials and a braided leather lanyard with a clasp. Perfect for wearing Ari around my neck.
I sat in the warmth of my bedroom, behind a closed door. The tiny blade in spider’s body beckoned to me, called me to spill blood. Compelled by a magic I knew little about, I lifted the magical creature and withdrew the small shiny blade from her abdomen. The thought of the pain was intoxicating as I scratched the sharp tip across the tender flesh of my inner elbow. Only a small flash of fear rushed through me, but the warm, heady drunk of anticipation urged me on. I plunged to blade into my arm in the precise place its tip had chosen. I gasped in pain and delight, closed my eyes like a tweeker getting their fix.
“Emari!” Nick stood at the door, perplexed and horrified.
I started at the sound of his voice, like a child caught in the act, and jerked the blade from my arm. Blood dripped from the knife’s sharp point and I slid the dripping blade back into Ari’s body. She thrummed with my sacrifice.
“Why would you do this? Things are not this bad. Things are never this bad,” Nick scolded. He knew the reasons I’d cut myself before, why I fantasized about the cut, the pain, the blood.
I stood, hands raised in surrender as the blood continued to drain down my arm. “No, I didn’t…it’s not what you think,” I stammered in defense.
“How is it not what I think?” Nick raged. Disappointment and fear pitched his voice. In his mind, my need to cut myself was unfathomable now. My life was changed. He was here. The need should be abated.
“I…she,” I continued to sputter. “The magic isn’t complete without a venous sacrifice,” I explained. “She’s tasted my blood but the purity of the blood from my veins will bond her more tightly to me. She’ll do anything I ask now.”
Nick crossed the room, gripped my arms and gave me a little shake. “Emari, you scared the hell out of me.”
I could understand why such a scene might frighten him. My past wasn’t a bright shining star of chaste behavior. There was a history here. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I should have told you what I was doing first.” But you might not have let me do it then.
He petted my hair. “It’s just—the look on your face…” he shuddered as a conclusion. I pulled away and turned my face from him. He was right. I had reveled in the pain, the pop of my skin under the tip of the blade. But how could I explain that? “Emi, please. Don’t do that again. It was like….”
What? Like I’d plunged a knife into him? “I won’t. Unless—unless I need to.” I knew he didn’t think there was ever that dire of a need to rupture my own veins, but if that’s what it took to make Ari powerful, it’s what I would have to do.
Blood dripped from the crease of my elbow. The cut had been deep, down to the vein doctors use to extract blood gases. It would continue to bleed, worse than a needle prick because of the size of the blade. Nick went to the bathroom and retrieved some cotton, gauze and tape. He patched me up without a word.
“Nick?” I said as we headed out the door. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”
He pulled me against his chest. “God, Emi…” and he held me like he would never let go.
“I’m sorry,” I said again when his heartbeat continued to thrash against me and his arms remained a vice.
“Come on,” he said, and abruptly released me and clutched my hand, pulled me toward the door like we needed to evacuate the house.
“I’m sorry,” I repeated as we pulled into the garage at Sabre’s house and he hadn’t spoken a word.
He reached over and stroked my face. “It’s okay. Don’t tell me you’re sorry. Just please don’t do that again.”
“But…” I argued.
“If the magic requires blood, I understand that. Just tell me first. I’ll help you.”
“Okay.” Hmph! Spoil sport!
Tugging me by the hand, he led me to the warmth of the house.
* * *
“Tell me about her,” I asked Sabre a short time later, once we were alone up in his office. “What was she like?”
Fear flashed across his face as though I’d found the one thing that broke through the ancient shield he’d wrapped around himself. He sighed like the world rested on his shoulders.
“She was like sunshine.” He stared, unseeing, out the window. “Warm. Soft. She knew what I am and it didn’t frighten her, because her brother was like me.” In his eyes, I could see him journey to a
faraway place and time. Her light danced in his pupils and his love for her struck me like a tidal wave. My own heart lunged with the intensity. “I was nearly dead when Will found me bleeding on the battlefield after the Paoli Massacre. He sensed what I was. Because he was already Caphar. But when I awoke in an unfamiliar barn, I was afraid—that maybe he was just another Tory farmer out for colonist rebel blood. And I ran.”
Sabre turned and paced the room. These were things he hadn’t even shared with Nick, had taken great pains to hide from him. He stopped at the window again, and stared out of the frosty pane to the crystal night beyond.
“Will came to look for me,” he continued. “He watched out for me from a distance. When I awoke phased one morning, I believed maybe I really was dead, but he nudged me back to Earth, explained what had happened to me. He took me back to his home, a small farm just outside Malvern, PA. I met her there and I loved her the moment I set eyes on her.
“Will and Sarah’s parents had died,” he explained, then cast a wary look in my direction. “A fire in the barn. They were both trapped trying to save the animals. Will nearly died as well—probably had died—since, apparently, the death of the mortal body is the catalyst for the transformation. They were sure he was dead in the remains of the barn, but after a couple of days he staggered out of the woods.” Sabre fell silent, reliving the memories he kept hidden from prying eyes. Much like Nick’s memories of Felicia and Samuel.
“Sarah Rose was so beautiful,” he said without prodding, as though now that the cork was out of the bottle, he may as well continue to pour. “So beautiful. Golden corn silk hair. Sky blue eyes as vast as the ocean. Her mouth as soft as a peach, and as sweet.” Sabre turned from the window and glanced at me, reluctance at telling me such personal things shadowed his brow.
