Mercy

by Rhiannon Paille

  Krishani couldn’t speak.

  He stared straight ahead at the overcast sky, the copses of trees on either side of the road flipping by as Elwen pushed the car to sixty. Nine years had passed since Elwen had kidnapped him from a hospital in London, in the body of an eight year old, and by some crazy miracle Krishani had lived. It wasn’t without its costs—doctors, surgeries, treatments, and schooling. Elwen insisted since Krishani was a young boy he needed to go to school like all the other young boys. And regardless of his true age, or his excellent memory, he needed to blend in. Krishani attended grade school in Leeds, but after Lower Sixth he couldn’t do it anymore. He was seventeen; he didn’t have a lot of time left to find her. She wasn’t in Leeds, or the UK, or Europe. Krishani wasn’t sure she was real until Elwen used his scrying tools to track North America and noticed Lake of the Woods had an abnormal energy signature. Elwen spent most of his time studying metaphysics, magic, and religion. That included subjects stemming to sacred geometry, ley lines, and ancient artifacts. He spent a lot of time working in museums. If there was something Elwen couldn’t do because of his lack of abilities, his intelligence made up for it.

  Elwen was certain the girl was in Canada.

  Krishani flipped the heater on, feeling the chill in the core of his bones, like liquid nitrogen being fed into his veins. He shuddered and held his hands in front of the heater, welcoming the warmth. As a Vulture, all he knew was the cold, an endless sea of it, except when feeding. Human souls were full of sunshine. It was one of the reasons the hunger became so intense, it was connected to the idea of being warm.

  In that world, warm never lasted long.

  And in the body he possessed, death was only another moment away.

  He couldn’t expect to live forever.

  Elwen turned at the lights. The town rolled into view, nothing but dilapidated buildings, commercial stores and bungalows on treacherous hills. Elwen stayed on the Seventeen until it became Main Street, the only quaint setting in the dismal town. Elwen pulled into one of the stalls on the street itself, in front of the Candy Corner. The strip had a bank, restaurants, and vintage clothing shops lined up along it. Storefronts saluted as though in uniform. Beside the Candy Corner was a store window with a big “For Lease” sign, the phone number in giant blue letters. Elwen went for the glass door beside the Candy Corner; “One Hundred Five” stamped on it in and unlocked the tumbler. Beyond the door was a double flight of stairs leading to their second story flat.

  Krishani followed Elwen up the yellowing steps, the walls clad in unfinished drywall until they reached the short hallway and their off-white door. Elwen unlocked two tumblers and turned the knob, shoving his shoulder against the door. His loafers didn’t make a sound as he crossed the wood finished floor and dropped his briefcase on the back of the beige couch.

  Krishani didn’t expect Elwen to say anything about what happened in the forest, but there was a reason Krishani made him pull the car over, a reason he made him wait while Krishani searched the area. His lungs threatened to collapse recalling the violet-rimmed hazel eyes. He hastily unzipped his combat boots and left them, trudging across the floor and falling onto the couch, his head in his hands. He listened as Elwen busied himself in the kitchen, turning on the tap, filling a kettle.

  “Was it her?” Elwen finally asked.

  Krishani groaned feeling nauseous. He tried to stave it off, and clenched his teeth. “Yes.” He didn’t have to look at Elwen to see the look of triumph and arrogance on his ancestor’s face. Elwen was right, the girl was there.

  Elwen neared the back of the couch and put his hand on it but Krishani refused to meet his eyes. “Does it hurt?”

  Krishani took his head out of his hands and stared straight ahead at the flat screen, the Xbox, the short bookshelves, and the latticed windows. He felt like his heart was tearing in two it hurt so much. He took a deep breath. “Yes.”

  Elwen patted the couch. “Good.” Krishani heard footsteps retreating and the sound of the fridge opening. “Are you hungry?”

  Nausea got the better of him. “No,” he said as he bolted off the couch and down the hall to the bathroom, pushing the seat up and vomiting. His arms shook as his stomach heaved, another mouthful erupting from him. He closed his eyes and tried to regulate his breathing but his whole body trembled as his knees buckled and he slid to the floor, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He fell against the wall, his eyes finding the ceiling until he had the strength to move. Bracing himself on the toilet seat he pushed himself up, slammed the seat down, and flushed. He turned to the sink and shoved on the cold water, using his hand to cup a mouthful. He spit it out and braced on the sink with both hands, fingers alive with tremors.

  He dared a glance in the mirror at himself: bloodshot blue eyes, sickly pallid face, wildly tangled shorn black hair. “Don’t die,” he told his reflection, hoping he could hang on long enough. She had no idea what kind of danger she was in.

  O O O

  Elwen stared after Krishani as he slammed the bathroom door. The white walls were jaundiced from the previous tenant’s smoking habits. They tried to repaint, but the yellowish tinge leaked through. Flecks of white dotted the baseboards, some quick attempt to fix the place before the sale. Elwen didn’t care for the flat. He took the first room on the right, making it an office with a futon while Krishani took the one across from the bathroom. It resembled an infirmary.

  In nine years Elwen hadn’t thought about his decision to take Krishani in and give him shelter from the horror he faced for most of his long existence. He regretted too many of his decisions to spread them all out in his mind, ticking off each one with a mental pencil.

  The girl was unexpected.

  He distinctly felt nothing but an empty void towards her. He knew her for a fraction of a millisecond in his own infinite existence, the impression she made on him scant. She was a catalyst, a means to the end of the Ferryman. His fingers gripped the back of the couch tighter as he thought about his conversation with Tor. He said Krishani would be the best Ferryman. He’d push the darkness away from Terra and light would prevail. Back then people believed in all sorts of obscure prophecies and Elwen hung on every word.

  But the land was full of empty promises.

  Part of him wanted to believe Krishani was in there somewhere, amidst the hunger and wretchedness. He saw it in the eyes of the eight-year-old boy he kidnapped nine years ago.

  Desperation.

  Remorse.

  Helplessness.

  Krishani didn’t want to be a monster any more than he wanted to be a hero. He was just a boy in need of a normal life. Elwen gave him that, even if it came with every medical procedure known to man and every drug they’d ever created. Krishani had a high pain tolerance, and an immunity complex. What Krishani took now would kill most people, but unfortunately, they’d reached the end of their rope. There was nothing stronger on Earth, and they couldn’t go to Avristar.

  Elwen sighed and rounded the island in the kitchen, the kettle steaming. He pushed the tin lid off the box and pulled out a tea bag, dropping it in a mug and following it with a splash of scalding water and milk. He pulled a spoon out of a drawer and stirred, sitting on one of the three stools on the other side of the island. A stack of paperwork rested on the end of the island, awaiting his signature. It was enough for them to live in Canada for a period of time. Elwen had diplomatic immunity, another perk of being immortal and knowing how to forge documents like a pro. Krishani had an official birth certificate, UK driver’s license, and passport. Nobody would think of him as anyone but Tom Norton’s son.

  The bathroom door opened and closed, followed by the bedroom door opening and slamming shut. Elwen sighed and sipped his tea, grabbing the stack of papers and a pen from the end table beside the stainless steel fridge. Elwen could handle the small details if Krishani could handle the bigger problems, like the girl that could kill them all.

  O O O

  Tor pulled into the gravel parking lo
t at Big John’s and stopped in front of a railroad tie. He turned off the engine to the Tempo, and pulled the emergency brake, cutting off a Billy Idol song. He hadn’t changed the cassette in twelve years, not since landing in a hospital in Lake of the Woods and giving Kaliel a normal human life. He threw an apron on over his jeans and muscle shirt, still as burly as ever and stalked around to the back of the diner. Charlie, the kitchen manager, stood by the corral, power washing the patch of pavement John had installed last year to bring the place up to code.

  It was the crack of dawn, the sun sending a mist of light through the tall evergreens surrounding the restaurant. Tor smiled. Charlie was a good guy for a human. He was built like a fridge, and belonged in Jamaica. Over six feet tall, long black and brown dreadlocks hanging to his waist. He wore restaurant scrubs, black slacks, the white apron folded and tied around his waist, a V-neck polyester shirt covering his thick chest.

  “Hey, Christian,” Charlie said, his face breaking into a smile, his Jamaican accent shining through.

  Tor nodded as he lumbered towards the back door. Charlie held out his fist and Tor bumped it. “Morning, Charlie,” Tor drawled, his voice resembling an unidentifiable North American accent. Tor used to speak every language ever created, but, trapped in a human form he could only speak about six of them fluently. At least it impressed the servers.

  He grabbed the handle for the walk-in cooler and stepped inside, surveying the perfectly organized shelves for the morning’s prep list. The thing about being inconspicuous and staying off the radar was you had to work really hard to make sure nobody recognized you. A low-key prep cook at a tourist restaurant in Lake of the Woods was the perfect way to watch out for Kaliel and anyone else that might show up. He didn’t mind the work, even though he used to be the High King of Lands of Peace. Being Christian De Luca was much easier than being Tor.

  He pulled out the veggies for the day which included an assortment of peppers, zucchini, carrots, onions, and cucumbers. Big John’s was a big deal in Lake of the Woods. They had a tavern attached called the Mineshaft, and a big patio overlooking the water. Most people coming to the area stopped by Big John’s at some point, whether for the food, the fishing, or the alcohol. Tor would have loved to bartend but that meant serving customers, and it meant someone might recognize him. The only people he wanted knowing him were the people paying him and the people working with him every day. That included John, Charlie, Smokey, Sweetness, and Jen, who refused to let him give her a nickname. Charlie’s real name was something he couldn’t pronounce if he tried and he half wondered what Kemplan was thinking when he created African languages.

  Tor grabbed a red pepper and began julienning it. In the past twelve years he’d seen Kaliel a total of sixteen times. Gordie Jonsson had a habit of taking his family down at the beginning of the fishing season, constantly trying to show his son how to use a rod and tackle. The rest of the summer Gord showed up once a week by himself. He’d order a burger and fries, spend the afternoon fishing, and head home. The past three summers Kaliel came with him and they talked about canoeing. She seemed happy, normal even, over salting her fries, dunking them in ketchup. She drank iced tea, yammered on about singing lessons and applying for the University of Toronto’s music program. Gord was a stoic listener, never interrupting her steady stream of teenage babble. She did her best to include him in the conversation, stopping every once and a while to ask him about the factory before launching into another long story about the dorms she could live in. Tor’s chest squeezed whenever he caught her talking about life after high school. She had twelve years of a normal life, but there wasn’t anything normal about Kaliel. One day she would wake up and know exactly who she was and exactly what she had done.

  His only hope was that he got to her before she did something stupid.

  Again.

  ***

  Chapter 7

  Heroes

  Maeva lay low for two weeks, doing chores, helping with dinner, cleaning her room. Nobody believed her about the boy. She hadn’t bothered to listen to the rest of the deferral that night, preferring to lie in bed listening to Adele until she fell asleep.

  But the dream came again.

  In it she was wearing something flowy. The forest was alive with fireflies and crickets. A rabbit darted through the brush as she skipped down the weathered trail, looking for something. Her slippers caught on roots and she almost tripped but managed to keep herself upright. Crashing sounds hit her temples and she recoiled. She longed to see it—maybe if she saw it again she’d be able to find it, but another part of her pulled back, forcefully making her turn and run in the other direction. She tripped over her own foot and landed on her face—waking with shock. She lay on her stomach, her mouth biting the pillow. She shoved herself up, a camisole and boy briefs making up her nighttime wardrobe. The clock read 5:00 am She tried to roll over and settle into sleep but the pounding in her heart refused to subside. Sighing, she launched herself off the bed and threw on a pair of long flare jeans, and traded the camisole for a purple tank top that read “Monsters Live Under My Bed.”

  She brushed out the curls and glanced at her dresser. Two jewelry chests sat on either end, both pressed against the mirror on the back. There was a doily covering a few scratch marks she made a few years ago. She set her hairbrush on it. In the middle was a smaller jewelry box, covered with gold embroidered red fabric. She undid the catch and pushed the box open revealing the golden pocket watch. She dragged her fingers along it idly, feeling the smooth center. She didn’t remember much about the day she got it. That was the day she fell off the monkey bars and bashed her head. There were hours of nothingness between the time she passed out and the time she woke up, everything in between a blur. When she woke, she was clutching the pocket watch. Nobody knew how she got it, but it was something she couldn’t part with. It felt attached to her in a weird way.

  Her mother tried to have it appraised a few years ago when they’d gotten into one of their infamous fights. She’d taken it out of Maeva’s room and claimed she was going to pawn it unless Maeva both apologized and did double chores for a month. Maeva couldn’t let the pocket watch go and so she did whatever her mom wanted, feeling sick inside for being so easily blackmailed.

  She shut the box and redid the latch. Her house felt like a prison, her room in the basement, which was the last left after Scott claimed the upstairs, made her feel alien to her family. She knew she didn’t belong with them and yet, her mother had photo albums of being pregnant, of holding Maeva as a baby in the hospital. There was no way she was adopted.

  She pulled on a pair of ankle socks. She’d only seen the boy for a few seconds, but those blue eyes permeated her mind. Every day for the past two weeks he crept into her thoughts and made her question her own sanity. Plenty of tourists came to Kenora in the summertime, but most of them stayed off the unmarked trails. She couldn’t put together how a freak storm rolled in, the boy appeared, she caused a fire, and was rescued by helicopter. No matter what kind of probation her father was trying to impose, it was Thursday. He was at work and everyone else was likely asleep. Grace used to set her alarm for 6:00 am when Maeva was allowed to use the canoe, but without the threat of Maeva leaving the house, she had no reason to lurk in the kitchen, waiting for her moment to sting.

  Maeva grabbed her backpack and tiptoed up the stairs, pushing open the creaky basement door and listening for noise in the kitchen. Hearing nothing, she turned the corner and tiptoed past the granite counters and put on her converse sneakers. She slipped out the back door and trailed down the stone path to the pier. Orange, yellow, and purplish leaves crunched underfoot as she crossed the dock, throwing her backpack into the canoe and stepping in. She zipped her lifejacket and took the paddle, defiantly pushing away from the dock.

  The water was rough, wind ripping across the surface. Maeva shoved the paddle in and worked against the current, wind slapping her face and making tears form. She frowned, disliking the sandstorm quality of the wi
nd, forcing the canoe through the choppy water. She headed south, skirting Treaty Island. She spied the same piece of land jutting out from the island; the shrub with deep green leaves had changed to light green and yellow. She pulled up; determination rifling through her as she tied the heavy rope around a tree, making sure it wouldn’t drift away before she returned.

  What her parents said about the boy was wrong. She wasn’t seeing things and she wasn’t wrong. The topic of group therapy graced the table for the umpteenth time since she hit sixteen but she wasn’t about to entertain the idea of talking about her problems with others. She couldn’t explain the dreams or the ever-present urge to go canoeing, hiking, anything that kept her outdoors for a few hours. They didn’t know how deep her estranged feelings went so this was all precaution on their part. She didn’t need someone to tell her what was wrong with her; she just needed to find someone who understood. She rounded the corner and her stomach lurched. Fire had spread through the trees, turning them into black ashy shadows. She stepped into the salt and pepper ash at her feet and ran her hand along the charcoal like bark, remorse sweeping through her. She took a breath calming the pending anxiety attack but a tear freed itself, sliding down her cheek. She hung her head.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, speaking to the forest itself. She loved everything about the forest in the summertime, from the first white blooms to the last crunchy orange leaf. She thought of the forest as a living, breathing entity. One that stood silent, sheltering them from harsh winters. She pulled her hand off the bark rubbing her fingers together smearing black marks down her fingers. She wiped them on her jeans then cursed herself for doing it. The heavy streaks of black stood out on her light denim jeans, something her mom would notice about her appearance instantly. She tried to rub it off but only succeeded in smudging it into her jeans even further.