by G. E. White
He turned to face her, tracking the sound of Surina’s footsteps as she entered the alcove kitchen and dropped the bag of groceries in her arms onto the countertop. She moved over to the bathroom to snatch a towel with which to dry her dark wavy hair.
Surina, Sebastien mused, had always held a serpentine grace about her both in movement and thinking. Most would describe her build as athletic, the result of years of physical training. Others found her lightly tanned, Pashtun features hard to read thanks to the dark sunglasses that constantly shielded her eyes
“It was sunny this morning,” she reasoned, “why would I listen to you?”
“Of course, Surina; I mean, what could I possibly know about the weather forecast?” he asked, tucking a piece of his hair behind his ear.
“Mind toning down the sarcasm just a touch?” she retorted. “Besides, aren’t you the one who always says knowing changes nothing?”
“I used to say that. Though over the years some people – and I’m not naming any names – have caused me to reconsider my way of thinking.”
“Oh really?” she challenged.
“Si; knowing doesn’t change anything, it changes little.”
“That’s nice to know,” her tone expressing it was anything but.
Sebastien smiled. “Did you get what I asked for?”
Surina let out an irritated sigh and returned to the kitchen. She pulled a large bag of fruit from the bag and dropped it onto the counter top.
“Valencia oranges, just like you ordered,” she said. “Please tell me you’re making your Madre’s Orange Cake. It’s the least you could do for sending me out in the rain.”
“It was supposed to be a surprise.”
“And it was supposed to be sunny today, but here we are…You know, I’ve been looking after you for how many years now?”
Sebastien pursed his lips in thought. “About four.”
“It’s already been that long?”
“Ever since you left the temple.”
She ran a hand through her hair, the dull light, illuminating the streaks of silver in her dark tresses. “I didn’t realize I was getting so old.”
“Thirty is hardly old,” he chuckled.
“Maybe not for your kind, but for someone who only gets one ride on this rotating ball of dirt, thirty isn’t young. Anyway, you’re getting off topic. I was saying, I’ve been looking after you for four years now and when I signed up for this gig, I was under the impression that I was to be your bodyguard, not your errand girl.”
“Keeping me well-fed is essential to keeping me alive, you know. So technically you are doing your job,” he reasoned. “The rest of the gods and goddesses wouldn’t want me to starve.”
“Valencia oranges are a luxury, not a necessity. I’m starting to feel like a husband going out to satisfy my pregnant wife’s food cravings.”
“This body doesn’t give the luxury of becoming pregnant, but it does come with its own features,” the young man said gesturing to his sightless eyes, “I never have to look at Leo’s dumb face for one.”
“You’ve never seen his face before,” Surina reasoned.
“I still know its dumb-looking.”
“I’m gonna tell him you said that.”
Sebastien gave an amused snort at the non-threat, turning once again to face the window. He could feel the warmth of the sun coming through the windows as it slowly broke through the clouds, though it did little to lighten his mood as the information he had received this morning clouded his thoughts.
He could tell that it was just the beginning of what would become a much bigger problem if events were simply allowed to play out. He was hesitant to bring it up to his companion, but then again she would be the best to deal with the situation; if she could keep her temper.
“Something wrong?” she asked, pulling him from his musings. “I was joking about the errand girl stuff. Really, I don’t mind-”
“It’s not that,” he said cutting her off.
“Then what?” Surina asked taking a step towards him.
“The Earthen Temple…” he trailed off.
“What about it?”
“Someone broke into it.”
“That’s impossible,” she said shaking her head.
“Obviously not… Thuban was stolen,” he admitted.
Surina sank down onto the arm of the couch, a knot of dread forming in her stomach. A theft at any of the temples was a serious matter and the artifact that had been stolen made it all the worse.
“It has to be an inside job,” she said.
“I agree, but you know as well as I do, that means the other temples are suspect too.”
Surina frowned. She knew that Sebastien was right. Thuban was a piece of a valuable and powerful artifact, one of three guarded by three different temples. Should they all be collected and the artifact re-forged they would all be in serious trouble. “So what’s going to happen?”
Sebastien shook his head. “No lo sé.”
“You don’t know?!” she exclaimed. “You see past, present and future and you don’t know?”
“The future isn’t absolute,” he countered.
Surina rubbed at the lines beginning to crease her forehead before turning away from the young Seer. “Count me out.”
“S’cuse me?”
“I know what you are thinking – and no. Have someone else look into it. I’ve got my hands full as it is just looking after you.”
“But you know them – you’ve worked with the temples,” Sebastien pleaded.
“Yes, but we didn’t exactly part on good terms if you remember.”
How could he forget?
“It’s been a long time since then,” he assured her.
“Four years! Four years and they still haven’t elected new members to the House of Gemini – it’s considered cursed. I think they remember.”
Sebastien sighed. “Fine.”
“Fine?” Surina questioned, surprised that the young man had given up so easily.
“Yes, fine.” He turned from the window and crossed over to the chair he had originally occupied. He gently picked up the sketch he had been working on.
“No pleading? No minds games? No pulling rank?” she prodded.
“If you won’t do it, I’ll just have you find someone who will.”
Sebastien thrust the sketch into Surina’s hands. He spun around and stormed off to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.
Surina glanced down at the picture almost photographic in its details. It showed a blonde teenage boy with frightened gray eyes walking down the steps of the court house. A chubby balding gentleman stood beside him apparently guiding the young man through the sea of reporters that crowded him.
“What is this supposed to be?” she called after him, but only silence answered her.
Sebastien walked away from Surina and into his study, the subject of his latest drawing weighing heavily on his mind. His visions as of late, had revolved around the young man and Sebastien knew there could be no coincidence with his fixation.
The threads of Fate that were part of him, buzzed with familiarity that he could not ignore. This boy was somehow a part of them.
Ever since the Soul Calendria had been stolen over 30 years ago, tracking down the newest incarnations of the gods was difficult to say the least. The number of awakened gods was dwindling, and if they didn’t find them soon, by the time this generation of gods passed on, all would be forgotten and Sebastien couldn’t let that happen.
Crossing the study to the bookshelf, Sebastien reached up to the third shelf and felt along till his hands encountered what he was looking for. The smooth hard metal of ancient helmet was in shockingly good condition, despite having been used in the Imjin War of the late 1500s.
The helmet was one of many artifacts his various incarnations had collected over the centuries. Each had at one time belonged to one of the dozens of gods as they had worked their magic throughout history.
While many
of the items, a book from India, a necklace from Sudan, a doll from the French Revolution and several others belonged to gods not currently accounted for, it was the helmet that seemed to call out to Sebastien the most. Granted the helmet had been passed among several gods, but only one was its true owner
Plucking it off the shelf, Sebastien moved to set it onto his desk. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, that the god that this helmet once belonged to, was in fact the boy in his vision, but it was a feeling he couldn’t shake. And if the theft of Thuban was a sign of things to come, they certainly needed him.
~ Chapter 3 ~
With each step that Quinn took down the sterile white hallway four words echoed in his mind: ‘I am not crazy’. These had been the words Quinn had been repeating to himself for the last seven days. In truth, the mantra was probably the only thing keeping him from completely breaking down.
The past two weeks had been a nightmarish blur. The whole process of his arrest had been disorienting. He remembered only fragments: the musty smell of the library carpet as he was forced to lay on his stomach while an officer handcuffed him, the wail of the ambulance upon its arrival, the bright flash of the camera as his mug-shot was taken and the slick texture of the ink as he was fingerprinted.
Dazed as a deer in headlights, Quinn went along with everything that was asked of him. It was as if he was unable to think for himself. When he was placed in the precinct lock-up he simply sat there staring into space.
It wasn’t until the next morning that he was able to complete a coherent sentence. Yet it was one sentence that was used more often than not: I don’t know.
And it was true. Quinn didn’t know what he had been doing at the library that night. He didn’t know how he had gotten into the building and he certainly didn’t know why he pushed Officer Kendry.
The interrogation had proved only more confusing as the detective questioning him told the story, recreating his actions – from picking the lock, to his assault on the officer.
When the prosecutor arrived, a legal aid attorney was finally called. An hour later Artie McMullin, a plump and balding defense lawyer arrived and sat down with him.
At the beginning, Artie had been a blessing. The stocky man had a calming effect on Quinn. He explained his story as best as he could remember and it became obvious that Artie truly believed him when he said he no malicious intent when he entered the library. The confrontation with Kendry had simply been an accident. Quinn was so relieved to finally have someone on his side.
At least that’s how it started out.
Artie was convinced that Quinn had no idea what he was doing that night, but that very fact opened up a whole new can of worms.
The arraignment had been postponed two weeks, once by the prosecution who were deciding whether Quinn was to be charged as an adult, and once by Artie who wanted to gather a bit more information. This left Quinn to cool his heels in the Ashdale Juvenile Detention Centre. As prisons go, he supposed it could have been worse. Being one of the older and taller inmates meant that he was generally left alone, but that certainly didn’t mean his time there was a picnic.
Artie visited often, keeping him informed. Apparently, there was quite a bit of local media coverage on the case and there probably wasn’t an adult in the tri-city area who didn’t know the details.
Whenever a cop was killed or seriously injured people took notice.
Quinn guessed he should consider himself lucky that the situation was the latter; as he was sure had Kendry died he would be rotting in a provincial prison instead of a facility for youthful offenders.
Despite the fact that the officer had lived, though grievously injured, law officials wanted to make an example of him. At the beginning of the week Artie had come to break the bad news; while he was still being kept in a juvenile facility at the moment there was much buzz about charging the seventeen-year-old as an adult.
That is when things with Artie began to change.
“Listen Quinn, I know you meant no harm that night or even meant to be there. But that leaves me wondering what you were doing there. You say you can’t remember and I’m inclined to believe you… but honestly the whole thing makes me think there is something wrong with you medically. When they brought you in you were disoriented, almost non-responsive but certainly not violent. I even talked to Officer Kendry – and yeah, he’s pissed but even he says there was something strange going on with you.”
“So, what are you saying?” Quinn asked.
“They have you on tape Quinn, there’s no denying that it was you who shoved Kendry… Our only option if you don’t want to end up in prison, and I mean real prison is if we plea ‘Not Guilty’ by reason of mental disease or defect… I’ve already contacted an old friend to do an evaluation. She’ll be here in a few days.”
Quinn had been unable to say anything else during the course of the meeting. What could he say? Either he attacked the officer on purpose or there was something wrong with him. He realized something was wrong, but he refused to entertain the idea that he was truly crazy.
So, this is where it left him, an escorted trek down the now familiar hallway leading to the visitors’ room, where Artie and his colleague waited.
The guard inside the visitor’s room swung the door open at the end of the hall and steered Quinn to sit in the seat opposite an older woman.
He barely glanced at her; instead his gaze followed his escort as he left the room. The guard on the inside of the visitor’s chambers shut the door behind him, and leaned against it.
Knowing that there was no escaping this confrontation, Quinn turned to face the woman.
Most likely in her forties or fifties, she had a pinched face, made all the more so by the tight bun that pulled back her graying dark hair. By the look on her face, Quinn guessed that he wasn’t exactly what she had expected: probably some burly tattooed youth with a shaved head, or at the very least, someone easily capable of over-powering a seasoned police officer.
She must have been surprised to see that her suspect was no more than a lanky boy, with no overly developed muscles nor intimidating height.
Acutely aware of Artie’s absence as the woman scrutinized him, he voiced his concern. “Where’s Mr. McMullin?”
She blinked, and in that moment apparently decided that the young man in front of her was no threat. “Your lawyer thought it would be best if the two of us could talk alone. I’m Dr. Joan Lisbon,” she said. Her voice was soothing and reassuring as offering her hand.
“Quinn,” he answered, taking her hand and giving it a half-hearted shake. “So, you’re some sort of therapist?”
“Psychiatrist,” she corrected. “I’m guessing you know why I’m here.”
Quinn crossed his arms tightly across his chest. “He thinks I’m crazy.” His words were laced with both anger and worry.
“Not crazy,” she assured. “We’re just trying to make sense of what happened that night. Why you did what you did.”
“I already told him, I don’t know!”
“That’s why I’m here.”
Joan turned to a file that lay open in her lap.
“I’ve done a bit of research on you Quinn and I have to say that I’m a little confused as to what I’ve found.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
Quinn knew that there were holes in his life, but not enough for someone to find it confusing. Or at least so he assumed. He knew he was a good person and was certain that anyone who knew him well would agree. He worked hard, got good grades in school, stayed out of trouble and sure some might consider him a bit withdrawn, but he was never mean or obsessive about it.
“Well let’s see… According to your file you lived in a series of foster homes since you were about eight. There was a short time when you were around fourteen when you were classified as a runaway – is that correct?”
He snickered lightly, though there was little humor in the action. “Three months… thought I could do better on my own, learned qui
ckly that I couldn’t.”
“And you now live in a group home?” she prodded.
“Yeah, I’ve got housing until I graduate. It’s not as bad as it sounds,” he rushed to say. He knew many got the wrong idea about group housing, but the truth was he was happy with where he lived. “The building’s decent and the other tenants are really nice.”
“Yes, but my concern isn’t so much with what’s happening now,” Joan said. “While your life from your time in foster care up until now is well documented, there is nothing from the time before that – no birth certificate, no hospital or school records – nothing.”
“So, what are you confused about?” he asked. “You must have the police report and medical records from when I was handed over to CPS.”
Joan shook her head.
“Would you mind filling me in?” she asked.
Quinn was certain that she did in fact have the information, but if this was how she wanted to play out the situation he would tell her what he knew.
“Sure I guess…” he said with a shrug of his shoulders. “No one really knows who I am – not even me. Apparently, some old man found me washed up on the side of the river when I was eight; well that’s what they guess. The police were never able to track down my parents or figure out where I came from, so asking for an exact birth date was a little beyond them.”
“When I was pulled from the river bank I had no idea who I was or how I got there,” Quinn told her as he continued to delve deeper into the events (as he had been told them) that landed him in foster care. “Still don’t actually. I was wearing a jacket with the name Quinn S. printed on the tag in permanent marker. You know, like how some parents write on their kids’ clothes so they don't lose them at school.”
Joan listened intently, occasionally flicking her nails against her thumb as she took in his story.
"Seeing as they never found out who I was, there were no medical records," he concluded.
"Yet there seem to be a few that have popped up afterwards," she noted, tapping the paper in front of her.
"I broke my arm once when I fell from the school jungle gym if that's what you're talking about, but I would hardly call that a few."
