Indie Saint: An Urban Fantasy Adventure

by VK Fox

  “She can’t do any more tonight! Leave her alone.”

  “Please! Please let go!” Jane was crying, her throat constricting with terror.

  “Hold still. I’ll get you free.” After a slithery whisper of metal on nylon and a small jerk, Jane could turn her head again. Her companion hurried across the ground as it changed from crunching leaves to skittering gravel.

  “I can take you to an ambulance. They should be here any minute.”

  “No! No, get me out of here. I’m fine, but I have to get home!”

  “Are you sure, honey? You’re pretty banged up.” The pace slowed, her rescuer’s voice thick with doubt. “Besides, you lost all your light. That can’t be good.”

  Banged up? What was he talking about? Whatever. She couldn’t face the scene that waited with the EMTs. There would be police, witnesses, questions, bills.

  “I’m sure. I’m fine. Nothing that won’t heal.” Her voice had a double dose of confidence she hoped would put any doubts to rest. “If you have some bottled water and can drive me home, that’s all I need. Don’t worry about the light. It comes and goes.” Her shoulder twinged, bringing on another wince. Jane covered it with a lock-jawed smile.

  “Were you blind before?” His voice was hesitant, but he picked up the pace.

  “It’s complicated.” Jane knew from painful experience this conversational road ended nowhere she wanted to revisit. “How much farther is it?”

  “Not far. We got the worst parking spot in the lot coming in but, thank the Lord, we’re close to the exit.” Her escort dispensed with all pretense of her walking the last stretch and scooped Jane’s knees out from underneath her.

  She wrapped her good arm around his neck. “Where’s your boy? Luke? Is he okay?”

  “My wife ran him to the car when things went crazy. You’ll see him in a minute.” Wind rustled her hair and she was jostled as the man broke into a run. In no time, a car door clicked open and a ding-ding-ding indicated the keys were in or the lights were on.

  Details like the texture of a crackly vinyl seat beneath her and voices chatting around her faded as haziness closed in fast. One minute she was sitting, the next, her cheek was on the seat. She automatically spoke directions for a few minutes, but the pauses between them grew longer and longer. No problem. She’d worry about it when she woke up.

  Chapter Two

  The kidney oozed a little blood on the cutting board, and Eileen took a step back. It would taste just like steak when she was done! No one would know the difference. Galvanized by her ability to make healthy food delicious and by all the vital nutrients the organ meat contained, she wiped her hands on her worn floral apron and stepped up to the counter.

  Eileen loved her kitchen. Both spotlessly clean and hopelessly disorganized, the sunny, aromatic room was her place to create, relax, and reign supreme. Her husband never set foot in this corner of the house, not even to do the dishes, but she’d accepted his uncooperative attitude years ago. To celebrate her emotional milestone, she made the kitchen hers in every way. Ruffled curtains with a cheerful bluebird pattern hung in the window over the sink. Small kitchen appliances, mixing bowls, and brown paper packages from the health food store lined the countertops and cupboards. A huge variety of teas and her secret stash of chocolate, hidden in a repurposed coffee tin, filled the pantry shelves. Her Gregorian chant CD played in the background, lending solemnity to the dinner preparations.

  She sliced briskly through the kidney, sectioning it into half-inch chunks, the story she’d read earlier wandering through her mind. Call 911. Your kidney has been stolen. What an awful thing. What depraved person would steal someone’s kidney? She gave an involuntary shudder. What was this world coming to if a good person’s body wasn’t even safe? This new generation—disrespectful, up-and-coming young people—was capable of drugging an innocent victim, stealing their organs, and leaving them in a bathtub full of ice with a note confessing what they’d done. Call 911. Your kidney has been stolen. Then the poor wretch was left to seek emergency medical care because they’d dared to have a healthy kidney someone might want. Eileen had spent the morning gathering any information she could find on the crisis before posting it to her online message board, First Alert. Still, her kidney research had led her to discover pig kidney was a superfood, so that was positive.

  Motion outside caught her attention, and Eileen peeked out the window. Was it the blue sedan again? The same unfamiliar car had passed her house twice this morning, and that was one time too many. It could have been a neighbor going out and coming back from a trip to town, but Eileen suspected someone was keeping an eye on the residents of Kennett Square, Pennsylvania.

  “Someone keeps an eye on everything,” she commented to her salt grinder as she seasoned the meat and set it aside to rest. “And if they knew I was publishing the truth, letting people in on all of their cover-ups and secrets, they’d shut me down. Permanently.” A shiver rippled across her shoulders. Running a message board that outed what lurked in the shadows was dangerous. Those things wanted to stay hidden. She was shining a light into all their dark little corners, and no doubt it would bring some trouble. One day, they’d come for her. She checked the street again.

  The sheriff’s car, silent but with lights flashing, pulled in next door. Everyone in town was preparing for the annual mushroom festival, and her neighbor Betty’s yard was festooned with more than a dozen three-foot concrete toadstools painted in elaborate motifs. The sheriff parked on the street, flipped off the lights, and picked his way to the front door.

  Betty answered before he rang the bell. Eileen watched the exchange through the window, Betty with her face in her hands and Sheriff Jenkins patting her shoulder gently. Oh no. Something must be terribly wrong. Eileen absently plopped the kidney in her heated cast iron skillet. She pulled out day-old banana bread muffins and warmed the oven. She would go over as soon as the sheriff was gone. Nothing consoles like muffins.

  Half an hour later, Eileen had her kidney-and-potato pie in the oven and a warm basket of muffins over one arm. On her way out the door, she noted the state of the living room: still a disaster from book club. Diffused sun through the privacy window highlighted a platter of half-eaten fruit and cheese on the coffee table. Mostly empty wine glasses cluttered the end tables. Copies of The Neverending Story were cast about the sofa and chairs.

  Eileen clicked her tongue. She hadn’t chosen the book, and she hadn’t enjoyed it. Why did everyone leave their copies with her? Now she had six copies of a book about a teenage twit who couldn’t find enough to occupy himself in the good life God gave him, so he’d had to go about inventing all kinds of ridiculous fantasy problems. Eileen kicked a copy under the table, giving an extra glare to the words “Do What You Wish” emblazoned on the back. What a stupid notion. People should do what they ought to, not what they wished to. George would have a few comments about the state of the house when he came home, but it couldn’t be helped—she needed to see Betty.

  Eileen stood in the cool evening sun and rang the bell. She smoothed a few loose strands of auburn hair back into her bun and checked her makeup in the door’s side window. She was still put together: light pink lipstick in place, faint blush over high cheekbones, and arching eyebrows penciled in. She whipped out a kerchief, spat on it, and rubbed at a small smear of blood on her jawline. That kidney was messy work.

  When the door opened, Eileen’s neighborly greeting died on her lips. Betty’s brown eyes were red and puffy, as expected, but the shovel in her hand and her muddy Wellingtons gave Eileen pause.

  “My goodness, Betty, what’s happened?”

  Betty stared at her shoes, a few tears running down her cheeks. “It’s Athena and Major. Something . . . Something ate them. Most of them, anyway. The sheriff says it was probably a coyote. They didn’t come in last night when I went out to call them. This morning I heard rustling in the tree line, and I saw—” Betty tried to talk through it but only managed some little strangled noises.
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  Eileen stepped forward and put one hand on the shovel gently. “Let me help you. No one should have to bury their pets alone.”

  Betty nodded and surrendered the shovel. Eileen entered the house, set the muffins on the table, and smoothed her expression.

  Work face on, she strode through the back door and onto the thin brick patio bordered by a small strip of grass and then a pine forest. Betty had started a shallow hole near the tree line next to an old tarp. The tarp might have been flat on the ground for all the lump the cats made. Their remains must be minimal.

  Betty stood by, arms wrapped around herself, staring into the trees. She was a short woman with thinning bronze hair curled tightly around her face, fashionably clad in a fitted navy blouse and pineapple embroidered slacks. She’d probably dressed up for the sheriff’s visit. Eileen gave a thankful nod to her plainer but more sensible clothing and started digging. The ground was soft, and in ten minutes the hole was two feet deep.

  “It must have been close to the house,” Betty remarked absently.

  Eileen hefted another shovel of earth to the side. “You should be careful for a while. This time of year all sorts of things are roaming around, putting on weight for the winter. It makes them bold.” Of course, coyotes weren’t anything for a grown woman to worry about, but six or a half dozen, there were more dangerous predators in the pines. It would do no one any good for Betty to sit in a false sense of safety. Eileen squared her shoulders and lifted the tarp.

  Heads, paws, and some gray, snaky bits that were never meant to see the light of day were the only parts left of the big orange tabby and the old calico. Poor little things. Eileen swallowed, kneeled, and gently slid the shovel underneath. Betty sobbed and averted her gaze. Eileen tenderly deposited what used to be her neighbor’s cats into the hole and turned to fill it in.

  Eileen froze. A print in the soft ground was unveiled beneath the tarp. She stooped for a closer examination. The sensation of dropping something, as if a small object had slipped from behind her ear, preceded a surge of vertigo. Eileen put one hand on the ground to keep from falling. The world grayed around the edges and a bead of white light, like a glowing marble, disappeared swiftly into the woods as stars popped into her vision.

  Well, now she was being silly. Get ahold of yourself woman, you’ve handled worse. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The oxygen went all the way to her toes. Eileen opened her eyes and shook herself slightly. Dizzy spells had occurred so frequently in the last two weeks that she carried Sunny D in her purse to keep her blood sugar up and give her an extra kick of vitamin C. Once they finished here, she’d have a sit down and sip a little.

  The print was cloven like a deer’s but ten inches from tip to heel. Next to the first print was a second, terribly mismatched: four fingers terminating in deep punctures from savage claws. Gooseflesh rose on her arms and neck. What had made this? Was it still lurking in the woods? Was it coming back? She tried to be covert about her glances to the tree line as she finished her grim favor. Finally, the last shovelful of dirt was patted down.

  “Maybe we should say a few words inside?” The energy in Eileen’s voice betrayed her nervousness, but Betty agreed, so there was no shame in it. The two women returned to the house, Betty indicating the shovel should be left by the back door next to the drippy plethora of paint buckets and the brushes soaking in turpentine.

  Betty put on the kettle and served the muffins while Eileen scrubbed her hands. Both women unwrapped the paper liners and broke theirs in half, but neither ate.

  “I shouted at them last night,” Betty confessed, close to tears again. “They’d rubbed on the wet paint. I’d spent hours painting the stupid mushrooms like Wedgwood. Major left cat hair in it, and I yelled at him. It’s my fault they didn’t come in.”

  “Now, Betty, you’re not to blame. These things happen. I know it’s hard. I still miss my Baxter every day.” Eileen’s mind went to her pretty hound, hit by a car in front of her house. Baxter had always liked to run; an open door was an invitation. The blankety-blank tourist who’d hit her hadn’t even stopped. Had almost a year passed? Maybe she could go to the shelter and make a new friend, especially if something was roaming the woods. Maybe a largish friend. She missed company on her morning walks.

  Movement outside the window caught Eileen’s attention as George pulled into her driveway. At the same moment, her pager went off. Code 911. A fellow First Alerter had posted emergency information. Eileen hopped to her feet, smiling her best “if I smile, everything will be all right” smile.

  “Are you sure you’ll be okay tonight, Betty?”

  Betty gave the only socially acceptable response. “Of course. Thank you for coming over to help me. Oh, and Eileen?”

  “Yes?”

  “I was so sorry to hear about your mother passing.”

  Condolences sounded strange. Her mother had been a lively, healthy woman, always ready with a piece of advice and fresh gossip. Then, two weeks ago, she had not woken up. No one could give an explanation except “these things happen.” Which sounded like so much garbage. Eileen smiled wanly at Betty. Someone should know what happened to her cats—and to Eileen’s mother. People didn’t just not wake up. Cats didn’t just get eaten in suburban backyards. Something had happened.

  “Thank you. I’m happy to help. Do get some rest.” Eileen put the cats, the footprint, and her mother out of her mind as she hurried home to greet George and check the message board.

  Chapter Three

  Sunlight woke Jane, long and golden, bright against her closed lids. Her hair reeked of smoke, and she was covered in dry, gray-brown dust from the field. Her shoulder throbbed in a makeshift sling. How had she gotten back to her apartment? She sat up carefully and took in her room.

  The efficiency apartment was filled with moving boxes in various states of disorganization. Some of the sturdier ones formed an end table next to an old love seat. This was the hearth and heart of her apartment life: an ashtray, a few survivalist magazines, used plates, and a collection of mostly empty recycled jars smelling strongly of off-brand Dr. Pepper and Aristocrat vodka. Jane’s best friend in the world—a box of disintegrating paperbacks—stood open, spilling out onto the floor.

  She stood. Nope, huge mistake. Jane sank to the edge of her bed, holding her pounding head while her heart raced. After a few minutes she gave it another go, slowly rising to her feet. She teetered carefully to the bathroom and filled a glass with water, shaking several ibuprofen pills out of a much-loved bottle. Boy, she was thirsty. She drank several glasses of water and took stock of her reflection. Sunken eyes, chapped lips. Her hair was a rat’s nest. That was the easiest to start on, so she pulled a brush through it. A chunk was missing in the otherwise long, wavy mess. Well, that explained how her revival friend had freed her hair. She examined the spot with a twinge of annoyance. Maybe she could undercut it or something.

  Jane found the cordless and dialed her boss while she took the pills.

  “Mm, hello?” Derek’s voice was friendly and overly cheerful. At least he hadn’t answered the phone with “delightful Derek” or “dreamy Derek” or “delectable Derek” this time.

  “Hey . . . It’s me. I’m running late. I’m not sure I can come in.” Her voice was husky with sleep.

  “Sounds like somebody had a fun time last night! This is Jane, right?”

  “Yes, this is Jane. I messed up my shoulder yesterday pretty badly. I shouldn’t lift anything.”

  “Aww shucks. Look, you party hard, but you’ve still got to work hard. At least consider coming in today.”

  “What?”

  “You didn’t show Monday.”

  “Right, sorry. I got mixed up.” Jane was groggy, and her stomach growled loudly. “So, what was the schedule for Tuesday?”

  “Surprise! It’s Wednesday. I’m thinking you should come in. Normally, I’d tell you to find someone to cover, but Jennifer H. is out of town, Anthony called in with the flu yesterday, and Jennifer S. is
busy. Look at all the trouble and disappointment I saved you!” She could imagine Derek’s face—genuinely pleased he was getting his way and being a good guy at the same time.

  Jane’s stomach cramped, and she opened the fridge: brown mustard, salsa, and flat soda. Unpaid bills under magnets hung on the door, almost a nice distraction from the Polaroid of her and her mother, smiling side by side. The photo caught her off guard every time. It stayed up because she could exactly picture her dad holding the camera, prompting her to say cheese. Why didn’t she have any photos of him?

  “Fine, I can be there in twenty.” She hung up before he could respond. Returning to the sink, she tried to drink more water. Food later, water now.

  Jane rushed through the five-minute necessities: deodorant, Listerine, and one of her rumpled work uniforms. As she worked through the routine, Jane tried to crunch numbers. She’d missed three days of work. Her paycheck was going to be painfully small. A side gig always sounded like the plausible solution, something flexible she could do when time allowed. The part of her brain that clicked on when she reviewed her rent statement informed her she could charge for her services. People would pay to be healed. She could take the money and use it for a constant roof over her head and decent food, and she would be healthy and rested enough to help more people—everybody wins.

  Except the people who couldn’t afford it. Did she want to be the kind of person who helped for money? Why did stories about heroes and saints never cover this part? How did they live? Jane’s mind wandered to Saint Francis of Assisi, who’d traveled from town to town without shoes or a cloak, begging for each meal. Maybe extreme poverty worked in Assisi. In Illinois, she needed shoes. Shoes cost money. This mental track always came frustratingly full circle.

  Face wiped and her hair in a ponytail, she rushed out to the parking lot to find the spot empty. Her car was still in a fucking cornfield. She let out a disgusted groan and hurried back inside to ask Derek for a ride to work.