by C. L. Roman
Casting a glance around, Jackson didn't see a single thing he could use as a weapon. He'd left his gun in the car, and besides, he didn't want to kill the boy, just stop him from hurting anyone.
"Shit, shit, SHIT," the boy muttered. "You gotta believe me, Mr. Charlie. I didn’t mean to kill no one."
"Maybe he ain't dead," the cashier said. "Let me call an ambulance. We can —"
"No! Wasn’t no part of my plan to go to jail either. Ain't no one to take care of my little brother if I do."
Jackson heard the shuffle of footsteps pacing back and forth.
"Dammit! If my mask hadn’t fallen off, it’d be ok, but as it is…” The boy’s breathing hitched unsteadily. “I think I gotta kill you, Mr. Charlie. Can't leave no witnesses."
Without thinking, Jackson called out, "You don't have to do that, son."
The scrape of tennis shoes on linoleum shivered through the sudden silence, and he could picture the boy spinning around in surprise.
"Who's there?" the boy shouted.
"The man who can tell you that you haven't killed anyone yet. You play this right, you can walk away clean. Pretend it never happened."
"You think ol' Charlie here is going to forget he was robbed?"
Ignoring the sudden heat from his amulet, and fervently hoping that "ol' Charlie" had taken advantage of the boy's distraction to duck behind the counter, Jackson duck-walked down the aisle.
"You haven't robbed him yet, have you?" he asked once he reached his new position. "Just waved a gun around a little and broke his window. All that can be fixed. You shoot someone, and the law won't rest until it tracks you down."
"I'm good at hiding."
Jackson moved again, slipping around the first end cap to wind up next to the soda machine. "Murder's a capital offense. No statute of limitations. You'll have to hide for the rest of your life. Is it worth that?"
With a sob in his throat, the boy answered, "I ain't got no choice. Me and Tommy gotta eat, and no one'll hire me 'cause they say I oughta be in school." Bitter laughter bubbled out of his throat. "More like I ought not to be black, is what."
"You ain't gotta do this, Tim." The comment came from Jackson's left as the cashier spoke up. "I didn't know you was in such a state. I can help you if you'll let me. I'll give you a job here at the station. You just put down that gun, we'll work it out."
"You already told me you ain't gonna give no black boy a job, Mr. Charlie. Especially not one who just shot up your station. Folks 'round here don't want me to have no kind of chance, and you know it."
"I ain't from around here, Tim. You know that's true. I am a man of my word. You put down that gun, and we'll make sure you and Tommy have food to eat and a place to live. Won't be fancy, but you won't go hungry or homeless."
As they talked, Jackson sidled down the next aisle and came out behind the boy. Soundless, he moved up behind him and slipped one arm around his chest, grasping Tim's gun hand with the other. "Listen to him, son. Sounds like he's making you a real offer." Jackson's amulet glowed, then dimmed.
Tim twitched once, his grip tightening reflexively on the pistol before dropping it to the ground. It clattered on the linoleum and lay there, gleaming darkly in the fluorescent glare.
Jackson looked at Charlie. The man stood up, wiping the back of his hand across his hairline.
"Did you mean what you said?" Jackson asked.
A look of stunned confusion crossed Charlie's wrinkled face, but he nodded. "I can't hardly believe it myself, but yes. I did mean it."
"B-b-but what about your window?" Tim asked.
Jackson turned his eyes on the window. A rush of energy flowed out of him, swooping toward the gaping hole. Glass twinkled in the sunlight, flowing upward with an almost musical cascade of sound. He blinked, and the window was intact as if the shot had never been fired.
The dazed look intensified in Charlie's eyes, and his words came out slow and slurred. "The window is fine."
Jackson released Tim and rubbed at the amulet, which had cooled but was still warm to the touch. Weariness crawled up his body and his leg throbbed like he'd run a mile without rest.
"Well then," he said. "I guess that covers it."
"But..." Tim's eyes darted from the gun on the floor to Jackson's face and back again. "What about that?"
Jackson bent down and scooped up the weapon. "What about it?" He tucked the gun into his waistband at the small of his back and pulled his jean jacket down to cover it. His next words were unplanned, and a part of him wondered where they came from. "I think it would be best if both of you just forgot this ever happened."
A pulse of heat radiated from Solcruth. Charlie and Jim blinked in unison, identical blank expressions crossing both faces before fading away.
Charlie gave Jackson a confused smile. "Hello, Sir. How can I help you?"
Jackson's mouth dropped open. After a moment, he managed, "I uh... need some gas."
"Sure thing. Tim here can handle that for you."
Tim hurried out of the store to the gas pumps and Jackson saw him stare at the battered truck before stepping around it to fill the Apache's gas tank.
Jackson had just finished paying for the gas when Tim leaned in the doorway. "I'm real sorry, Mr. Charlie. I don't know what I was thinking of leaving my dad's... my truck at the pumps like that. I'll go move it now."
"That's fine, Tim. Then I need you to start cleaning up that mess over there. I don't know how that all happened."
Turning to follow Charlie's gaze, Jackson noticed an overturned chair and table in the store's food service area. That explained the second crash he'd heard, and very little else.
"Sure thing, Mr. Charlie." Jim hurried out to his truck.
Jackson followed him out the door and stared at the boy as he moved his old Ford.
Tim waved to him and hustled back into the store. Through the window, Jackson could see him setting the table and chair to rights, dusting them off and then talking to Charlie before heading into the storage area.
Shaking his head, Jackson climbed back into his truck and started the engine. With quick, efficient movements, he dismantled the pistol and tossed the pieces into the seat next to him before heading down the road. Every couple of miles, he threw another piece of the gun out the window until none were left.
Once the seat was empty, he let his mind wander over the events at the station, but every explanation he came up with fell short. Reading Gran's little leather-bound book had just become a top priority.
Chapter Eight
Evening color stained the sky by the time Jackson pulled into a parking place in front of his apartment building.
He hefted a small grocery bag from the passenger seat and pulled his duffel out of the truck's short-bed before trudging up the steps and into the building. Pushing the door closed behind him, he turned and found himself nose to nose with the mystery woman.
Her violet eyes widened, and she took a half-step back before ducking her head and moving to go around him.
"Wait," he said, juggling the two bags. She didn't answer, or even look at him, but twitched away and kept walking. "Hey," Jackson continued. "You could at least say hello after nearly running me over."
She jerked to a halt. "Running you over?" she exclaimed. "Seems to me it was the other way around. And that doesn't mean I owe you a greeting." She paused to glare at him. "Or anything else." She twisted the doorknob and stomped outside.
"Hey, I was just joking." Without a second thought, Jackson dropped his duffel at the foot of the stairs and followed her, the groceries almost forgotten. Something about the onyx-haired beauty sent a hum of sensation coursing through his veins. He couldn't help but wonder what kissing her would be like. "Wait a minute, will you? How was I supposed to know you were there?"
She shot him a look that could have curdled fresh milk but said nothing more. Jackson stood on the steps and watched her stride away from him, wondering how he had managed to so deeply offend a woman he'd barely spoken to.<
br />
When she turned the corner out of sight, he trudged into the building, hoisted his duffel onto his shoulder and went up to his apartment. Half an hour later, he had finished unpacking and put up a steak to marinate for his supper.
Picking up his grandmother's grimoire, he opened it to the first page. Across the upper third, in a fantastically complex script, was written, Being a Grimoire of the Family Tyrusali. Below that was a triskelion, or triple spiral, which he knew symbolized the three-fold nature of the world. His grandmother had taught him that much before he'd turned five. They had taken long walks in the woods together where she showed him birds' nests and taught him the phases of the moon. It only now occurred to him that those walks had stopped after his "accident."
Under the triskelion walked a black cat with her head turned to face the reader. A line of script supported her delicate paws. He thought it was probably a motto or slogan of some kind, written in a language he didn't recognize.
A door slammed, followed by hurried footsteps coming up the hall stairs. Jackson set the grimoire on the coffee table and opened his door an inch. The woman didn't waste time but strode across the hall. Pushing the door wide, Jackson stepped onto the landing. When she turned to him, startled, he tried a smile.
"It feels like we got off to a bad start. Why don't you let me make it up to you? How does dinner sound?"
She scowled. "You don't even remember me, do you? Why would I go out with you?"
The anger in her tone shoved Jackson back a step, and a flurry of images layered themselves over the woman in front of him. Memories of a child with huge violet eyes and long, dark hair.
"Maeve?" It wasn't a question. He knew, suddenly and without the slightest doubt, that it was her.
Her eyes rounded into huge orbs, clouded with fear and a tinge of...what? Hope? Joy? Jackson shook his head, and she was gone, her apartment door swinging slowly closed behind her.
"Wait!" he shouted and ran after her. The door hung open a fraction, showing him a darkened sliver of the room inside. "Maeve?" He brushed his fingers across the wooden surface, and the door swung silently back on its hinges.
The apartment was, as the supervisor had insisted, empty. Dust lay thick on the wood floors. Midway between floor and ceiling hung fading purple letters in an arcane tongue. A strange buzz filled the air, vibrating against his skin, thrumming against his eardrums even as it subsided, leaving the hair on his arms standing on end. Within the space of two breaths, the words and the hum were gone, and Jackson was alone.
Chapter Nine
A week passed. Jackson checked again with Archer to make sure Maeve hadn't rented the apartment after Jackson moved in.
"Nope. Told ya. That apartment stays empty by order of the owners. More than my job’s worth to rent that one out." The old man squinted in the morning sunlight and eyed Jackson suspiciously. "And it stays locked, ya hear? I don't wanna have to go cleaning up after no wild parties up there."
Jackson raised his hands in mock surrender. "No problem, Archer. I'm not the partying type."
Archer hitched his pants a fraction higher and stumped back into his apartment, allowing the door to slam behind him for emphasis.
Jackson stared after him for a moment and sighed. Shaking his head, he started up the stairs. "Maybe I am crazy, just like the CSM said."
As he opened his door, the phone rang, and he hurried to pick it up. "Hello?"
"Jackson, thank goodness." His mother's breathless tone had his pulse ticking upward before she said anything more. "You need to come home."
"Mom, I was just there. What —"
"It's Gran. She's... She isn't well, Jackson. Come home, now."
The steel in her voice convinced him as nothing else could have. He wrenched his case from under the bed and started throwing clothes into it as they talked.
"What happened?"
"Nothing happened, Jackson. If you'd been able to stay longer, you'd have seen..." Brenna's voice hitched. "The doctor says she won't be with us much longer."
A long silence clogged the phone line. Finally, Jackson sat down on the edge of the bed, his open suitcase half full beside him. "I'm on my way."
"All right. Drive safe, but don't waste any time."
"Don't worry Mom. I'll be there soon." He hung up and tossed a few more items into the case as he dialed his boss. After giving the man a quick explanation of the situation, he said goodbye and headed for his car. He didn't give a second thought to the grimoire, still laying on his coffee table where it had been gathering dust for the past week.
***
Several hours later, Jackson turned into the familiar dirt drive of his mother's house. Declan met him in the yard.
"You made good time."
"Mom made it sound urgent."
Declan's blue eyes, so like his brother's, darkened to cobalt. "It is." He took Jackson's case from him and gestured to the house. "Go on in. She's waiting for you."
Jackson made his way into the house on feet that suddenly didn't want to move. He tapped on her door, and it drifted open. "Gran?"
The sitting room was empty, and Jackson's heart stuttered in his chest. Taking a deep breath, he walked to the bedroom door and tapped again.
Brenna opened the door, relief making her features sag. "Go on in," she said and passed him on her way out.
Jackson slipped into the room, half-hoping Gran would be asleep, but the old eyes were wide open, beckoning him closer.
"Took you long enough, my Jackie-boy." Her gaze sharpened on the Solcruth, gleaming dully on his wrist in the dim light. "I see you're wearing her, as I told you to do. Did you also read the book, like I told you?"
Jackson stared at the floor. "Well, I..."
"You didn't." Her voice was soft and weak, but her stare could have pierced iron. "I knew it. You always were a willful child. This would all be a lot easier if you'd done as I asked. But there's no help for it now," she said.
"No help for what, Gran?"
Her expression softened. "I have something to give you, my boy."
"You've already given me enough, Gran. What about the others?"
"Don't you worrit yourself about them. They all have their own. But you, Jackie. You have a need greater than any of theirs. Besides, this is just finishing what's been started." She took a deep, shuddering breath and reached out to him. "And so, you'll please an old woman very much if you don't argue further. Sit down and give me your hands, boy."
Before he could think about what he was doing, habit pushed him into the chair by the bed and shoved his hands out to her. She clasped them in her own and gazed into his eyes.
"Now then, you mustn't be frightened by what is about to happen. And you mustn't blame yourself for what comes after. This is the way of things, and always has been." The wrinkles bunched at the corners of her eyes. "Which you'd know if you'd read the bleedin' book like I asked ya."
Jackson blinked at her, but she'd closed her eyes and was muttering under her breath, words he didn't understand. A familiar tightness stretched the air, making it hard to take his next breath.
As he drew it tortuously in, a glow surrounded their hands. The hair stood up on their skin, beginning at the knuckles and traveling up their arms. A shiver accompanied the change, drawing him tight as a bowstring in its wake until every muscle clenched in readiness.
"Gran? What are you—"
"Whisht! Quiet boy." She returned to the incantation, the words rising in a looping warble around their heads. The light intensified, spreading, filling the room, pressing through Jackson's closed lids in a brilliant rainbow of color.
The hum of magick rose between them, a pounding susurration that built to a roar, then suddenly stopped, leaving an ocean of silence in its wake.
"Tá sé críochnaithe, agus ní féidir é a dhíbhe," Gran said, and her hands dropped from his.
Gran had taught him some Irish growing up, but he only caught one of the words. "What's complete? Gran? What did you do?"
She co
llapsed onto her pillows, her cheeks sunken under pale skin. "I love you, Jackie," she whispered.
He grabbed her frail hand in his, kneeling next to the bed. "I love you too, Gran. Rest now. It'll be all right."
"Course it will, ya silly." She smiled at him, her eyes bright. "But not as you mean. My space in this world is closing, Jackie. It's time I was going home."
"What are you talking about? You are home, Gran."
The shake of her head was only a suggestion of movement, a gesture without force but full of certainty. "No. I loved John... your grandfather... so much and so I stayed. And then there was Ryan... and all of you. I don't... regret a moment of... what it's cost me. But John is gone... Time I was... going as well."
"Don't be daft," he said in his best imitation of her brogue. "You can't go. Who's going to tell me about the book?"
"The book will tell you... all you need... to know." She lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it. "Goodbye... my Jackie... boy. You'll be... all... right... I... promise."
She released his hand, her own dropping to the coverlet, and was still. He stared at her, willing her to breathe again, to open her eyes, but he knew she wouldn’t.
Jackson lowered his head and wept.
Chapter Ten
Back in Pilot Mountain after Gran's wake, Jackson could still hear the echo of her last words to him. How could she know he'd be all right? The buzz under his skin was more insistent than ever. He'd had to push the sub-dermal itch away over and over again on the way home. It rebounded as he climbed out of his truck and he stopped in front of the Cherish Apartments to focus on it. With an intense effort of will he shoved it down again, and limped up the stairs; focusing his attention on the next step was all he had the energy for.
"Jackson?"
The soft word jerked him from his fog, and he looked up. Maeve was standing on the upper landing.
"Are you all right?” she asked.
"Gran died," he said.
"I know. I mean, I heard."
