Sleepers Awake

by Patrick McNulty

  The Nazareth House was a sprawling Victorian estate that was larger than most townhouse villages. Bishop’s SUV pulled into the turnaround in front of the house and parked at the foot of a wide staircase meticulously free of snow and ice. Halfway up the stairs the arched front doors opened and a tall, olive skinned manservant greeted Bishop.

  “Welcome, Mr. Kane.”

  With the door closed behind him the butler asked if he could take Bishop’s coat. Bishop told him that he could not.

  “Very well, sir. If you’ll follow me.”

  The butler smiled politely before turning on his heel and heading up the wide staircase that spread into a landing leading right and left into the second floor.

  At the top of the stairs the butler headed right and Bishop soon found himself in a long hall painted a heavy maroon, lit by a steady rail of flame that lay close to the floor. On the walls hung framed pieces of parchment. The butler moved quickly and without sound through the hall, never glancing at the framed artifacts.

  They arrived at a set of tall arched doors, beautifully carved, depicting an intricate battle scene that flickered with life as it caught the weak golden light from the rail of flame below.

  “Ms LeClere awaits you inside, sir.”

  The butler stood away from the doors, appearing quite uncomfortable to be this close to whatever lay beyond. His hands were clasped below his belt, his face set in a subservient smile.

  “Do you require anything more?”

  “No,” Bishop replied.

  “Very well, sir.”

  The butler smiled, nodded politely and stepped quickly back the way they had come, disappearing down the hall.

  Bishop pushed through the heavy doors into the darkness within.

  The library was warmly decorated in dark wood and lit by a roaring fire large enough for a Viking funeral.

  Sitting in a deep leather wingback chair was the lithe frame of Madeline LeClere, her slender hand wrapped around a healthy glass of bourbon. Her pale face was coldly beautiful, with features as delicate as blown glass. Her eyes were depthless and reflected her surroundings. Staring into the fire, her eyes flashed through every color the flames had to offer, oranges, yellows and every derivation of both. As Bishop drew closer he saw that her eyes were a deep crimson.

  In the weak light Bishop made out a silhouette just behind her. He was a tower of a man, six foot seven and easily three hundred and fifty pounds, which put him five inches taller and a hundred and twenty-five pounds heavier than Bishop himself. As always the man was dressed in a beautifully tailored black suit, with a crisp white shirt split down the center by a simple maroon tie. The man’s bald head gleamed ghostly white, his eyes were shielded, even in this failing light, by small designer shades. Bishop had met the man several times, but knew him only as Mr. Abbadon. Besides the man’s size, the only other distinguishing feature was a thin, flat scar that ran horizontally across his throat. The old wound flashed in the weak light, glinting like the knife blade that had left it.

  Bishop took a seat across from Madeline in an identical wingback chair, separated from hers by a low round table. For a time, Madeline didn’t face him or acknowledge that he was there. She sat and stared, concentrating on the firelight as if deciphering some hidden message within it. Bishop’s impatient gaze drifted around the room from the fire to Madeline to the shadow of Mr. Abbadon who, as far as he could tell, never once took his eyes off him. Bishop gave him a little wink. Mr. Abbadon never moved. When he looked back to Madeline, she stared at him coolly.

  “We have had the recording of your interview with James Rayford analyzed.”

  “And?”

  The grating sound of Rayford’s screams flooded the comfortable library, ripping apart the silence. He heard his own voice ask over and over again, “Where is she? Who is Eve?” There was more of Rayford screaming and then gibberish that Bishop didn’t understand. Something that sounded like tonkrit?

  “There,” Madeline whispered.

  The recording was rewound and the final word tonkrit was repeated.

  “Do you hear it?” she asked.

  “I hear it, but I don’t know what it means?”

  “You asked Mr. Rayford where Eve was and he answered,” she replied. “Tonk-rit is their word for home, Bishop.”

  Bishop threw up his hands, palms up. “Okay. So where’s home?”

  The corners of Madeline’s mouth curled into a smile that froze the short distance between them.

  “Walk with me.”

  Madeline led him to a room off the library. Inside the room were three paintings set up on easels for display. Each had been painted in dark, haunting shades. Each scene was vastly different, but it was obvious that the same master had created them all.

  “Have you ever seen a painting like these?”

  “Yes,” he said. “In Rayford’s house. Over his fireplace. A ship at sea. It was like these. Beautiful.”

  “It seems these are given to the most loyal and most trusted. Over the last seven years we have retrieved these three from homes in London, Toronto and New York. We’ve had our wraiths search for the artist since then. And now, together with this home business, it seems we have our first solid lead on Eve.”

  Madeline produced a small glossy paper and handed it to Bishop.

  “This photo was emailed to us this morning by one of our contacts.”

  Bishop took the photo. Long dark hair, pale blue eyes. Beautiful.

  Madeline smiled, “So like her mother.”

  Bishop found it hard to breathe, as if the air had been sucked out of the room. The photograph trembled in his hand.

  “It’s not possible,” he whispered.

  “She lives, Bishop,” Madeline said, “and she’s come home.”

  The face in the picture was unsmiling, but her eyes looked directly at him, as if she knew she was being photographed. She wanted to be photographed. She wanted him to come. A coldness formed in the pit of his stomach. Its icy tendrils spread quickly through his body, numbing him.

  “Kill her, Bishop. Save us all.”

  When Bishop looked up, Madeline had left without a sound.

  5

  She wore a paint-splattered jean shirt and panties. Her small, bare feet were freckled with paint spatter. Blushing rose red, azure blue, freshly fallen snow white.

  The attic was small and heated by a droning little space heater that glowed bright orange. This was her space, from the exposed rafters to the crumbling drywall, complete with at least sixty years of peeling wallpaper and paint, accented with kids’ drawings and scribbled names. It was all her own. She glided over the worn boards, relishing the smoothness of their skin, polished by her feet and the feet of a hundred others who had used the old attic for everything from a child’s playroom to a local union office.

  She did not use electric light in her studio. It was too harsh, too mechanical and cold for her work, for her work relied on soft, warm luminescence.

  Petra painted at night, in the silence of the witching hour. When the sleepy town of Danaid was indeed asleep, she would awake. Hip deep in a flickering sea of golden candlelight, she was a creator of worlds. Her paintings were not stagnant snapshots, but a window on a strange and beautiful world that shuddered with life, a twitching, fluid present. She was a uniquely gifted artist, there was no question of that, but in the flickering candlelight the characters and scenes she created on the canvas seemed to vibrate. Backs undulated with breath, expressions darkened and bloomed with the whim of mercurial shadows. They were alive.

  In her studio she was a creator. A maker of worlds. She was energy.

  As she stood at the canvas, her brush poised, her entire body grew still. Her toned legs beneath the hem of the jean shirt, her delicate arms and hands, were bronzed by the warm light. Petra’s blue-gray eyes scanned the scene she had created, studying every inch, every drop and smear of paint. She waited, deliberating, deciding. Her world waited for her. Finally her mouth pulled into a smile that gr
ew, revealing a row of perfect teeth.

  She was finished.

  She pulled her brush from the canvas and spun on her heel. She moved with an easy grace that came only in the attic, and only in the near dark as if she were most comfortable in the shadows.

  At a scarred wooden table weighted down with cans of paint and drying brushes, she dropped her brush into a hazy glass of Varsol and set her palette down carefully. She removed the top tray from a red metal toolbox and dug through its depths, knocking aside tiny jars of half-used paint and spare brushes until her hand emerged with a crumpled pack of cigarettes.

  The three that remained were more than likely stale and definitely bent, but it wasn’t the taste she was after. This was ritual. She struck a wooden match against the table and sparked a tiny head of flame. She inhaled deeply, savoring every atom until finally she exhaled, blowing a column of gray smoke up into the rafters.

  Petra tiptoed into the bedroom with a cup of steaming coffee and winced when she saw the light of day sneaking through the cracks in the Venetian blinds. She set the coffee down gently on the bedside table and eased onto the mattress, silently scaling the bump under the covers until she straddled the mid point.

  Petra held her breath as she gently pulled down the blanket until she could see his face. Still asleep, lost in dreams, his eyes were closed, his mouth slightly open, and she loved him all over again. His brown hair was flattened to his skull on one side from the pillow and his broad chest rose and fell rhythmically with his soft breath. She leaned in slowly until she could smell his stale morning breath and wrinkled her nose. Sean’s eyes snapped open. Her breath caught in her throat, and before she could react she was thrown up into the air. She squealed as Sean rolled over on top of her and pinned her to the mattress. She was still laughing as he kissed her twice on the mouth.

  “What are you doing in here, huh? It’s only . . .” Sean said as he craned his neck to read the digital clock without letting her go, “six-thirty in the morning!”

  “It’s time to get up!” she said, bucking under him until they were on their sides facing each other. Petra whipped back the comforter, blasting Sean’s naked body with a shot of cold air.

  “Jesus! What are you doing? I’m naked under here.”

  “I know.”

  Petra slipped beneath the covers, wrapping her long legs around him, straddling him.

  “Okay, this is better,” Sean said, sliding his hands up over her warm thighs.

  She leaned down over him and kissed him lightly on the mouth. As always she tasted vaguely of cinnamon, but today he tasted something else.

  “Were you smoking?”

  “Maybe,” she replied.

  Sean cocked an eyebrow and slid up into a sitting position, pulling away from her as she bent to kiss his chest.

  “I thought you quit?”

  “I have, except—” she whispered, kissing the base of his throat.

  “You finished it?”

  Petra nodded, grinning broadly. “This morning.”

  “Congratulations, that’s great.”

  Petra stopped kissing him.

  “That’s not enough,” she said.

  “It isn’t?”

  Petra’s right hand crept down his chest, over his stomach.

  “Not nearly enough.”

  Sean smiled. He slipped his hands down her back and pulled her a little closer.

  “Well, you should be properly compensated,” he said.

  Petra’s hand slipped easily between his legs and Sean’s eyes slid closed.

  “I should get something for all my hard work, don’t you think?”

  “Definitely,” he whispered breathlessly.

  Sean’s hands slid up over her bare stomach, under her jean shirt.

  “It’s only fair,” he mumbled into her neck.

  Her skin was warm and soft and smelled of peaches. As he pulled her closer, she guided him inside.

  Her tongue slid into his mouth, slipping over his lips. Their kiss was broken for a second as her shirt was pulled over her head. Hungrily, their mouths locked together, warm skin moving together. His mouth found her nipple and she moaned, gripping him closer.

  As he pushed inside her they shared a breathless moment, but they quickly found their rhythm and were soon rocking gently.

  Her fingers laced behind his head as his tongue explored her throat. For the moment everything was forgotten as they rocked faster, building toward a climax.

  “Dad?”

  As they always did when this happened, they pretended that they could ignore Sean’s son, pretend he wasn’t there, or that they didn’t hear him. They gripped each other tight, trying to ward off the inevitable.

  “Dad? Where are my boots?” Kevin asked from just outside the door.

  “Hold on a second, Kev,” Sean replied.

  “Dad, I’m going to be late!”

  “I’m coming! I’m coming!”

  “Not before me,” Petra whispered.

  Petra’s laugh always made Sean smile, especially this laugh, her deep-throated laugh that seemed to explode from deep within her, the one that Sean knew she couldn’t control, and that she hated because of the snorting sound that usually accompanied it.

  “Shut up!” she whispered fiercely, rolling off him, trying not to giggle.

  Naked, she circled the bed and grabbed Sean’s jean shirt and a pair of sweat pants. She buttoned the shirt quickly and wrongly. Before she left she climbed across the bed to where

  Sean sat against the headboard.

  “You get to come and what do I get?” he said with a smile.

  She winked and kissed him delicately on the mouth.

  “I’ll make it up to you,” she whispered.

  “For now I’ll take the coffee,” he said, reaching for the steaming mug on the bedside table.

  Petra scrambled across the sheets and when Sean reached for it he found nothing but air. Petra sipped the hazelnut coffee as she stepped backward toward the bedroom door.

  “Please,” she said with a sly smile. “You weren’t that good.”

  Sean flopped back down into the bed, pulling the covers over his head as she slipped out the door and into the hall.

  In the hall, eight-year-old Kevin Berlin stood ready to go to hockey practice, dressed in his equipment and his heavy winter coat, but missing his boots. He looked quite distressed with his little white stocking feet sticking out from the end of his thick shin pads. He was a handsome boy, inheriting his father’s easy smile.

  “Hey, honey,” Petra said, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. “All ready to go?”

  “I can’t find my—” he stopped cold when he smelled the smoke that still clung to her. “You finished your painting?”

  Kevin moved slowly, almost reverently over the creaking floorboards of the attic toward the canvas. Petra was close behind, watching him intently as he neared the easel. When he got a little too close for Petra’s liking, her hand slid over his shoulder, gently keeping him from touching the still wet scene.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  The scene was dark and malevolent, as if seen through the gauze of fog. Forms could be made out if one stared, but as soon as they swam into focus the flickering light of the candles blurred their edges and cast the elusive characters into darkness. Kevin was mesmerized.

  “Cool,” he whispered. Petra beamed like a proud parent as she stood admiring her own work.

  “So you like it?”

  “Yeah. Oh, yeah, way better than the ones you did with the birds and stuff.”

  Petra stepped around Kevin, inching closer to the painting, close enough to gently trace the outline of the work’s focus, the small figure of a man, without actually touching the canvas. Kevin was entranced. He reached toward the scene. His tiny fingers outstretched, desperately close to the paint.

  Petra’s arm shot out and roughly pushed him back a little too hard. Kevin stumbled and fell.

  “Don’t touch that! Ever! Do
you hear me?” Petra shouted. “Do you understand?”

  Kevin stared up at her. Her eyes glowed like hot coals pinning him to the floor as tears rolled over his face.

  Petra spun around and bent over the painting, scrutinizing the spot where Kevin’s fingers might have touched.

  “It has to dry,” she whispered.

  When she finally determined that there was no damage, she turned from the painting with her temperature heading toward normal and found herself alone.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Petra found Kevin wearing one boot and digging through a pile of possible matches in the hall closet. She whispered his name but he didn’t look up or stop what he was doing. She crouched beside him, close enough to see his face in the shadow of the closet, his pale little hands sifting through piles of sandals, shoes and boots that littered the floor.

  “Kevin, I’m sorry.”

  “Okay,” he replied like it was nothing. Like an adult would, she thought, and she felt a pain in her chest.

  “No, honey, I really am. Stop for a second.” Petra slipped a hand over his shoulder but he pulled away, rolling into a sitting position on the opposite side of the doorway atop a pile of sneakers.

  “C’mon honey, really. I’m sorry.”

  “You pushed me,” he said, staring into his lap, his chin on his chest.

  “I know, and I’m sorry. I was stupid, honey. It’s . . . just a painting. I would never hurt you. You know that, don’t you?”

  Kevin nodded, trying not to cry.

  Petra inched closer across the doorway.

  “C’mon, what do you say? Friends?”

  This time when she slid her palm over his cheek he didn’t pull away. He leaned forward, walking on his knees into her arms. He buried his face in the space between her jaw and her shoulder and hugged her good and tight. After a moment his body relaxed in her arms and when he looked up into her face her smile warmed him down to his toes.