Curse of the Sphinx

by Raye Wagner

  The clanking outside ceased, and as the door slid opened, Myrine shifted, singing about being close to where the watermelon grew.

  “How’s it going in here?” Athan looked from her to Myrine.

  Hope tried to smile, but the movement was forced, almost painful.

  “Myrine?”

  The older woman said nothing, and he turned to Hope.

  “Are you okay?”

  She shook her head. There weren’t words for exactly how not okay she was.

  “Do you want to go?” His fingers brushed her chin, and she looked up at him.

  “If you play with a cat, you must not mind its scratch, Athan.” Myrine’s voice was sharp.

  “Good gods!” He turned on his aunt. “Is this what you’ve been saying? You promised!”

  Myrine’s head bowed. “Cats, and bats, and lots of boys.”

  Athan grabbed Hope’s hand, practically dragging her as he strode from the room.

  In the doorway, Myrine’s face was cast in shadow, but her head was downcast, her shoulders slumped. She waved weakly. An apology or merely a farewell?

  The drive home was silent.

  “I asked her if she was a witch,” she confessed as they pulled up to her house.

  Athan sighed. “She was in one of her moods. I should have checked in with her before I took you over. It’s my bad, Hope.”

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  “She thinks she’s an oracle. She has visions, hears voices . . . She thinks she’s called of the gods and that she can see the future. But really, she’s insane. When she’s on her medication she’s docile. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not mad.”

  “But it scared you.”

  She wore her emotions like a coat, all on the outside. “Yes. But—”

  “No. I don’t want you defending her, or apologizing.” He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I let that happen to you.”

  But if Myrine was crazy, how did she know what she knew?

  “SO, ARE YOU coming tonight or not? It’s a three-day weekend . . .” Haley tapped her pen against the lockers. “You only came that one time, and I promise—”

  Hope shook her head.

  “You didn’t even hear what I was going to promise.” Haley pouted.

  “It doesn’t matter.” She grabbed her math book and slammed the door.

  “Of course it does. Athan will be there.” Haley waggled her brows. “You don’t want him to get distracted by some other chica.”

  Hope snorted. Since the disastrous dinner at his aunt’s house last night, she’d been avoiding him. “Athan can get together with whoever he wants. It’s not like—”

  Haley cleared her throat, and her eyes told Hope someone was behind her.

  “Really, Hope?” Athan stepped around. “I thought you said you wouldn’t break my heart.”

  The blush went from the tips of her toes to the roots of her hair. “We’re just friends,” she muttered.

  “Yeah, but there’s friends, and then there’s friends.” Haley pursed her lips and made kissing sounds.

  “Shut up.” Hope pushed Haley with a laugh. “You’re acting like you’re Eros-touched.”

  Haley rolled her eyes. “If the god of love had shot me, I promise I wouldn’t be making kissing sounds at you. I would be getting all hot and sweaty with . . . uh, never mind.” She grimaced. “Think about coming tonight, ’cause you should.” She turned and started running down the hall. “I’ll call you!”

  Hope shook her head.

  “You’re not coming to the river?” He leaned against the wall blocking her path.

  “Not you, too.” Hope stepped around, going through the door just as the bell rang.

  THE PEACE OF solitude was balm to her harried week. Hope responded to Athan’s and Haley’s texts with a definitive no. There was no way she was going to the river tonight. She just needed a break.

  But as exhaustion faded, worry wormed its way in.

  If only Priska had said where she was going . . . Maybe they could find her. Mr. Davenport had sent her a text Monday, telling her the same thing ‘stay put, no news.’ Was there anything Hope could do?

  Useless . . . She was completely useless.

  She blew out a breath and looked around her living room. The boxes from last week still sat stacked against the wall by the door.

  It was dark out, but purpose burned through her. A few taps on her phone showed there was a Salvation Army in the Dalles. It was late, but not that late.

  Hefting the first box, she fumbled at the front door and again as she pushed the button to release the trunk. The cool air tickled her skin, bringing goose bumps to her warm arms, but by the time the car was full, sweat ran from her hairline and soaked into her T-shirt. There were still four boxes inside, but nothing more would fit into her compact car. She’d just have to make a second trip later.

  As she sang along to the radio, the thirty-mile drive went quickly. Once off the freeway, she followed the directions to the alley behind the Salvation Army. It wasn’t until she sat the third box down that she actually assessed her surroundings. She crashed from the high of her impulsiveness, suddenly tempered by the risk of being alone in an alley at night. Stupid, stupid, stupid. While the Dalles wasn’t a big city, it was certainly larger than Goldendale.

  With the car off, she could hear music and loud, raucous clamor. At this time of night, and that kind of noise . . . There must be a bar nearby. Her heart beat a rhythm of anxiety, and she sped up to finish her task.

  The largest box of clothing was wedged into the back seat. Hope pushed it to one side of the car and went around to pull it out. As unease raced through her veins, her palms became clammy. The large box was awkward, obstructing her view, and she stumbled over the uneven ground. As she bent to set it down, inebriated chortling skipped down the alleyway.

  The box slipped from her hands, the contents spilling on the asphalt. The sleeve of her mom’s sweater landed in the gutter, the splash of red contrasting with the darkness around her.

  Even before she turned to the car, the fermented stink of alcohol wafted on the breeze. Two men, just more than shadows, came from the left, their drunken gait slow as they ambled toward her car. Even if she ran, she couldn’t get in the car before they reached her. She sucked in a deep breath.

  Adrenaline washed through her body, and her muscles tensed. The sound of her heartbeat pounded in her ears, pages of a book rustled in the wind, and then the sharp intake of breath from a man.

  The shorter man leered, and his brown eyes bespoke his mortality, and his smirk promised pain. His fist clenched the handle of something. A hammer? No, a wrench.

  The taller man’s gait was steady, and something about his features was . . . off. Wrong. Washed out. And . . . his eyes! Two solid orbs of pitch.

  Skia.

  She swallowed back fear as it clawed up her throat. Hope grabbed for the golden dagger in her back pocket but came up empty. In another second, they would be in striking distance.

  The human raised his arm, and instinctively, she moved. Stepping to the left, she hooked his wrist as he moved to strike, rotated her grip, and lunged behind him. She brought his arm with her, applying torque until she heard the snap. Before he had time to register the pain, she kicked his knees with the heel of her foot, buckling him to the ground. Not even a second later, he screamed. He dropped the wrench and clutched his shoulder.

  She spun to face the other attacker and dropped back into a defensive stance, her arms up in a guard position. The Skia chuckled, a ghostly wheezing sound. They circled each other twice, and Hope struck. She jabbed twice, measuring his ability. Fast and hard. He knew how to fight.

  “You are not as you seem,” he rasped.

  He reached as if to grab her, and she swung her left leg up in a crescent kick, clearing his arms. Before she brought the leg completely down, she shifted her stance and kicked him in the ribs. Sliding close, she delivered a hook punch where his liver would be, as if the dea
d still had their organs.

  He bent over, exposing his left side, and she slammed her elbow into his jaw. The Skia crumpled to the ground.

  Her legs trembled, and it felt like she was running through water, her movements lethargic and contorted. The warm hand of the man wrapped around her forearm, and she stumbled.

  Panicked, she lashed out with the heel of her hand, bringing her right hand back at the same time as she struck with her left. Over and over and over again. Using every ounce of force, she struck. Bones crunched and warm wetness covered her hands. Only when the man released her arm did she stop.

  Hope looked around for the Skia.

  The tall figure leaned against the wall of the alley, the shadows lapping at his feet, the weight of his gaze fixed on her.

  She shifted back into a defensive stance, waiting for him to attack.

  “Interesting.” He tipped his head. “Little monster . . .” He stepped into the shadow and disappeared.

  Hope gasped. Just like the other Skia, he was gone. Staring at the shadow, she inched forward.

  The Skia stepped back out, a black blade in each hand. “You know not what you’re dealing with, beast.” His hand arced back, and he threw one of the knives.

  Hope dropped to the ground, the air above her whistled. As soon as it had passed, she jumped up and ran to the car and fell into her seat. Her hands were slick with blood, and she struggled to get the key in the ignition.

  She glanced out the side mirror and saw the Skia standing over the body of the man.

  “Come on, come on . . .” she whimpered.

  The engine turned over, and she put the car into reverse.

  She was almost to the bridge when she realized she was shivering.

  She turned the heater on full blast, but her teeth continued to chatter. Too afraid to stop, she drove until she was outside her house.

  Safe, safe, safe, she chanted in her mind. But she did not, could not, get out of the car. She sat debating her fear, trying to talk herself out of her shock. She knew that’s what this was, and it was to be expected, even normal, considering. But it was all useless; she couldn’t move.

  Unconscious of time passing, she eventually became aware she wasn’t shivering or cold anymore. She glanced at the dash. It was well past two in the morning.

  She should go inside, wash up. The thought of the gore on her hands was motivation enough. She turned the car off, and as she pulled the keys from the ignition, she noticed her golden dagger in the cup holder. Right where she put it when she climbed into the car. She grabbed the blade, opened the door, and stepped out into the chilly night.

  I’m home. It’s okay. One foot in front of the other.

  In a sort of shell-shocked trance, she didn’t hear her name being called at first. When she did, she instantly recognized the voice, and she looked around for the source.

  Athan crossed her lawn in long strides. “Hope? Are you all right?” His approach slowed as he got closer.

  “Sure.” She attempted to mask her weariness. “What are you doing out so late?” She needed to distract him, to steer the conversation away from her. Her eyes darted to his truck parked on the street right next to her house. How could she have missed it?

  “I was down at the river, remember? I dropped Tristan off, and I was heading home when I saw your car running with the lights on. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  He was close enough that she could feel the heat rolling off his body. Unconsciously, she rubbed her hands over her chilled arms.

  The silence was uncomfortable. Had he asked her something? “What?”

  “I said, ‘Are you okay?’”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I dropped some boxes off at . . . at the Salvation Army.” She shuddered and forced herself to continue. “Just doing some house cleaning, trying to make the place looked lived in.”

  It seemed like forever ago that he’d been in her house.

  She took a deep breath to steady herself and smelled him, the sharpness of his soap, and the campfire that clung to his skin. He was staring at her with wide eyes, his head shaking. He took another step forward and touched her lightly, his fingers brushing her forehead. He withdrew his hand and looked at it.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Hope.” His voice throbbed with anxiety. “Why do you have blood on your face?”

  She reflected briefly, but words failed to come, and she stood dumbly looking down. The ground started to shake, and it wasn’t until Athan put his arms around her that she understood. She was trembling.

  He pried her keys from her fingers, and led her inside. Turning lights on as he went, he guided her into the study and pushed her into the overstuffed chair.

  “Shh, shh. You’re okay. You’re safe. You’re home,” he whispered, the cadence of his voice a soft lull.

  Eventually, she stopped shaking. She stuffed the dagger in between the cushions and grabbed the edge of her sleeve to wipe her eyes, but the moisture was sticky. One glance and her stomach rolled. Her sleeves were saturated with blood, and maroon splattered the front of her shirt, too.

  She pushed herself up and stumbled past Athan and into the bathroom. She dropped to the floor, and her stomach heaved. She vomited again and again, as tears rolled down her cheeks. She yanked her shirt off. She had to get the blood off.

  “Hope?” Athan came through the doorway and knelt next to her.

  He handed her a wet washcloth, and when she didn’t take it, he wiped down her face and hands, rinsing the cloth after each pass.

  She lay her head down on the floor and started to cry, a soft whimper, pleading for relief from the horror of her memory.

  “Shh.” His hand rubbed her back, the contact warm and comforting. “Shh.”

  When her tears stopped, he stood up. “I’ll be right back.”

  He returned shortly with a clean T-shirt and pajama bottoms. “I’ll wait out here while you get changed.” He closed the door behind him.

  She stood, looking down at the gore on her sweats. She peeled them off and threw them into the corner behind the door. She dressed and pulled herself out of the bathroom.

  Athan sat on the couch and patted the spot next to him. “What happened?”

  She sat close enough that she could feel his warmth, needing the reassurance that could only come from another human being. With a deep breath, she tried to explain. “When I dropped off that stuff, there were . . . two men. I hit . . . I hit him. I must have gotten some of his blood . . . on . . . me.”

  She looked up to see Athan gaping in horror.

  “But you’re okay?” He crouched down, and his eyes came into focus as he cupped her cheeks in his hands.

  She forced herself to focus on his eyes. Such a strange green. Like the moss on the trunks in Bellevue. What was he saying?

  “Are you okay?”

  She brushed her tongue over the roof of her mouth. It felt like sandpaper. “Water. Please. I’m . . . so . . .”

  Too exhausted to think anymore, she curled into a ball. When he returned, she took the cup gratefully and drank the contents.

  He sat next to her, his arm circled around her, his hand resting on her back. He brushed a tendril of hair back behind her ear. With his touch came warmth, and she involuntarily leaned toward him.

  “Just . . . sit here . . . a minute?” If he would just stay for a minute or two, she would be all right.

  “Sure.”

  He took her hand and she felt comfort. Peace. Her lids became heavy, and she fought to stay conscious.

  “Thank you,” she mumbled. She knew she should ask him to leave, or see him out, but she couldn’t make herself move. She felt the light touch of him tracing his fingers over her hand, and as she drifted off to sleep, she was vaguely aware of him humming.

  WHEN HOPE WOKE, her thoughts were already racing.

  She sat up, the memory of the previous night’s events crashing into her. She glanced down at her clothes, and while they were clean, she could see flecks of
blood under her fingernails. Her attacker’s blood. Her victim’s blood.

  Her stomach lurched, and she dashed to the bathroom. Throwing up bile, Hope retched until her muscles hurt, then rested her head on the floor until the churning stopped. The sharp tang of bleach burned her nostrils.

  Willing her rubbery legs to hold, she stood at the sink and brushed her teeth. Then, she filled her hands with liquid soap. With the water running, she scrubbed her fingers with her toothbrush, and then her palms. Suds dripped into the water, disappearing down the drain. Her skin was raw, and the water stung as she rinsed the last drops of her fight down the drain.

  Her body ached, and she was overcome by the urge to clean every part of her body present at the attack. She turned on the shower, and then remembered Athan. Was he still there? She turned off the water and tiptoed out into the hall.

  “Athan?” Her voice broke, and she cleared her throat. “Athan?” She looked in the study, the kitchen, the spare bedroom, and the living room. Finding herself alone in her own home and the front door locked, she went back to the bathroom.

  She bathed fiercely, scrubbing until her skin was tender. When the water ran cold, she climbed out. While she dressed, she remembered her clothes from last night, still behind the door.

  But the clothes were gone, as was the washcloth and towel she’d used last night. Sharp as the scent of bleach, understanding cut through her. She shivered as icy fingers of dread crawled over her scalp and down her back. She shut the bathroom door and climbed onto her bed. The panic made her ache for the familiar. She called Priska’s number, hoping but not believing. It went to voicemail on the first ring. With a sigh, Hope disconnected. Why bother leaving another message?

  What to do? She should leave Goldendale, move to another part of the state, or maybe another part of the country. She left all those boxes at the Salvation Army, and, no doubt, the cops would link her to the crime. She thought of the Skia and then . . . The man travelling with him was definitely alive. But humans couldn’t see Skia, which meant . . . Her head swam; there was a pounding, a constant thumping, and she closed her eyes in an attempt to seek relief from the incessant noise.