by Vered Ehsani
For you see, gentle reader, I shall be revealing secrets darker than Kam’s skin and more lethal than his nieces’ lion teeth. Though I loathe to do so, I am compelled in this installment to confess myself and in the process, I hope to unburden my soul of a great travesty committed against an almost innocent man.
You will perhaps think less of me after perusing these memoirs. But I am determined to finally and surely reveal the truth. There is nothing for it but to push on.
I won’t bother warning the fainthearted to cease reading and perhaps to select a book more suited to those who feel squeamish at the mere mention of dismemberment and blood letting. Truly you have proven yourself admirably on this point.
If however this is your first exposure to my notes concerning East African paranormals, I urge you to cease reading immediately, if not sooner. And if you ignore my plea, I shall not feel accountable for your broken nerves and upset stomach.
Now, let us begin…
Chapter 2
It delivers a certain shock to the nerves to discover that a long-dead and dearly missed relative is in fact very much alive, albeit stinking like a wet dog.
Fortunately for me, I have a stout constitution, bestowed on me from my father’s side. While my robustness is less than ladylike (according to my aunt, Mrs. Steward, who claims to be an expert on such matters), it has proven rather useful in the maintenance of life, limb and nerves. I owe that very unladylike constitution for saving me from various situations, including an attack by a giant Praying Mantis.
Still, and despite my vigorous form, I was overwhelmed upon meeting my supposedly dead brother who arrived unannounced and very much alive. As this occurred so soon after my temporary possession by a vile spirit named Mrs. Cricket, I think I may be forgiven for nearly collapsing in Drew’s arms.
Fortunately for me, he had grown substantially since I’d last seen him more than thirteen years previous. That he was also a werewolf only added to his physical stature. But it was his eyes that held my attention. Gone was the baby blue of a child. Instead, they were light hazel with an undercurrent of unnatural yellow.
Just like mine.
Just like a werewolf.
“You know,” I said softly to him, “I’ve experienced various encounters with werewolves. And this may be difficult to believe, but I’d never noticed that connection of the eye color.”
Drew’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Or rather,” I hurried on, “I’d dismissed it as mere coincidence. I’d reassure myself my eyes were a more subdued, less wild tone.”
“Wishful thinking,” Drew said, and despite his youth, he seemed old, certainly older than me. His face held lines that shouldn’t have appeared for at least another decade.
We were sitting in the main room of the house, on the same sofa, turned slightly to face each other, our knees touching, my hands holding his. I still couldn’t believe he was here. That morning, I nearly cried as I awoke, certain that the previous night’s visitation had been a dream, a most detailed dream in which I’d served him tea and asked him to stay the night.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered, for although I had been left orphaned, I had been adopted by our father’s sister. And while the werewolf that had infected Drew had also bitten me (as attested by my tattered right ear), at least my affliction had been mollified by my mother’s witch blood.
He shrugged, his gaze fixed on the coffee table with its imprint of equine hooves, courtesy of a possessed zebra that had had a passionate hatred for flowers.
“Drew, what happened that day?” I asked, but so softly in case he wished to pretend not to hear me, as he’d done last night when I’d asked.
He shrugged again and tugged his hands free of mine. His yellow eyes shifted to the front door and I had the impression of a dog trapped and yearning to run outside, run free.
He’s not a dog, he’s your brother, I reprimanded myself.
Yet the sentiment lingered, and his sad, soulful eyes and inability to look directly at me for more than a few seconds only emphasized it. What had he suffered without the benefits I had received from having a good lawyer and a set of relatives obliged by legal contract and social expectations to care for an orphaned relative?
“It wasn’t all bad, Beatrice,” he murmured in eerie answer to my unspoken question, his eyes twitching, his head downturned. “There were moments of felicity. Don’t mourn for me.”
“Well, of course not,” I said with more heat than I intended, even as my heart pained for him. “You’re not dead.”
He smiled, but it was the sort of expression one observes at a funeral in which the bereaved responds to kind gestures out of habit but the result is a faded reflection of a happy person. Or when a well-meaning attendee says it will be all right or some such trite comment, and what response can the mourner give to that save this watery smile?
I could see I would be unable to extract more from my taciturn brother, so I shifted to more practical topics. “Let’s have breakfast, then I’ll see with Mrs. Steward – that’s our aunt, Drew – I’ll discuss with her where you can make your room. Perhaps Mr. Steward would allow us use of his office…”
Drew leaned away from me, eyes wide, and interrupted my plotting and planning with a forceful, “No.”
“Well, to be sure the office is a rather small room,” I conceded. “But it does have a sofa that can be used as a bed in a pinch, at least until we find something more… What is it now?”
Drew was shaking his head, which is when I noticed how long, tangled and unkempt his lank hair was. It was in desperate need of a trim. “No, I can’t stay here, I mean…”
“Of course you can,” I said soothingly, or what I hoped was soothing, as I don’t often practice that tone. “The Stewards are family and despite their oddities, they’re decent enough.”
He leaped up with unnatural speed. “I can’t. I don’t… I’m not… I won’t sleep inside.” He peered through a fringe of dirty blond hair, his fists clenched, his lips pulled back to reveal strong, white teeth and very pointed, slightly elongated canines.
“Oh, that’s all right then, Drew,” I said hastily, wondering about his mental state. I patted the sofa and he reluctantly resumed his place beside me, but on the edge of the seat, his hands clenched, his elbows on his knees.
“Perhaps the barn?” I suggested.
His shoulders relaxed slightly. “Yes. That would be more suitable.”
I failed to see how, but had no chance to say so. Mrs. Steward chose that moment to waltz into the room, her every step bouncing with pre-wedding vigor. I sighed wearily, for I was desperately weary of the whole thing and almost wished my cousin would just elope with her bat man.
“Bee,” Mrs. Steward trilled. “Thank heavens you’re awake. My mind is abuzz with a dilemma. What shall we do about… Good heavens!”
By this time, Drew had again jumped to his feet and was stumbling backward and away from his aunt. The back of his legs hit the coffee table and rather than stop his retreat, it only increased his panic. He vaulted onto it and crouched down, eyeing an astounded Mrs. Steward.
“Mr. Steward, come at once,” she shrieked. “There’s a wild man in our house. Quickly!”
“No, it’s all right, Mrs. Steward,” I rushed to reassure her.
“What… Who… Beatrice Knight, what is going on here?” she demanded.
“Knight?” Drew repeated.
“I was married, now widowed,” I hurriedly informed him. “Mrs. Steward, this is my brother and your nephew, Drew.”
Mrs. Steward’s eyes all but popped out of her plump face and her jowls quivered. “But… But that’s not possible. He’s dead.”
“Apparently not,” I said as I grabbed Drew’s arm and tugged at him to step off the table.
“How very inconsiderate. Mr. Steward,” and she shouted with a touch of hysteria. “Come out at once. We have a dead visitor. Or rather, our nephew has come back from the dead.”
She watched as Drew hopped
off the table, his unkempt hair covering his face. “And he has much in common with that Mr. Timmons, a rude, vulgar and gruff creature as ever there was one. Mr. Steward, would you stop dawdling and come here. This instant.”
Mr. Steward hastened into the main room, tugging his robe about him. As he observed the scene, his eyes too widened but not in exasperation or dismay. “Imagine that,” he said, a smile brightening his bleary features. “You’re the spitting image of your father, you truly are. Minus the eye color, that is. Not sure where that comes from. Welcome, boy, welcome home.”
Mrs. Steward’s face reddened. “Home? What do you mean by that? The lawyer only mentioned one orphan for us to raise and care for and expend our meager resources on. Surely the boy is just visiting.”
I straightened up and cleared my throat to interrupt her, for once she started, Mrs. Steward could talk herself into a frenzy. “I hope it’s all right. I was thinking of converting the barnyard loft into a room for him, as he prefers to be out of the house.”
“Absolutely not,” Mrs. Steward spluttered. “We have enough people to feed here.”
Mr. Steward, in a rare display of backbone, gave his wife one stern look, stepped toward Drew and offered his hand. Drew took it hesitantly, as if unsure what to do with it, unaccustomed as he was to human habits.
“What my dear wife means to say, overwhelmed as she is with delight and emotion, is that you are most welcome to stay with us as long as you wish,” Mr. Steward said. “Even in my office, if you wish to be in the main house. Whatever you prefer.”
Mrs. Steward’s mouth gapped like a fish out of water. When she recollected her wits, she spun about and marched to her room. The slamming of the door shook the house.
“I suspect we shall not be seeing too much of her today,” Mr. Steward remarked with a small, triumphant smile.
And that suited me very well indeed.
Chapter 3
Life rapidly complicates itself when one’s family and circle of friends include a ghost, a werewolf, a bat man, an energy manipulator / identity thief and a possessed horse.
I’m not complaining, mind you. I’d never in my life to that point had so many close acquaintances who knew my own paranormal secret and were still willing to socialize with me. For my part, it was a novel experience, in particular because of my previous experiences with the paranormal. These had usually involved being bitten, chased, cursed and similar. My tattered right ear and a few other scars bear adequate witness to this fact.
Now here I was helping my werewolf brother set up his new home in the barn while a Popobawa – who just happens to be a delightful, handsome young man with the ability to transform into a giant bat — courted my cousin in the garden.
It was so pleasant that I found myself daydreaming: what if the remaining Stewards could be included in this strange circle? Then none of us would have to hide our oddities in this house, at least. What a wonder to have such a refuge.
Then again, Mrs. Steward had issues with Drew jumping on her coffee table and no longer being dead. What would her reaction be if he sprouted an inordinate quantity of hair along with a tail?
My idyllic fantasy was interrupted by the sound of hooves. Given my current network of acquaintances, it was not at all odd to see the town doctor galloping up on a zebra, followed by Mr. Timmons – an energy thief with a penchant for taking the form of his victim and harassing me with his vulgar humor — and his goddaughter, my best friend, Cilla.
Dr. Ribeiro slid off his unusual mount, wiped his brow with a well-used handkerchief and greeted me with a cheery grin, one I couldn’t help but return. He was as per norm smartly dressed in a three piece suit and tie with a homburg hat made of light brown felt, his beard neatly and precisely maintained. Such formal attire, despite the dry heat pouring down from a pale blue sky, amazed even me, accustomed as I was to the oddities of English fashion.
I was rather fond of the Goan doctor, despite (or because of) Mrs. Steward’s unhappy remarks regarding his Indian background. She didn’t think it appropriate that we had no recourse to a proper English doctor.
“A very good day, Miss Knight,” he said, his brown eyes warm as he swept up my hand in his. “So lovely to see you so very well.”
Given that I had recently suffered severe possession by a malignant spirit, I thought I was in fact doing remarkably well. I refrained from commenting thus, and instead returned his civil greeting.
“Oh, Bee, it’s such a marvelous morning, isn’t it?” Cilla trilled as she clasped me in her arms. She was rather un-English in her tendency to hug anyone in her proximity who would allow such a thing.
She whispered to me, “Uncle told me everything. How perfectly horrid. Are you and Lilly very much recovered?”
I nodded automatically, even as I gazed over to where Lilly and her Popobawa fiancé Mr. Elkhart sat on a blanket in the wilted garden. Were we recovered? Would we ever be truly so?
Lilly looked slightly worn, as a near permanent possession is likely to leave anyone. I squinted in order to view her energy field: she was there as before, but there was also clearly something different, a paranormal element the nature of which I couldn’t fully discern without my specially designed spectacles.
“Well enough, I suppose,” I replied.
Mr. Elkhart glanced my way, his dark eyes intensely knowing. Although normal ears couldn’t possibly have heard my exchange with Cilla, his weren’t normal at all. He nodded reassuringly.
By this time, Mr. Timmons had joined us and his hold on my hand lingered, as it was want to do of late. He studied my face with some interest, as if he didn’t quite believe my assurances.
“Really, I’m quite all right,” I said, involuntarily squeezing his hand before removing mine. I would’ve said more — about my concern over Lilly and the lingering effects of the possession — but Dr. Ribeiro was standing nearby, rocking on his feet while scratching between his zebra’s ears.
Mr. Timmons seemed to understand, his stormy grey eyes alighting first on Dr. Ribeiro and then on Lilly. He nodded, his unkempt mane of hair waving about his face.
I was struck, as Mrs. Steward had been, by a similarity in wildness between Mr. Timmons and Drew. But while Drew was wild in the timid, nervous way of woodland deer, Mr. Timmons was a confident predator, trained in the ways of human society but with the boldness to be able to abandon such etiquette as and when it suited him.
“My brother’s alive,” I said without thinking, as my thoughts lingered morosely on Drew’s unhappy state.
“The dead one?” Cilla blurted out and blushed. Mr. Timmons graced her with a reprimanding look.
“Yes, that one,” I said with a sigh.
“It’s very terribly inconvenient when such things are happening,” Dr. Ribeiro interjected with a side-to-side waggle of his head. “Dead people coming back to life and all. It is happening more often than most people are realizing.”
The three of us stared at him in amazement and I’m sure Mr. Elkhart hid a chuckle in a cough.
For the most part, I profess a reluctance to intrude on the privacy of a normal person and therefore I hesitate to study their energy. Of course, I make an exception if my investigative work requires me to, but otherwise limit my energetic studies to creatures that are clearly of the paranormal or supernatural set.
However here was a doctor who was able to train what is universally considered a beast impossible to domesticate and train. Such a man can hardly be described as normal. So I squinted my eyes.
Energy fields popped up all around me: the plants, the insects and the humans, layers of life beaming with different colors and intensities.
Dr. Ribeiro was clearly not normal, for there was a supernatural element to his energy.
I felt a thrill at discovering another human with whom I could potentially freely converse, but I withheld commenting on my discovery. His was not an obvious power such as shape shifting. It was quite possible that he didn’t know the source of his zebra training ability, a
nd I didn’t want to scare the young man off.
Mr. Timmons was scrutinizing me and I could feel his energy brush around me. I glared at him — for he was very cognizant of his powers — and he smirked shamelessly.
“Convenient or not, he is my brother, and I am delighted he’s no longer dead,” I said firmly.
“Of course, Bee, that’s marvelous news,” Cilla said, grabbing my hands in that enthusiastic, demonstrative way of hers. “I’m happy, no, ecstatic for you.”
“So where is your Lazarus?” Mr. Timmons asked in a bemused drawl.
“In the barn with Jonas,” I responded and led the way with some trepidation. I wasn’t at all certain how Drew would handle three strangers. Just meeting with Mrs. Steward had been traumatic. On further reflection, I had to concede that she tended to have that impact on many others as well.
I entered the barn first, the hay-scented darkness enveloping me in a cool embrace. The solitary ox snuffled, the two Steward horses shuffled, and Nelly, my nag who had been possessed by a serpent spirit and in the process had acquired a few powers of her own, nickered before belching contentedly.
Before I could call him, Drew dropped down from the loft and landed lightly on his feet.
“Most very impressive, sir,” Dr. Ribeiro said, following an appreciative whistle and a head waggle. “Most people who weren’t previously deceased would be breaking a bone or three. There are benefits to being undeaded.”
Drew stepped back, eyes wide and startled as he stared at the two men behind me. Jonas peered down from the loft, his face a dark, wrinkled apple.
“Drew?” Cilla whispered and stepped around me.
Drew turned to her and all tension faded into the shadows. He smiled, not that funeral-sad twitch of the mouth but a shy, happy uplift.
“Pricilla,” he said as he took her proffered hands and kissed them.
“Cilla, you know him?” I demanded.
“The young man I told you about,” Cilla replied to me but kept her eyes fixed on Drew, as if fearful he might disappear. “The one in London who was to follow me here and…”
