Miffy.
“Mrs. Wharfburn?” he began, once again turning his eyes downward to make sure of his footing as he took another step forward. He stopped about ten feet from the front door. “Mrs. Wharfburn,” he repeated, “where—?”
But he never got a chance to finish his question. A massive snapping sound erupted overhead and he instinctively ducked and covered his neck and head with his gloved hands.
Dana, get down, Deputy Coggins’ voice rang out in his mind, moments before a branch at least six inches in diameter fell to the ground just five feet in front of him.
After taking a moment to ensure that he was not hurt, Sheriff Drew raised his head cautiously. He was surprised by the lack of snow that the branch had lifted into the air based on what he had seen earlier. But when he focused on the branch, he realized why: it had not fallen like the sticks in the forest, flat on their side, with the small, capillary-like branches throwing snow into the air. Rather, this one had fallen thick end down and had driven itself into the earth like a spear. In fact, if Dana had come five minutes later to Mrs. Wharfburn’s Estate and had not seen it fall, he might have thought that this was the most bizarre place to plant a tree. And if he had arrived two minutes earlier, well, said tree might have been sporting a rather fleshy ornament by the name of Sheriff Dana Drew.
The sheriff exhaled and looked past the ‘tree’ to Mrs. Wharfburn who, surprisingly, didn’t seem to have even flinched.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice tight.
The cat—was it a cat?—yelped, and although Dana had never heard the noise that a sewer rat made, he imagined that this one was fitting.
“Me?” she said, incredulous. “I told you! Sheriff Dana Drew, don’t think that—”
Something in the foreground drew Dana’s eyes away from the woman, and he let her prattle on without taking mind.
Oddly, the area around where the branch had pierced the ground seemed to be devoid of snow. In fact—Dana squinted to get a better look—yes, he could see grass around the base of the branch.
What the—?
And then, even more unbelievably, as he watched, the grassy area around the shaft seemed to grow to a diameter of more than a foot.
The snow is... melting? How can this be?
Dana took a step toward the fallen branch, and as he did, the grassy patch that seemed to be growing before his eyes suddenly changed. The difference was subtle at first, but under his continued gaze it soon became more apparent: the grass closest to the branch—which he could now see had made a hole several inches larger than its actual diameter—seemed to be burning.
Burning?
Dana raised an inquisitive eyebrow and moved even closer to the hole.
No, not burning; that isn’t quite right. Singeing, maybe, or just plain dying.
“Sheriff Drew? Are you listening to me?”
The cat-rat thing yelped again, but the sheriff ignored them both.
What the hell?
The fallen branch seemed to have hit something buried in the ground—something that had long since been covered by feet of earth and grass.
He crouched and tentatively picked up a few sprigs of grass that had now turned as grey as dust. Even though they crumbled between his thumb and forefinger, and felt as much like soot as they looked, they were surprisingly cool to the touch.
Although his evil meter was not nearly as tuned as his ability to recognize the good folk, something in the back of his mind chimed like an alarm.
Something is definitely not right here.
Despite this sensation, he felt himself continuing to move forward, seemingly drawn to the branch sticking out of the ground.
As he started to lean over the hole, he picked up the scent of something—something thick and indescribable. It was then that Dana realized that he had to breathe deeply through his mouth in order to fill his lungs with the odd, heavy air. It reminded him of the time his chemistry teacher—how many years ago was it?—had brought helium-filled balloons into the class and had them all inhale the gas and then talk to each other in funny high-pitched voices. The next day, the teacher had brought in more balloons, but these ones weren’t floating to the ceiling like the ones filled with helium.
“Boron,” the teacher had informed them, and then under strict supervision, a few select students, Sheriff Dana Drew among them, got to inhale the gas. The heaviness of the boron in his lungs felt almost exactly like this. Although he didn’t remember anything about why the helium made his voice high-pitched or why the boron made him sound like Barry White, he did remember his chemistry teacher telling them that if you inhaled too much gas, it would sit at the bottom of your lungs and you would eventually pass out.
Did the branch puncture the septic tank?
With this in mind, he planted himself on one knee with the intention of standing. But, again, something caught his eye.
“Sheriff Dana Drew, are you even listening to me? Sheriff!”
The woman’s voice was so shrill that this time he was inclined to take his eyes away from the strange hole and look up at her.
Dana didn’t know if it had been the wind, or maybe she had been frightened by the falling branch after all, but her hair seemed taller somehow. Not just wilder or puffier, but taller. Even her forehead seemed longer, as if her face had been pulled upward from the crown of her head like taffy.
What the hell?
Then the stupid cat started meowing again, but not like it had been before—not the annoying, high-pitched yelps—but a different sound entirely; something deeper and more guttural. To Dana, it sounded as if the cat had breathed boron. And, to top it off, the ugly thing’s head looked stretched, too.
Dana closed his eyes tightly, trying to clear the strange images. When he opened them again, he found himself staring back into the hole surrounding the branch.
It was then that he saw the streaks of pink liquid—tight, controlled lines of what might have been some sort of bright, viscous paint—slowly migrating up the branch. And there was something else in the hole as well, he realized, a strange, bleach white shape amidst the dark soil. Something that gleamed the way only bone could.
The sheriff squinted hard, his head feeling light.
The white shape was clearly a skull, but it was different than the ones he remembered seeing on TV; the brow on this skull was thicker, more pronounced, and the lower jaw protruded as if the consequence of a severe underbite.
That should have been it. Dana should have stood, backed away from the branch, and taken as many breaths of fresh air that he could manage. But something tugged at him, some sort of nagging curiosity that he hadn’t felt since childhood. Despite the melted snow, freeze-dried—burnt?—grass, and the strange pink liquid, he found himself leaning even closer, and then, inexplicably, he reached into the hole with his hand and rubbed two fingers across the pink fluid.
“Hey!” Mrs. Wharfburn shouted, but her voice sounded far away, as if the woman were speaking into a tin can and he was listening at the other end of a mile of string. “Hey, Sheriff! What the hell are you doing?”
The pink liquid was surprising soft, velvety almost, which was confusing and alarming because it should have only felt wet. And it was cool, too, almost cold to the touch; based on the melted snow, he had expected it to be warm. Intrigued by these undeniably foreign sensations, he leaned forward, deeper into the hole, with the intent of feeling more of the curious fluid—was it sap? Some sort of fluid from the bark?—but as he stretched his arm forward, his forearm nudged the branch, moving it just a quarter inch to his left.
In a split second that passed so quickly that it didn’t fully register in Sheriff Dana Drew’s mind, his entire head was engulfed in a cloud of pink powder.
Chapter Two
Snowball
1.
Oxford’s Arm Started To itch even before dinner. The feeling began just above his wrist—a tickling sensation, as if someone were lightly brushing a feather against his pale skin. But as th
e tickling spread up his forearm, it left a trail of mosquito bites. In a few moments, he found himself having to exercise every ounce of his will to avoid tearing at his skin, desperately trying to remove the fiberglass buried beneath.
He stood alone, having since excused himself from the family din—which was surprisingly jovial, tongues loosened by the flow of mother’s red wine—and stared out one of the large front windows at the white, ubiquitous blanket of snow that smothered the lawn. A crack sounded from somewhere above the house, but the Lawrences had heard so many branches snap and fall in snowy puffs since their arrival a few hours ago that they barely took notice. Instead, Oxford found his mind drifting to earlier that morning, thinking back to the sight of the woman whose name he didn’t even know, her pale back riddled with boils staring up at him like the eyes of wild cats at night.
I had been doing so well, he thought begrudgingly.
Oxford shook his head again, trying to stop his journey down the winding highway of self-pity, as he was all too familiar with what lay at the dead end.
Another crack, and this time a giant branch at least three or four inches in diameter hit not more than a foot from his brother’s SUV.
Come
“You okay, Oxford?”
Oxford nearly jumped out of his skin, which, given the itching that seemed to now encompass the entire right half of his body, might not have been the worst thing in the world.
He turned slowly and found himself staring into his older brother’s pale blue eyes. Then he scratched his wrist, just once, and the sensation of his sharp nails even through his fleece shirt was nearly orgasmic.
“I’m fine,” he replied, his voice surprisingly hoarse and dry. He swallowed. “Just listening to the wind.”
Cody stared at him for a moment without continuing the conversation. He had noticed the scratch, Oxford knew; the man missed nothing.
“I’m fine,” he repeated.
The image of the needle poking out of the once soft but now tough, scarred flesh on the inside of his elbow flashed in his mind, and he forced it away with a deliberate blink.
Come
After another brief silence, his brother finally spoke.
“Yes,” Cody said, his voice calm and even, “the wind is loud, even in here.”
2.
Jared Lawrence Cleared His throat and brought his half-full glass of red wine to eye level. Even though they were already halfway through their meal, a particularly moist and delicious turkey—good job, Mom—the wine had caused his cheeks to redden and made him chatty; so much so, in fact, that he had decided it was time for a toast.
When the clanging forks and conversation continued unabated, Jared cleared his throat again, this time more dramatically.
Heads turned, and when the last Lawrence, little Henrietta, finally looked at him, he spoke.
“I want to propose a toast,” Jared began, acutely aware that his words were slurred. He didn’t care, though; the words were already on his lips.
Oxford groaned, and he held his thumbs out in front of him pointed downwards toward his nearly empty plate.
“We already had a toast!” Oxford exclaimed, but he too had been into the wine and was smiling broadly.
“I want to propose a toast,” Jared repeated, his own smile growing, “to you guys, for allowing me to bring Seth into our family for the first time.”
He turned to look at his partner, who was staring up at him with bright and—moist? Were his eyes moist?—glassy eyes. He laid his hand gently on the man’s shoulder, and Seth mouthed the words, “I love you”. Jared quickly looked away, fearing that he too might become overwhelmed with emotion.
There were eight of them at the table, including himself, and all but Corina were staring at him, their expressions ranging from proud—Oxford, Cody, and of course Seth—to slightly uncomfortable—Mom, Marley—to completely indifferent—Henrietta. When Jared’s eyes fell on the empty chair at the head of the table, his smile wavered, but only for a second. Truth be told, he and his father, Gordon—Gordon, never Gord—never had the greatest relationship, and he doubted that if the Lawrence patriarch had still been alive that he would have ever mustered the courage to invite Seth to join them. Still, there had been some good times mixed in with the bad and apathetic, and he occasionally missed the man. It was the first Christmas without Gordon, which was why they had all insisted on making the trek north despite the impending storm. Although it was clear to Jared that this reuniting was an homage to the man, them all coming together for the first time in years, they spoke little about him; the Lawrence way.
Jared looked first to his oldest brother, Cody; his downturned face kept darting in the direction of his wife, who failed to return his gaze. They were fighting again, that much was clear. And judging by the way Marley kept glancing nervously out the window at the snow that continued fall, it was obvious that Cody had dragged them here, and she was none too happy about it.
His younger brother, Oxford, was pale and unusually thin, even by his standards. So much so that Jared had a hard time believing that he was clean—for a man who had been given so much, so many chances, and yet continued to abuse, he was perhaps the most self-centered of them all.
And himself? Jared Theodore Lawrence? Well, he knew what his brothers were thinking about him… and it had nothing to do with bringing Seth for the holidays and everything to do with him missing his father’s funeral.
They were all selfish in their own way, and if for once they managed to open up to each other—something that the Lawrence boys had yet to master—it was clear that they would all have a lot to say.
Jared shook these thoughts from his head before he could be overwhelmed with guilt and made a conscious effort to smile even wider. This was a proud moment for him and Seth, and it would take more than a few memories to sour his mood.
“Thank you,” he repeated at long last, realizing that his speech—if you could even call it that—hadn’t really amounted to much.
“Hear ye, hear ye,” Oxford joked, the large smile still plastered on his pale face.
Jared watched as the man reached out with his glass and mimed a dramatic cheers gesture. The other Lawrence adults raised their glasses. Even their mother, all seventy-eight years of her, held her glass high and saluted him. Jared beamed, and they all indulged a little more.
* * *
Jared couldn’t remember who had suggested that they open one gift before bed, but he was excited. It was only fitting; their tradition had been to only open gifts on Christmas morning, but him bringing Seth and this being the first Christmas without their father, it seemed appropriate that their traditions be altered. And he was glad. Change is good. Shit, it was Christmas Eve, and if Mama didn’t mind, then he didn’t either.
Only Oxford seemed uncomfortable with the idea, and Jared surmised by the way he scratched nervously at his arms that he hadn’t brought any gifts. But that was okay. For Jared, the fun was in the giving, and receiving was just a necessary, and occasionally awkward, evil.
There was no Lawrence tree this year—that too had gone to the wayside with Gordon’s passing—so Jared corralled the troops around where the tree was usually placed, where he and Cody had piled several colorfully wrapped presents.
Slowly, with Mama still tidying up from dinner, they meandered their way to the various chairs and couches that were scattered throughout the family room.
Jared and Seth took the loveseat, with Seth sitting sideways, his knees pulled up to his chest. Not much of a drinker, the two and half glasses of wine had generously reddened his cheeks, and Jared could tell that the man was buzzed. The thought brought another smile to his lips.
Marley took the chair, what had once been off limits—“Gordon’s posterior only”, they used to joke—and she had Henrietta in her lap, the little girl’s eyelids drooping not unlike Seth’s. Oxford and Cody sat on the other loveseat that kitty-cornered his own, and they too looked a little sleepy. Only Corina was left without a seat, a
nd Jared instinctively slapped at Seth’s shins, encouraging him to sit properly. The man’s eyes widened and he jumped at the gesture, and Jared felt his smile grow.
“Come sit over here, sweetheart. We can squish,” he said to Corina, moving his body as close as he could to the arm of the loveseat and tapping the space between him and Seth.
The young girl—who all of a sudden didn’t seem that young anymore—gave him a queer look, her thin, light-colored eyebrows furrowing slightly, the corners of her red lips turning downward. She looked so much like her mother then that it was uncanny.
“No,” she said, “I would rather sit on the floor.”
Her smallish voice and flat tone seemed petulant and somehow accusatory. To prove her point, she moved toward her mother and sister and plopped herself down, pressing her back up against Marley’s legs.
“No, thank you,” Cody corrected her from Jared’s left.
Without turning, his smile never faltering, Jared flicked a hand at his older brother as if to say, “Don’t worry about it”.
Although times had changed, it had been hard for him growing up as a gay teenager, and he expected that it was hard for her to grow up with a gay uncle, too.
“That’s okay,” Jared said, keeping his eyes on Corina. It was Corina who eventually looked away, moments after her eyebrows relaxed and he saw something akin to shame cross her pretty features.
“Ma!” Jared shouted out the corner of his mouth. “Ma, come open a present with us!”
“She’ll come,” Oxford said. Gifts or no gifts, he was clearly eager to get things started. He made a subtle gesture with his chin at Henrietta, and Jared noticed that with every blink, the girl’s lids seemed to open more slowly.
He nodded.
“Corina? You want to help us out?”
The girl, surprised to be called upon, looked up at him.
“Go on,” Cody urged, not giving her a chance to respond.
Insatiable Series Omnibus Edition (Books 1-3) Page 5
