by Renea Mason
“Irrelevant! Answer the damn question.”
“Are you sure that’s what you really want, Linden? Once I open this door, it can never be closed.” He stopped the car in the middle the road and then turned and stared at me. “Look at me.”
I turned my head but focused past him.
“If you plant both feet on this side of the threshold, you’ll be stuck forever on my side.” He shifted his head into my line of sight.
“That’s only true if you tell him.”
“Oh no, he has ways of finding out. If I open my mouth, you’re going to have to own the results.”
“I think I can handle it.” I leaned back in the seat and let out a frustrated sigh.
“I doubt it.” He let his foot off the brake and the car lurched forward.
“Try me,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest.
“This might take a while. I’m going to take the scenic route,” he declared while turning on his right signal.
Overton didn’t drive like a maniac; he drove like an old man. What a waste of a car. He drove even slower on the scenic route. All the better to extend my irritability.
“You know if you’d get the steering wheel moved to the proper side of the vehicle you wouldn’t drive like such a geezer.”
More laughter.
“Proper? You’re going to lecture me about proper? Linden, I’m in no hurry. I like to savor my experiences. Americans. Bah! Always think you’re right, always in a hurry, but late to everything. Care to drive?” His annoyance hung heavy in the car.
“No.” I resisted pouting.
“Then let me see, where to start—”
“How about you start with your birthplace, your childhood. Blah, blah, blah. Paint me the picture.”
“Someone might think I hit a nerve with how testy you are,” he said with a grin.
I rolled my eyes. “Watch it or I’ll start talking about your driving again.”
He snickered. “Oh, we can’t have that. As for your request, I would be happy to oblige you, but I was not born, rather…I was created. It all happened in London.”
His story held the potential of finally getting me some answers. Giving him my undivided attention, I found some of the politeness that abruptly left earlier. “Go on, please.”
“I don’t remember much, only bits and pieces, from before my day of creation. Cyril passed down stories to me. Named to honor my two donors and their host, I was created Stanton McMillian Overton,” he stated with pride as he turned onto another side road. “William Stanton, a wealthy self-made businessman, achieved much given thirteenth-century standards.”
“The thirteenth century? You’re kidding, right?”
He shook his head. “My day of creation was December twenty-first, 1262.”
“Hey, that’s my birthday too. Not the year, obviously, but the date.”
“Yes, I know.” His smugness was yet another reminder Overton did his homework. “William Stanton befriended Cyril while on a short stay in London. Cyril had gone to London to petition the king for the use of some land. Even though Cyril doesn’t need to receive permission from anyone for anything, he has always played by the rules when it comes to governments and civilizations; finds it best to blend in as much as possible. Cyril was in search of the energy-rich areas that result from the crossing of ley lines.”
“Ley lines?”
“Ley lines are magical currents running below the earth’s surface. They are meaningless to humans in most cases, but are excessively useful to Cyril. The places where the lines intersect are exceptionally rich in energy.”
As Overton continued he shifted in his seat. Did the story make him nervous?
“Stanton was at the castle and offered to guide Cyril to the land he received permission to survey. Cyril accepted, but Stanton instead led him to one of the mineral mines he owned where he planned to capture and enslave Cyril. The idea was to force Cyril to work in the mines. Someone with Cyril’s physique proved impossible to find. Most people back then were starving, or sick, or both. Of course Cyril eluded him, but the incident caught Cyril’s attention. He read Stanton’s mind and found his actions purely motivated by the desire to save his adopted son from a terminal illness, and to save the townspeople from poverty. Cyril was fascinated by the man and wondered, if offered a different solution to his problem, would he accept?”
Overton paused to grumble at a man who cut him off. “Ignorant sod,” he said, commenting on the sign language the other driver shot him.
“Over time Cyril became friends with a very intelligent and compassionate—his words—priest, Henry Overton. Overton knew about Cyril’s experiments and, when Stanton’s son got worse, he started pressuring Cyril to attempt a sou—”
“Overton! Stop sign!” How could anyone be such a bad driver while driving so slow?
“I saw it. I was just about to press the brake.”
“When, after you were in the intersection?”
“The offer to drive still stands.”
I huffed. “Just continue your story.”
“The priest offered himself as a sacrifice and suggested the same to Stanton. The priest urged Cyril to remake his, Stanton’s, and his son’s soul, so they might all live on to help the people and save the boy.”
He took a quick breath, and I interjected my slew of questions running in my head. “Merge them? Does that mean kill them? Are they undead? Cyril has fangs, are they vampires? Why three?”
“I thought I told you vampires don’t exist. Do I look like an undead vampire?”
I had gotten so lost in his story I forgot we were talking about him. “No, but are you saying he created you from them?”
“Yes. I don’t know why it takes three; you’ll have to ask Cyril. As for killing, you see that’s the problem; they never die. Their souls are trapped. They suffer an endless purgatory. This may be hard for you to understand with your limited view of the world.”
“Excuse me for my limited view.” I spoke in an exaggerated mimic of his accent and rolled my eyes again.
He continued without answering my questions. “On the eve of the winter solstice when the moon shone full, Cyril and the priest made their way to the mine. As the priest suspected, Stanton immediately accepted.”
He paused and glanced in my direction. Our eyes met for a moment; then he focused on the road. “Cyril spent several nights distantly observing Stanton and his adopted son, Riley McMillian, to make sure they were men of good character so they would not misuse their new powers. He could vouch for the character of the priest, and Riley was still a child. Stanton remained the only questionable one, but Cyril felt he might provide enough balance that the new creation could survive in his sometimes-gray world. He saw Stanton as a redeemable man, but one morally flexible enough to bend for the greater good.”
“So, he knew the end product would be the sum of its parts, is that what you are saying?” I shifted in my seat.
“Yes, he wanted to be careful not to unleash a monster on the world.”
“But uptight, superhuman, British priests are just fine? I wonder if the monster would be a better driver?”
“Save it, Linden. May I continue?”
“Certainly, Father.”
He glared at me.
“Eyes on the road. Your driving is bad enough without you giving me the stink eye.”
“Anyway…Stanton was on the brink of entire financial collapse when Cyril showed up that night and convinced him he had a chance for his son to live on, and a way to abate his misery. Everything weighed tremendously on Stanton.”
Overton’s brow creased. “That day Cyril visited the king, and concocted a story saying Stanton was thieving and had the king issue a hefty bounty for the recovery of William Stanton—dead or alive. The next day he approached the mother superior at the abbey and told her to visit the graveyard to the East just after midnight, and she would find something that would solve the convent’s hardships and she should share it with the miners. S
he agreed.”
“She didn’t ask any questions? That’s crazy.”
“Times were tough, Linden. You couldn’t possibly imagine the suffering. Any salvation for her congregation was welcomed. People died all the time. It was very different than today.” He reached over and patted my knee.
“Cyril expected the creation to retain the memories of each man, but what was created was new life, a mature blank slate with the exception of a few stray memories. Cyril is my creator. Most of my traits come from the three men, but Cyril also contributed a little to what I am. He later admitted to me he was compelled to execute his theory out of a selfish desire to make his friend immortal, but it…didn’t work as he hoped.
It was all so much to take in. “Are you saying Cyril killed three men and made you?”
He sighed, “Not exactly. All of their souls are part of me, very much alive. He took three lives and created a stronger, more resilient one. The man I am today is the culmination of Riley’s body, the priest’s compassion, Stanton’s pragmatism and Cyril’s essence. But of all, Cyril says the priest is my dominant trait.”
I had a hard time wrapping my head around all this. “Are those men dead?”
“Their bodies decayed. It was 1262 after all, but that’s not the crux of the problem. They live on in me, and can never be reborn or released. So in a sense, they are trapped. Because of this, Cyril will not entertain Making any further. It took him hundreds of years to realize the implication of his actions. Very much like when you add sugar to water it becomes difficult to separate. I have been Cyril’s closest companion ever since.”
“How does he do it; combine souls, I mean?”
Overton sighed. “I really haven’t a clue.” He shrugged.
“So what characteristics did you get from Cyril?”
He smiled. “Extra-long life, among other things.” The smile waned. “Linden, it would be best if you embraced him; you are far better off and honestly I don’t know if you two can stay apart now. Everyone makes mistakes, even Cyril.”
It was my turn to laugh. “Oh, we’ll stay apart all right. So what does he do, meet people, get them together in a room and say, ‘well, Stan, you’re nice but a little irritating. Bob, you’ve got a great sense of humor, and Harry, you’d make a great killing machine so let’s make you into one person I can tolerate, that will better serve my purpose.’ Is that it? Is that his plan for me? I know he just can’t wait to combine my sparkling personality with the hot blonde at 7-Eleven Maybe he wants to give her my brains; God knows she has some extra room in her head. Sick. Does he even have a conscience?”
“Linden, you should hold your tongue. You will find no better man than Cyril. You are far too great a gift to him. He fights to keep you safe from evils you cannot imagine, and he has a very important job. You should be honored to have his attention. He has never graced anyone with it before.”
“Ha! Sounds like he graced all those women in the bars with his…attention.”
“It’s not the same and you know it. Everyone has needs, Linden, some more than others. If you knew his history, you’d be more sympathetic. Besides, he has not made anyone since Dominic and has vowed to never do it again.”
“Dominic?”
“You might not remember him, but he waved to you while you lay at the bottom of the stairs.”
I groaned. “How many of you did he make and why did he stop?”
“Because of the consequences. None of the men’s souls can transcend this realm, or be born again. They have been locked in stasis. Of course, Cyril didn’t come by this knowledge until after he already created six of us. The only way to release the soul is to destroy us.” He paused to clear his throat, “I’ve thought many times about destroying myself to rid him of his guilt, but his curse makes things difficult enough, and I’m afraid my demise might break him.”
My mind in knots, I concentrated on the passing landscape. This was so much to digest, but after a few minutes I had to ask. “How is he cursed?”
Overton’s tone brightened. “Oh, here we are. I don’t think he is cursed, but he does. Let’s get you inside.”
Chapter Six
Figurines
Overton climbed out of the car, opened my door, and offered me his hand before I registered his actions. He had inherited Cyril’s speed.
“Really this isn’t necessary. I can see myself in.”
He smiled. “Nonsense. I don’t want to appear ungentlemanly. Besides, I’d like to make sure everything checks out. After the incident in the garden we can never be too careful. I’ll just make sure everything is in order and leave you to your own devices.”
Not wanting to fight with him, I climbed the stairs and unlocked the door.
Overton’s hands rested on my shoulders and moved me aside. “Let me go first, in case someone is inside.”
“Whatever.” I rolled my eyes.
He pushed the door open. I followed behind him, flipping on the light switch. My standard ritual ensued. After placing the keys in the bowl, I removed my shoes and coat. I didn’t offer to take Overton’s. He wasn’t staying. So caught up in his story, I forgot to turn on my cell phone while in the car. I pressed the button and waited for the cell phone company’s logo to disappear while Overton checked the bathroom. Fifty-two new messages! Every one from Clarence. Overton emerged from the bathroom and froze in front of my bookcase.
“Linden! Bloody hell! What are you doing? This is going to crush him.” The mixture of mortification and disgust on Overton’s face unsettled me.
Trying to figure out what he meant, I moved closer, but saw nothing. “What?”
He drew out his cell phone, pressed one button, paused a moment, and said, “You need to get over here now. I can’t even explain it. You’ve got to see this.” He pushed another button and placed the phone in his pocket.
“What?” I growled. “What on earth was going on? Please tell me you didn’t call Cyril?” I stalked toward him, invading his personal space.
“Where did you get those?” He pointed to the bookshelf.
“The bookstore?” Irritation laced my words.
“Not the books, Linden. Where did you get the animals?”
“Oh, those. I got them from…” What if I hadn’t imagined Michael? Was the dead man in the garden really him? “Michael.”
“Linden, are you telling me Michael Green, your late husband, gave these to you?”
Heat flooded my cheeks as irritation surfaced. “Why, yes, Mr. Overton, that’s exactly what I’m saying, but I don’t see what the big deal is.”
“Do you know what they are made of?” he snapped.
“Some kind of crystal or glass or something. I don’t know.” I tried to remove my condescending tone before uttering the last word. I failed.
He stared me down. “It most certainly is not.” He strode to the window and pulled back the curtains as if looking for something or someone.
My shoe clicked against the hardwood as I tapped my toe in frustration. Disgusted by his lack of answers, I decided to dial Clarence again. Before I could reach for my phone, the door flew open and in came Cyril.
“Just perfect! Why don’t you come on in, Mr. Aristin? So nice to see you again. Would you like a cup of tea? Thank you for showing up, so I can have the pleasure of asking you to leave.”
He ignored me. He didn’t even glance in my direction. He and Overton had some kind of silent exchange, and Overton pointed toward the bookcase. I wanted to scream fucking narc.
I focused my sneer on Overton. “And here I thought you and I were starting to get along.” Somehow I didn’t think shouting at him would make this situation less tense.
“How did you get here so fast?” Overton asked as Cyril turned away from him, heading toward the bookcase.
I scoffed and answered, “I’m sure he sprouted those big black wings of his and flew his grumpy ass right over.”
Cyril’s head snapped around and he shot me a death stare.
Overton laug
hed. “Linden, dear, Cyril can do a lot of things but flying isn’t one of them.”
I knew something Overton didn’t. Interesting.
Smirking at Cyril I said, “Oh, I beg to differ, I remember one night when…”
Then he was on me. His hand wrapped around my throat, forcing me against the wall. In a voice, low and threatening, he said, “I don’t think Stanton cares to hear your ridiculous fairy tales, thief! Besides, you need to save what little breath you might have left to explain why that is on your shelf.” He pointed an emphatic finger at the bookcase. His hold was firm, but not crushing. A warning I did not heed.
“You see it’s a bookshelf and those are books.” His grip tightened and eyes narrowed.
“OK. OK. Let go of me and I’ll tell you.” He released my neck but held onto my arm as though I might try to escape.
I stared at him trying to decide what to tell him.
“Any time now, Miss Hill.”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re a pain in the ass?”
Overton snickered.
Cyril’s nostrils flared.
“Fine! They are crystal figurines. Michael made them for me. Remember Michael, my husband?”
Cyril growled and clinched my arm tighter, still blocking me with his massive body and condemning gaze.
“Each day in the hospital Michael brought me one of those figurines and left them in my room with a note. Immediately after trying to save your life, I fell into a coma. Isn’t it funny, Mr. Immortal? Remember how I tried to save you? Oh, that’s right, you don’t. What is the big deal? He made me a present and you can’t handle it, is that it?”
“How long have you been conspiring with him?”
“Who?”
“Myghal. You recognized him in the garden, didn’t you? It was all a setup. Well played, Miss Hill. It’s not often someone can get one over on me. Maybe I should applaud you. But I am curious. Do you know what the statuary is made from? I think you don’t or you wouldn’t have it displayed like a layout for Better Homes and Gardens.”
“What is it? Tell me, since I couldn’t possibly have a clue.”
He smiled. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Acknowledgment is half the battle, is it not?”
