by Ninie Hammon
Bernie loved her scar, but then, Bernie would have loved leprosy if it made him a buck. He leveraged the disfigurement—a face scarred just like the heroine in her book—and created a marketing strategy around it that helped catapult The Bride of the Beast to the top of the New York Times best-sellers list. Her “Zara signature,” along with a wardrobe of “costumes,” straight black hair with bangs cut into a sharp triangle with the point at the bridge of her nose and blood-red fingernails combined to form an indelible trademark. Rebecca Nightshade, Gabriella’s pen name and alter ego, was a franchise.
Ty wiggled, his brow furrowed and he rolled over onto his side, then over onto his back again. Another nightmare. Or perhaps a sequel to the first one. He looked achingly vulnerable in his sleep, but maybe even more so when he was awake. He’d insisted on big, round frames for his glasses that made him look like a baby owl.
She gulped back tears. For the past eight hours, she’d refused to allow her mind to process the greatest outrage of the night, because if she’d thought about it while she was trying to get away, she might have frozen solid from the horror of it, stood like a pillar of salt. But she couldn’t dodge the reality any longer.
Yesheb had intended to use Ty as a sacrifice! Planned to stab her precious little boy in the chest and drain his life out as a blood offering!
She bleated a single sob, a little snort that roused Ty. So she clamped her hand over her mouth and merely shook silently as she cried. The sacrifice of an innocent had been her idea, like all the rest of it, the whole sick, ghoulish tale that had caught the fancy of millions of readers. And one of them used it to create his own distorted delusion, an insane fantasy that could very well get her son killed.
She cried for a long time silently, tears streaming down both cheeks and dripping off her chin. She rubbed Ty’s back as she cried, smoothed his hair, kissed his forehead lightly so she wouldn’t disturb him. Finally exhausted, she eased down from her sitting position and slid into the bed beside him. She slipped her arm under his neck and he rolled to her, his head on her shoulder. She inhaled the precious little-boy smell of him, lay back on the pillows and closed her eyes. She couldn’t possibly fall asleep, of course, but she could at least rest for a little while.
The light is golden and warm.
Or is the warmth golden and bright?
Gabriella often wonders that or something like it whenever she is transported to the place she calls The Cleft. She doesn’t know why she calls it that. Perhaps she knew once, but not anymore. The children who stepped into the snow of Narnia from out the back of a wardrobe were in a world that already had a name, and maybe The Cleft has a name, too, and she just doesn’t know what it is. Or perhaps The Cleft is its name. She always has a sense that there is so much more to know about the warm golden world of solace and refuge than she can remember, that the place itself is as old as time and her history with it is far more complicated than she’s ever tried to discover. She suspects the place is magical beyond her wildest dreams and more powerful than any force she’s ever encountered.
But she doesn’t really care. It’s not important to her to know. She is content to stay here in the warm, golden glow because it is above all else profoundly good. And safe. Here no harm can come to her and that in itself is all the mystery and power Gabriella has ever needed.
She was only a child when she first came here. She has come dozens of times in the years since and the place has changed in those years. Or perhaps it is that Gabriella has changed and the ancient place of safety has remained exactly the same.
At the very least, her perceptions of it have changed because in the beginning it was a much more specific, detailed, real-life place, with real world attributes. Dirt on the ground. The smell of pine in the air. Cold stone, bright lights and a distant rumbling sound like a bowling alley next door. Now it has taken on that blurred-around-the-edges quality of dreams and fantasies with nothing at all that is substantial or earthly.
But one thing that hasn’t changed over time is the beauty of the glow itself, the golden light that is the color of the amber stones in the room in the house where precious treasures were kept when she was a child in cabinets she wasn’t allowed to touch. The glow shifts through amber, caramel and yellow like the colors in a kaleidoscope, and grants her brother’s pale face the hue of a brown-toast suntan.
Garrett smiles at her. He has no front teeth and the gap-toothed grin is indescribably endearing. He speaks, but she doesn’t hear. Either the distant booming drowns his words or the glow itself absorbs them because here there is no need for language.
Drumma du, Gabriella. Twin speak for I love you. Maybe Garrett says it, or maybe he doesn’t but she hears the truth of it all the same.
Drumma du, too, Garrett.
Sometimes it’s Ty’s face instead of Garrett’s.
But it’s never Grant’s face. Grant’s dead and it is her fault. Hers and Garrett’s. She understands that and what it means with a profound despair that is far beyond a child’s ability to process.
And with that thought the sense of goodness, hope and safety fades and the glow dims like a dying candle and goes out.
By then, Gabriella was asleep.
When she awoke, a wisp of the golden-glow fantasy/dream blew through her mind like a tiny cloud driven before a mighty wind. Then it was gone. The room was no longer filled with morning sunshine. The sun was on the other side of the house now; it was early afternoon. The space beside her was vacant, the sheets cold.
She raised up on one elbow. Her mouth tasted like old tennis shoes and her eyes were gravelly. She was rested, though. Perhaps she’d gone to The Cleft. She suspected she’d dreamed of it again because she felt calm and relaxed as she always did when she awoke after dreaming about it. But more than that, she felt a sense of purpose now. At some point during the night—or during the dream—she had made a decision. She knew what she had to do—whether Bernie liked it or not. And he definitely wouldn’t like it. Whether Ty or Theo liked it or not, and she couldn’t predict how the two of them might respond.
There was a knock at the door.
“Who is it?”
“I left you something to wear,” Bernie called through the door. “On the chair.”
Gabriella rolled off the bed and got to her feet. She was dressed in a t-shirt Bernie had given her last night to replace the bloody white nightgown she’d arrived in. The dress draped over the chair was black—of course—and floor-length, made of satin. It had long sleeves flared at the ends and scalloped—like a bat’s wings—with black lace at the neck and around the hem. She recognized it as one of the rejects. Bernie had provided dozens of costumes like this for her appearances at events and book signings and this was one of several she’d refused to wear. It was too low cut, showed too much cleavage.
She sighed. The dress was better than wrapping herself in a sheet.
She was tugging upward on the lace in front a few minutes later, trying to pull it up to her chin, when there was another knock at the door.
“It’s me, Gabby.” Bernie again.
Bernie was the only person in her life who called her Gabby. She hated it. But that was the least of the bones she had to pick with her ever-offensive literary agent who raked his 15 percent off the top, spoke for her and about her but only rarely to her. Smokey had talked her into hiring Bernie to sell her book during that period in their marriage when she would have done just about anything to keep the peace. It was a painless concession. She knew that book didn’t have a turkey’s chance at Thanksgiving of getting published, and even if it did, nobody would buy it. She was wrong on both counts. After Shock Jock Howard Stern raved about The Bride of the Beast on his Sirius Satellite Radio show the week it was released, a clandestine video of her interview with him went viral on YouTube. The book was an instant best seller.
Gabriella always wondered what kind of people wanted to read about demons and darkness and evil. Which begged a more important question: What did it say about her
that she’d written it?
“Are you decent?” he asked. “If you’re not, get decent. And hurry up. It’s time.”
Time for what? She didn’t like the sound of that.
If Han Solo were here, he’d be saying, “I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Luke.”
Bernie was dressed in a suit and tie. He checked her out and nodded his approval.
“Excellent. You look worn out and beat up. That’s good. And I like that dress. Shows some v-v-v-vooom.”
“I look worn out and beat up because that’s what I am. I’m really not into vooming right now, Bernie. What do you want?”
“You know what I want and you’re late. Come on.”
With that, he turned and hurried down the stairs and she followed reluctantly behind. His was one of those winding staircases—the kind designed for grand entrances.
She was halfway down the staircase before her mind registered the sound below. Low murmuring. The sound of a crowd. They suddenly came pouring out of the den with Bernie in front like he was leading his team onto the field.
Cameras flashed, blinding her. Reporters shoved microphones at her as if they were offering her snow cones.
“… tell us what happ—”
“… you attacked …?”
“… a crazed fan …?”
“… Ms. Nightshade, rumor has it you’re writing a sequel to The Bride of the Beast—is this part of the publicity—?”
She answered that one.
“This has nothing to do with selling some stupid book!” She shot Bernie a look with enough venom to paralyze a walrus. “A man, Yesheb Al Tobbanoft, a crazy fan, broke into my house last night.”
“Is that where you got that shiner?”
“Yes, he assaulted me.”
“Will you file charges against him?”
“If the police cooperate, I will.”
“A reliable source inside the police department says they found no evidence of an assault when they searched your house—is that true?”
“I wasn’t there when they searched my house. I don’t know what they found. But regardless of what they—”
“And that the man you claimed was your assailant was in the hospital at the time of the attack.”
“He said he was in the hospital.”
“His doctor said he was in the hospital.”
“The doctor lied!”
“Why would he do that?
“He was paid off, I guess.” Gabriella was getting rattled. “I don’t know. All I do know is—”
“My source says you have a restraining order against Mr. Al Tobbanoft and you’ve filed numerous other bogus complaints against him.”
“They weren’t bogus!”
“But you couldn’t manage to make headlines until you claimed he assaulted you—is that right?”
“I don’t decide what makes headlines, you do!”
“You’re the one who called this press conference.”
“I did not!” But, of course, she did. Bernie spoke with her voice.
“There are lots of ways to fake a shiner. Do you have any other proof that you were assaulted?”
“You think I bit off my own earlobe?” She was instantly sorry she’d said that. Nobody had noticed her injured ear. Now they came at her like Medusa, with dozens of spitting heads.
“You’re saying this Al Tobbanoft guy bit your earlobe off?”
“Is that part of the plot of the sequel? Does The Beast bite—?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then you are writing a sequel.”
“I didn’t say that!”
“Why would a crazed fan bite your—?”
“I don’t know!” Gabriella finally lost it. “I don’t have any idea. But he did.” She sounded hysterical, but she couldn’t stop herself. “I don’t care whether you believe me or not. It happened. Just like I said it did. And it doesn’t matter what the police or the hospital or the doctor—” She literally clamped her hand over her mouth to shut herself up. Then she turned, raced back up the stairs to the guestroom and slammed the door shut behind her.
She was sitting on the edge of the bed shaking when Bernie burst into the room a few minutes later. He was jubilant.
“You were absolutely glorious!” he gushed. “Saying he bit your earlobe off—that was brilliant. I want to get some pictures to mail out with a press release to—”
Gabriella leapt to her feet and slapped him as hard as she could. The blow staggered him, knocked him backward a few steps and caused his eyes to water.
“You slimy, bottom-feeding, lowlife …” Words failed her. “Now the police will believe that everything I say is a publicity stunt. Do you know what you’ve done? That monster intends to murder my son. Plans to sacrifice …”
She could see on his face he didn’t believe her. Or didn’t care.
“Get out! Get out of here now.”
“Just a minute here, Sweet Cheeks. This my house and I—”
“Fine! Give me my car keys. And get out of my way.”
CHAPTER 3
GABRIELLA SAT ON THE BIG OVERSTUFFED CHAIR IN THE MOTEL room waiting for Ty to finish brushing his teeth so she could put him to bed and outline her plan for Theo. She’d moved them into adjoining rooms in a motel after leaving Bernie’s. Even though Yesheb was injured, in the hospital, she couldn’t face going home yet so she’d purchased three sets of clothes to replace the pajamas they’d been wearing when they escaped, along with a few necessary toiletries at Walmart. She’d made quite a stir pushing a cart up and down the aisles dressed like the Wicked Witch of the West.
If she understood Yesheb’s mindset and motivation as well as she thought she did—and she should; she’d personally designed his depravity in excruciating detail—she was safe now, relatively speaking. But that was only true until the earth rotated through another lunar cycle.
“I’ve got a surprise for you, Champ,” she said to Ty as she tucked him in bed. “We’re going to New York.” They often did that to see Broadway shows. It was a special treat that Ty loved. “I bought show tickets online, but we’re not really—”
“Whatever.” He rolled over to face the wall. She stood for a moment staring at his back, then leaned over and kissed his cheek, left the bathroom light on because he hated the dark and closed the door between the rooms behind her.
“I’ve made a decision,” she told Theo as she settled herself back down into the big chair. “If I can figure out a way to shake Yesheb’s bloodhounds, Ty and I are going into hiding until he stops looking for us.”
“What you gone run for?” Theo asked.
“Because the fight-or-flight reflex doesn’t offer a wide variety of options!”
“You could stand up to that crazy man, hire a bodyguard and—”
“I called the agency. Nobody has seen or heard from Thomas Ridley.” She was sure nobody would ever hear from him again.
“Then hire a whole herd of bodyguards, make yo house into a fortress and then dare that fool to come and get you!”
The old man’s blustering was maddening. “We’ll go home and collect our things tomorrow. Now’s our chance. Yesheb can’t try anything for a while, not with a broken foot. And the full moon has passed.”
“What the moon got to do with it?”
All the air whooshed out of Gabriella. She was so tired of all this.
“It’s about what happens in the book, The Bride of the Beast. I wrote it in first person, from the point of view of the character Zara, and Yesheb thinks he ...” She stopped. She’d never said it out loud before and it sounded so absurd. “He thinks he’s a character in the book—the main character, The Beast of Babylon. I’ve been terrified for months that he might … and after last night, I know he …” She stopped again, gathered herself and spit it out. “Yesheb Al Tobbanoft intends to do exactly what the Beast does in the book.”
“And that is?”
“Marry Zara—me.” She whispered the rest because she didn’t have th
e air to say it out loud. “And … sacrifice Ty. Kill him.”
If a black man could turn pale, Theo did.
“You telling me that fool is play-acting some story!”
“He’s not acting. To him, it’s absolutely real.”
Gabriella laid out for Theo the script that was the roadmap for Yesheb’s behavior.
The Bride of the Beast was a bleak horror story about a lost kingdom of demons. According to the novel’s plot, Yesheb would be crowned ruler of the Endless Black Beyond when he found the missing Princess Zara and took her as his bride. Smokey had called it Cinderella meets Darth Vader. The Beast must offer a sacrifice of “innocent blood” and mate with Princess Zara to produce a son and heir—all during the twenty-four-hour cycle of a full moon. Oh, and it had to be after “searing light rips open the canopy of heaven,” too. In other words, after a thunderstorm.
Gabriella shook her head.
“Now do you see why nobody will believe me?”
That, boys and girls, is certifiably nuts!
If she hadn’t seen it last night she wouldn’t have believed it herself! Blood sacrifice … full moon … violent storm. Geeze Louise!
Gabriella shook her head again. Things like this didn’t happen to real people and she was so ordinary. She bought food processor gadgets advertised on television at 3 a.m., for crying out loud! She’d been on a diet to lose five pounds her whole adult life. She watched Monday Night Football—go Steelers!—shopped with her Giant Eagle Discount Card and drooled over Mark Harmon on NCIS. (The white hair only made him sexier.) This was crazy!
Correction: Yesheb Al Tobbanoft was crazy. The rest of them were just along for the ride.
When Theo finally realized there was no way he could talk her out of running, he grudgingly agreed to help her. She hoped she’d light a fire in Ty’s eyes when she told him where they were really going. When she told Theo, he looked like he’d been gut-shot.
THEO LAY ON his back on the big queen-sized bed with sheets that smelled like bleach and had been ironed so stiff you could cut yourself on them if you rolled over wrong.
