Everybody slammed into the ground.
Then, as they started to collect themselves, everybody—teary eyed and confused—began to apologize to one another.
Zane groaned, clutching his head. “What… what in the hell just happened to us?”
Nikki was shivering, hugging her arms around her upper-body. “It was him; it was Maledictus,” she whimpered. “He did to us what that… that thing—that relic of his—did to my tribe.” She shivered and slid down the wall, looking up at Zane and Raith, “That… that fucking thing turned everyone in my tribe—my family—into furious, blame-filled, monsters. It made them hate everyone,” she shivered and looked away. “Every day in my home was like that: everyone yelling and tormenting everyone else—using anything and everything they knew about one another to spread hate and pain—until the day you two showed up and gave them a single direction to point all their rage. That thing was designed to cause enough hatred for whoever found it to do the unspeakable…”
Zane frowned, looking around. “Maledictus?”
Gone, sir, Michael’s “voice” was noticeably upset by that. And I can’t sense Serena’s aura anywhere in the building, either.
Zane growled, punching the wall and turning away as the damage spread and rained down chunks all over the floor. “Motherfucker! He saw we had the drop on him and he fucking cast that bullshit spell on us to keep us distracted long enough to get away…” he turned and drove his boot into the wall, sending more debris scattering across the floor. As his pounding heart settled, he looked back at Nikki, “Are you going to be alright? I know that the memory of that thing can—” he stopped himself, “The relic…” He looked back at Celine, narrowing his eyes, “You…”
Celine shook and backed away, “N-no, Zane. I’m sorry… I didn’t mean what I said. You heard her! Just like she said! It was just… just blind hate; crazy talk! That’s all!”
Zane shook his head, walking towards her. “Crazy talk,” he narrowed his eyes, “Crazy talk motivated by truths.” He pointed back to Nikki, “I heard what she said: anything and everything a person knew, right? What about the relic? You called it a chalice. You knew about it?” He shook his head, “That wasn’t crazy talk. So what was all that about doing what you were told? What was all that about killing me and Raith? What reason would you have to kill us, Celine?”
Celine backed away with each advance Zane took. “Please, no. I didn’t mean it. It’s nothing. I wasn’t thinking.”
Zane shook his head and cocked his head back. “Hey, Michael, you know all that shit I said was a part of his magic, right?”
Michael nodded, Of course, sir. No harm done.
Zane motioned towards Celine, “So what do you think about what she said?”
I think you’ve caught on to something she doesn’t want you to know, sir.
Zane smirked and nodded. “Yea. I think so, too. Maybe I’m not so dumb, after all.” He started towards Celine again, “You going to start talking?”
Celine shook her head, “Please, Zane, I swear! I don’t know anything!”
“Good,” Zane waved Michael towards them, “Then you won’t mind letting us have a look inside your head, will you?”
Celine’s eyes widened, “N-no! You can’t! Don’t! Why can’t you trust me, Zane? Why can’t you—”
“Oh I’d say the trust-train has long-since left the station, doll.” Zane nodded to Michael, “Do it. I want to know everything that she’s hiding.”
Michael nodded and started towards Celine, who took another two steps back before her body froze within the auric’s hold.
“P-please… don’t,” Celine whimpered. “Y-you can’t look inside my—”
“We can,” Zane said flatly. “We can, we will, and we are.”
Michael’s eyes went glassy as he probed into Celine’s head, his pupils shifting as he navigated her mind. As his efforts progressed, his eyes grew wider—his face more and more horrified—until his body suddenly seized and he dropped to the floor in convulsions.
“Oh shit!” Zane hurried to the auric’s side, dropping onto his knees and trying to keep Michael from hurting himself in his seizure. “Nikki! Help me!”
The others hurried to Zane’s side, trying to see what had happened. Nikki’s tattoos glowed as she chanted spell after spell, but nothing stilled Michael’s tremors.
“I… I can’t. I don’t know what’s happening to him, but I can’t stop it!” Nikki told him.
“God dammit!” Zane growled and stood, “What did you do to him, you bi—”
But Celine was already gone…
16
The Miller Family’s Morning
“Welcome back, Peaches Did you have a good run?” Mister Miller looked up from his morning paper as his wife of fifteen years—breathing heavily and glistening with a fine sheen of sweat from her exercise—stepped through the door.
Missus Miller, though winded, felt a fresh swell of happiness at the sight of her husband’s freshly shaven face, and she nodded to him as she started towards the table, where he’d already set out a glass of OJ for her. Already prepared for another day at the office, he looked somewhat silly in his undershirt tucked into his dress pants. This, however, Missus Miller understood, spotting her husband’s button-up white dress shirt draped over the back of his chair, the two of them having learned from past mistakes not to trust the morning routine to keep his piping hot coffee from spilling on his work clothes.
Gulping down the juice and relishing in the bliss that was her post-run, pre-breakfast moment, Missus Miller toweled off her face and hair before taking a seat across from her husband.
“Did you see that Bill and Sarah got a new dog?” she asked, starting to relax her breathing.
“They did?” Mister Miller looked up again and, deciding against finishing the Sports column, folded the newspaper and set it aside. “Did you happen to see what kind?”
She nodded, “A poodle, I think. Maybe some sort of a mix. It looked like it might have had a bit of collie in it.”
“Collie, eh? That’s a fine dog. Not sure why anyone would want to go and muck up something like that with a poodle-mix, but”—he shrugged—“live and let live, I suppose.”
Missus Miller giggled and nodded, “It did look a little silly, to be honest.”
“Now now, dear,” Mister Miller fought the smirk growing from her comment, “one man’s trash…”
“… is another man’s treasure. You’re right, dear.” Missus Miller smiled. “Are the kids up yet?”
Mister Miller considered this a moment and glanced over his shoulder. “I was certain I heard somebody…” he spotted his elderly mother—still wearing her light-blue robe and matching slippers—pouring herself a cup of decaf by the entrance to the kitchen. “Morning, Mom. Did you sleep well.”
“Oh my, yes,” Grandma shuffled in, her feet barely lifting from the floor as she blew some of the steam from the mouth of the mug. Slowly, with the calculation and forethought of her years, she set the coffee down—making a small noise as she let the corner of the mug touch the tablecloth without a coaster before retrieving one from the center of the table and remedying the problem—and pulled her chair back inch-by-shaky-inch before carefully settling in and scooting herself forward. Once comfortably set at the table with her son and daughter-in-law, she picked up the mug in both hands, letting the warmth melt into her arthritic palms, and took another sip. “That new mattress you bought was just lovely, dear. Not a toss or turn to be had all night.”
“Grams,” Missus Miller smiled over at her mother-in-law, “you didn’t happen to see the kids on your way down, did you?”
Grandma considered the question for a moment before shaking her head, “No, I don’t reckon so. Should I have woken them?”
Mister Miller smiled and stood, giving his mother a kiss on the top of her bluish-gray hair, “No, Mom, we’ve already discussed this; you’re a guest in this home. We didn’t move you in here to treat you like some sort of darned
nanny. Now drink your coffee. I’m going to go get the kids ready for breakfast.”
Grandma smiled at that and nodded. “Such a dear boy,” she offered before taking another sip of coffee.
Missus Miller smiled and, after topping off the last of her OJ, stood and started towards the kitchen. “Bacon and eggs sound good for breakfast?” she called out to her husband.
“Sounds like a million-dollar breakfast, dear,” Mister Miller called back before he started up the stairs.
“No. No, I know your parents are douchebags too, Marie, but hear me out: it’s like they’re damn carbon copies from Little House on the Prairie or something! It’s driving me insane! I mean, my dad used to be some strung out loser—probably sucked dick in alleys just to get high—and my mom was a hooker that he met in rehab! Yea, yea… Yea, I get that it’s great that they turned themselves around and found Jesus or whatever, but I just wish they’d cut it out with this whole ‘perfect Miller family’ bullshit; Dad manages a SubWay and Mom—what? No! Not like the train station, Marie; a goddam sandwich store! My dad, the ‘sub artist’—god, what a tool! And, y’know what’s worse, he acts like he’s a goddam executive for it. Like if Mom weren’t giving piano lessons on the side he’d actually stand a chance of keeping this house. And now that they’ve gone and moved my grandmother in—which I’m so sure has nothing to do with the fact that Grandpa just died and that will-money is starting to look pretty damn close, by the way—they’re just slathering the act all the harder. The old broad’s, like, this hardcore ol’-skool type—probably lost her virginity to a guy who traded two pigs and a cow for her—and if she had any idea that I was conceived before they even went down the aisle she’d probably White-Out their names from her inheritance and donate it all to the KKK or something classy like that. I swear to god, Marie, running away and joining the circus is looking like fucking Heave—”
“Tiffany,” Tiff’s father knocked on her door and she quickly held her breath to see if he showed any sign of overhearing her phone call. “Tiff, hun? You awake?”
“H-huh? Oh, oh yea. Sorry, Dad. Did I oversleep again?” Tiff faked an alerted yawn and grumbled sleepily, rolling her eyes to herself and stifling her laughter in response to her friend’s cackles over the line.
“No, no. It’s just time to rise-and-shine, love. Mom’s making bacon and eggs, so shake a tail-feather unless you want to miss out.”
“Mmm! Sounds great, Dad. Be right down,” she faked the upbeat inflection and waited until her father’s footsteps started past her door. “Choke me with a big black dick, Marie, the man acts like we don’t eat bacon and eggs every-fucking-morning! Anyway, I gotta go. I’ll text your ass when I’m leaving, so don’t be late in that new VW Bug, bitch! Bysies!”
Between an eight-PM bedtime after the nightly “Merry Miller Pray-O-Rama” and a six-AM door-to-door wakeup call, Jeremy hardly ever had any time to jerk off. His parents insisted that he was still too young for a cell phone, and with a mandatory lights-out rule at bedtime he’d been forced to hunker under his covers with a flashlight and whatever porno mag he’d blindly scored from under his mattress. The other day, however, he’d gotten to trade a pair of his mom’s used panties, four weeks’ worth of allowance—adding up to a whopping twenty bucks—and a jumbo Ziploc bag full of his grandma’s chocolate chip cookies for an issue of Penthouse. This being a special occasion and all, he’d set an alarm for five-thirty to get a few loads out before his dad came knocking.
He’d woken up at five-seventeen.
Four loads later, Jeremy knew he was pressing his luck with pushing for a fifth before the “wakeup” knock, but he’d fallen particularly in love with a shot on page one-twenty-three that demanded just a few more pumps to get the perfect morning started.
From down the hall he could already hear his dad’s voice by his sister’s door, and he fought to keep his mind from abandoning the fantasy of coming on the sexy blonde’s heaving breasts.
Tiff was already awake, anyway; he knew it.
She woke up early every morning to call her friend, Marie—a senior who’d just gotten her license—about how much she hated her life and how much she wanted to run off to fuck black circus performers.
She sees Cirque du Soleil one time and suddenly she wants to be a runaway, he thought to himself, pausing long enough to turn the page of his masturbatory aid to enact the final stretch of his fantasy. She’s such a whiny bit—OH GOD! AM I THINKING OF HER WHILE I—gross gross gross gross gro—
His father’s knock came at the door then. “Hey, J-man! Time to get up, buddy! I’ve got a few crispy strips of bacon downstairs with your name—”
“GAH!” Jeremy started hating himself as the first string of climax emerged, the overwhelming sensation tarnished by the past three seconds of his life. “S-so-sorry, Dad. I… I just had a nightmare; a really, really bad nightmare.”
“Oh,” his father’s voice faltered; never having a response for any news that wasn’t perfect, “Well, hurry on downstairs. I’ll get you some Sunny-D. That’ll cheer you right up!”
And then his footsteps moved on.
“Yea,” Jeremy sighed to himself, reaching under the bible in his bedside drawer to retrieve his trusty-yet-crusty tube sock. “Thanks for the pep-talk, needle-dick!”
The razor glided across little Mary’s thigh, and the preteen shivered as a fresh trail of blood seeped to the surface and started rolling over the side of her leg. Not wanting to let the blood stain her bedspread and give her away. Snatching up a stolen roll of toilet paper, she ripped free a piece and let it drop onto the fresh wound; marveling with a morbid appreciation as the pristine white material soaked in the deep, rich red of the blood—drawing the makeshift bandage closer as it did. Recalculating her next cut, she placed the razor several inches inward to keep the blood from moving too quickly for her to appreciate. Then, when she was certain that she had the placement right, she made another pass across her leg; groaning at the bitter-sweet sensation of the release.
This was the only moment when she could genuinely let the tension of her life ooze from her body, and while she understood that wasn’t the healthiest of relaxation techniques, her mother had seemed rather disinterested and, even more upsetting, belittling of the sort of troubles a nine year old girl like her could have. However, between the hideous dresses that her parents insisted on sending her to school in—the sort of outfits that looked more appropriate on the porcelain dolls of the antiques shop her family often visited on Sundays after church—and the fact that all of her classmates used both the outfits and her forced lifestyle habits as a constant fuel to tease and berate her, she’d come to this method as her only potential solace. Even the fact that she preferred reading over playing Angry Birds or Tweeting or Tumbling or any of the other activities that her classmates insisted were “normal”; her one escape, books, becoming just another reason for her to be sent home crying day after day after day.
“Bookworm.”
“Dweeb.”
“Dyke.”
The last word she’d been unfamiliar with the first time it had been used against her, and, being cursed with an inquisitive nature, she’d made the mistake of asking her teacher what it meant. Not pleased with the question and misunderstanding the reason behind it, her teacher had called her a “stupid little bitch” and sent her to the corner for saying a bad word.
And while “dyke” had not come up in any of Mary’s books, the young girl had read enough over the years to see the event as a cruel irony.
The kids all said that she should kill herself and gone to great lengths in describing the different ways she could do it. During recess, many even cornered her with their cell phones opened to internet pictures of kids who had committed suicide, telling her that their chosen method would be the best for her.
Mary didn’t want to die, though. Not by any stretch of the imagination. It just had become too much for her to handle; all the pain and ridicule that her peers subjected her to had become too much
to simply let accumulate in her mind. And so, during a trip to the library—after getting away from her mother long enough to use one of the facility’s computers in private—she’d looked up bullying on the internet, and soon thereafter discovered that others like her had turned to cutting as a means of venting the inner pain with outer pain. Intrigued by the notion, Mary had tucked it away as something to explore later and, still curious about what had gotten her into so much trouble, searched “dyke.”
The computer had blocked her access then, and the head librarian had pulled her away from the computer and back to her mother, explaining that she’d caught her daughter attempting to look up pornography on their system.
And so, though she was no closer to knowing what a “dyke” was—though she was certain it had some connotation to a crocodile in much the same way a “bitch” was a female dog—she began cutting. It had been an easy enough task retrieving one of her father’s razorblades; though she was not quite tall enough to reach them in the medicine cabinet, she’d been able to use the ceramic crucifix adorning the bathroom sink to pull it into her waiting grasp. Several months later, the stolen razor wasn’t quite as sharp as it had been—the more recent efforts stinging a great deal more than before and the wounds not healing as quickly or as cleanly—but, as she’d been clever enough to read the secrets of cutters, mostly how to hide the wounds by avoiding commonly seen parts of the body like the wrists and arms, she’d never had to worry about being caught.
She was in the process of her sixth cut that morning—three already on her right leg and into the third on her left—when her father’s typical wakeup call came upon her door. Startled, she’d yanked the blade a bit too quickly and, in doing so, cut a bit too deep and a bit longer than she’d intended. Working quickly to bandage the wound with more and more toilet paper, she worked to mask the sound of pain on her voice by assuring her father that she’d be down in “two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
Scarlet Night: The Complete Trilogy Page 57
