by J. R. Rain
It’s him, I thought, looking again at the figure at the far side of the lake, a figure who was still facing us, hands still behind his back.
I knew that no one but a fellow creature of the night should be able to see us. In fact, I doubted that Russell even knew there was a man watching us.
But he wasn’t a creature of the night.
He was, I suspected, just the opposite.
Something holy, something filled with light, something that repelled creatures like me.
But he wasn’t repelling me now.
No, he was reaching out to me. It was, in fact, his warmth surrounding me.
“So, what did you want to talk about, Sam?” said Russell. He didn’t turn his handsome face toward me. He continued looking out over the bridge, out toward the black lake. The lake wasn’t so black to me. It was alive and well, and shining with more light than I would ever have dreamed possible.
“Release him, child,” I heard a voice say. A voice, I was certain, that had come upon the wind.
For a moment, I thought it had been Russell who had spoken to me...but no, the voice had come from over the lake, drifting to me on warm currents.
Drifting to me from him.
Was that you? I thought, looking out toward the man who was still watching us.
I didn’t get a response, but I still felt the warm current moving over the water, enveloping me completely. As I reveled in it...after all, it was so rare that I felt warm these days, the full impact of the words hit me: “Release him, child.”
Release who? I thought. But I didn’t get an answer.
I looked again at Russell, who was now watching me. I could see the concern in his eyes. He knew what was coming.
“Sam,” he said. “I know what you’re going to say, but please don’t say it. Please. I’m happy. We’re happy. Don’t say the words, okay?”
When I looked back over the water, the figure had continued on, moving slowly. His blue aura shined brighter than ever.
Release him...release Russell?
“Russell, I haven’t been entirely honest with you—”
“Samantha, I don’t care. I don’t care if you’re a mass murderer. I can’t lose you.”
I blinked, processing. “You don’t care if I’m a murderer?”
“No, Sam. I need you. I love you.”
We had, of course, never talked about love, although I sensed that we had been getting closer.
Release him, child...
As Russell stared down at me, as he took my hand and held it tightly, I suddenly realized why he didn’t care if my hands were cold, or that my body was cold, or why I never ate. Russell didn’t care if I was cold, or different...or even a mass murderer.
I suddenly knew what the words meant, words spoken to me on the wind by a blue-aura master.
Russell, I suspected, was bonded to me.
Chapter Eleven
“What, exactly, does bonded mean?” asked Allison over the phone.
It was later and I was heading home. Unfortunately, I had been unable to release Russell Baker as the voice had asked. I hadn’t intended to release him...I had intended to break up with him, as normal people do.
But you’re not normal, Sam...and you never will be again.
Truth was, I had been too stunned by the revelation that another human being was bonded to me, to think clearly. I had made up some lame excuse of wanting to talk about him and the dangers of fighting...and Russell had said he would give up fighting for me.
Give up fighting.
For me.
My head was still spinning.
Yes, I had intended to break up with Russell Baker, although he’d done nothing wrong—and I had done everything wrong. I had lied to him from day one...but, I now knew, he would forgive me for the lies. He would have forgiven me for anything.
I saw the look in his eyes, heard it in his voice.
Bonded.
“You never noticed it before?” Allison was asking.
“No,” I said. “I just thought he was, you know, into me. I just thought he was agreeable. Sweet.”
“And the more he agreed to, the worst you felt.”
“I always felt bad,” I said. “I mean, he has no idea who I really am.”
“So tell him, Sam.”
I opened my mouth and closed it again. The road before me was empty as I drove through the night along the hilly Bastanchury Road, heading home. Yes, I’d considered telling Russell a hundred times about my super-secret identity, and a hundred different times I had talked myself out of it. His life was normal. His life was pure, uncomplicated. Sure, he’d chosen a rough route as a professional fighter. But it was still normal. The moment I had opened my mouth about who and what I was, his sweet, simple, uncomplicated life would be thrown upside down.
“Well, your uncomplicated life was thrown upside down,” said Allison, following my train of thoughts.
“Yes,” I said, “and the one person who could have stepped in to keep it that way, didn’t.”
“Ishmael,” said Allison, referring to my one-time guardian angel who had, in fact, set me up. Yes, Allison knew my entire story inside and out. Hell, she knew me inside and out.
“Yes,” I said. “And I hate him for it. And I’ll hate him forever.”
Even as I spoke those words, something flashed across the sky through my windshield...something that could have been an errant headlight, an advertising spotlight...or something else. A fallen angel, perhaps.
“What the hell was that?” said Allison.
“You saw it?” I asked. Then I remembered her psychic specialty was remote viewing. Undoubtedly, she was right by my side as we were talking, in a metaphysical sense, of course.
“Yeah, and that was weird.”
“Welcome to my life.”
“Our lives, Sam. We’re kind of in this together.”
I took a deep breath, held it longer than humanly possible, and then came to a stop at a red light near St. Jude Hospital. “I don’t want to be the one responsible for introducing him to a world of vampires and werewolves...and witches.”
“He’s already in it, Sam. He just doesn’t know it yet.”
“Maybe it’s better to keep it that way. Ignorance is bliss, and all that.”
I continued through the green light, and then made a left turn into a housing tract.
“I can’t tell you, Sam, if it’s right or wrong to tell him. But I think he has a right to know who you are and the real reason you are breaking up with him.”
“Maybe,” I said.
“But you’re not convinced?”
“Not yet,” I said.
“So, what’s the deal about this bonding thing?” Allison asked again.
“I honestly don’t know,” I said.
“But you’re going to find out?”
“Yes,” I said.
We hung up and I thought about Russell and bonding and the streak of light in the sky and the blue aura master and shook my head...
I think I was still shaking my head when I finally pulled up to my house.
Chapter Twelve
“Anthony has a girlfriend, Mom.”
I was in the kitchen, making dinner. Not quite as normal as it might sound. On a platter next to me were precisely fifteen grilled hot dogs. All for Anthony. And, yes, I had grilled them with my George Foreman. That’s the way Anthony liked them, and it was easier than arguing with him. And, true to form, he wanted nothing on them. No buns, no ketchup, no mustard, no relish...nothing. Just fifteen Ballpark Franks, grilled, piled high.
Simmering on the stove next to me was Tammy’s latest obsession. Chicken in yellow curry sauce. She’d gotten it into her head that she loved Indian food. Apparently, she’d had the stuff over at a friend’s house, and now that’s all she ever talked about...Indian food. And now, my kitchen smelled like, well, curry and garlic, with a beefy hot dog chaser.
The trouble was this: the hot dogs smelled heavenly...and so did the damn curry, a
lthough I never remembered liking Indian food before. It all smelled good. Heavenly, in fact.
At this point in my pitiful existence—anything, and I mean anything—would be a wondrous change to the every-other-day blood shots I took from sealed plastic bags that I popped open and gulped out of necessity.
Of course, I thought, it didn’t have to be that way, did it?
No, it didn’t. There was one more medallion out there, one more mystical talisman that had been created ages ago to help lessen the side effects of those afflicted with vampirism.
The diamond medallion.
Another such medallion was presently absorbed within my son. Yes, absorbed. Sounded weird, I knew, but my son had taken an alchemical potion that had contained the dissolved medallion. Somehow, the magicks within the medallion still flowed through my boy. Where and how, I didn’t know. But one thing I did know was this...
I was a freakin’ horrible mother.
I stopped stirring with this last thought and stared down into the simmering chicken and curry. No, I thought...not a bad mom. A desperate mom. I saved him, didn’t I? My son was alive to this day, wasn’t he?
He was, of course. In fact, he was in the living room even now, watching SpongeBob Squarepants on Netflix. How the kid could watch those cartoons over and over was beyond me. But watch them he did, and often, all while laughing and giggling and slapping the floor hard enough to shake the whole damn house. In fact, these days, the house seemed to be shaking harder and harder.
No surprise there. The kid had shot up an inch over the last four months...all while filling out, too. He was only ten, but he now had the body of a high school football player.
Yes, I was a very, very bad mother.
I did this to myself often. I rarely, if ever, forgave myself. But I needed to forgive myself for doing what I did to my son—
For saving his life—
For turning him into a monster—
I paused, took a deep breath, collected myself, and then continued stirring the chicken and curry. Yes, my son had had some unforeseen side effects. But, I supposed, the side effects could have been a lot worse.
He could have been a true monster.
Of the blood-sucking variety.
And then a horrible thought occurred to me...one that I refused to entertain for longer than a few seconds before I beat it back into my subconscious...but here it was:
What if, someday, he did become a bloodsucker?
What guarantee did I have that he wouldn’t just keep getting stronger...but also more monstrous?
I didn’t, of course. There were no guarantees in my world. A world that my son—and now my daughter—were now a part of.
No guarantees, yes, but there were answers...and I knew just where to go to find them.
The Librarian, I thought.
For now, though, I heaped a pile of steaming rice on a plate, covered it with chicken and curry, then stuck my head in the living room and told Anthony his hot dogs were ready. He nodded without looking at me and stood smoothly and effortlessly, all muscle and long limbs. I next headed down the hall and told Tammy her dinner was ready, too. She said she would come in a minute.
Anthony grabbed his hot dogs first, but I wouldn’t let him leave without telling me thank you. He mumbled something utterly incomprehensible. It could have been a thank you. He also could have been having a seizure. I gave him the hot dogs anyway.
“Wait,” I said. “What’s this about a new girlfriend?”
He blushed mightily, which might have been cute. That is, of course, if we had been talking about anything other than a girlfriend. “She’s just a friend, Mom. A friend who happens to be a girl.”
Except he kept on blushing, his ears practically on fire, as he escaped back into the living room.
Next came Tammy. As with Anthony, I made her say thank you before I gave her the food. Except, of course, she stared at me with defiance for exactly two minutes before hunger finally got the better of her.
“Fine!” she said, louder than was necessary. “Thank you! But it’s your job to make us food, you know.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.”
“And what’s your job?” I asked.
She grinned at me before exiting the kitchen with her plate of food. “To eat it. Oh, and Tisha is not a friend. Trust me on this one, Mom. I’ve seen them smooching.” She made a kissing gesture that, quite honestly, I never wanted to see again.
A moment later, I heard her door slam shut, and I was left alone in the kitchen, with no food, and no real thanks.
Sigh.
Chapter Thirteen
“So, why do you oversee such a creepy library?” I asked Archibald Maximus, the young librarian with the ancient name.
As usual, Maximus was been nowhere to be found when I had first entered the Occult Reading Room at Cal State Fullerton. I had rung the little bell on the counter and, after a moment or two, out walked the young man wearing nondescript slacks and a black long-sleeved shirt. He was handsome in a nerdy way.
“Someone has to,” he answered. He stood on one side of the counter, his hands resting lightly on the counter itself.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“It means that the knowledge in these books is not just for everyone.”
“Who then?”
“Those ready for such knowledge.”
“And you decide who’s ready?”
Archibald leaned back against the wall behind him and folded his arms over his chest Archibald didn’t have a lot of muscle tone. He had an average shape, perhaps even on the slender side. When he was done looking at me, and, probably, thinking about how to answer my question, he said, “I, and others like me, decide who may have access to such Reading Rooms. As for this particular collection, yes, I am the final gatekeeper.”
“And what if someone demanded to have a book?”
“That someone would have a hard time finding me.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Look behind you, Sam.”
I did, just as a student walked past, a young girl looking forward, oblivious to us. It was rare enough to see any students on this floor as it was, let alone catching one just as she passed by. Still, one thing seemed apparent.
“She didn’t seem to notice us,” I said.
“And she wouldn’t, Sam.”
“I don’t understand. Are we invisible?”
“Not quite,” said the Librarian, and he cracked a rare smile. A nice smile, and one that suggested he had seen a lot...perhaps far more than I would ever realize. “To those who have not earned the right to use this room—or, more accurately, who are not ready for this room, it is, shall I say, not on their radar.”
“You mean they can’t see it?”
“In a way. They would have to be drawn to it by a very strong reason, but, even then, they would have no interest in it, and would continue on. It is similar to those who hear a great truth. If the listener is not ready for the truth, it will fall upon deaf ears.”
“But how was I ready to meet you?” I asked. “I mean, I’m no one.”
The Librarian looked at me with compassion. “I’ve been aware of you for some time, Samantha Moon. Indeed, it was only a matter of time before we met.”
“Geez. Who the heck are you?” I asked. Except I knew the answer to that. Archibald Maximus was, I knew, a great alchemist who had mastered life and death, albeit through alchemical means, rather than the alternative. The alternative being, of course, creatures like me.
“I’m not much different than you, Sam,” he said with a smile.
“Do you have a highly evolved demonic entity living within you, waiting and plotting to take over your life?”
“Okay,” he said. “Maybe we are a little different.”
He smiled. I wanted to smile, but couldn’t. Archibald was an immortal, and thus, his thoughts were closed from me, but, like the angel Ishmael, he seemed to have access to my own innermost thoughts...or p
erhaps he was an expert at body language, after all this time on Earth.
“But fear not, Samantha, for you are stronger than it.”
“I don’t feel stronger. I feel helpless.”
“You are far from helpless, child,” he said, and even though he looked years younger than me, his term of endearment touched me and I wanted to hug him tight and have him tell me everything was going to be okay. Whoever he was.
“Everything will be okay,” he said. “If you allow it.”
“Fine,” I said, wiping my eyes. “And where’s my hug?”
He came around the counter unhesitatingly, with open arms, and I slipped inside them easily and he hugged me tight and I felt his surprising strength and even his love—not a romantic love, and not necessarily a love just for me. His love seemed to radiate out, in a wide arc, encompassing, perhaps, the whole of mankind.
“Who are you?” I said again, into his shoulder.
He patted my own shoulder sweetly, as a father would. I wasn’t sure anyone had patted my shoulder in a long time. The gesture was so comforting that I didn’t want to let him go. It was, perhaps, the first time in many years that I truly felt safe.
“I am a friend,” he said into my ear.
Finally, I pulled away shyly, wiping my tears. “Thank you.”
He gave me such a warm smile that I nearly hugged him again. Finally, he said, “I assume, Sam, that you came here to talk.”
I nodded, taking a deep breath, getting a hold of myself. “No, I came for the hug.”
He laughed.
“Okay, and maybe one or two questions.”
He waited calmly. As he waited, I heard the familiar whisperings from deeper in the small reading room, a room that was crammed with every imaginable book on the occult and arcane, books on life and death and hidden histories, books on secret societies and black magic. Some books, I knew, opened doorways into other worlds, or worlds that were layered just over our own, worlds that sometimes crossed our path and interconnected. The whisperings, I suspected, were from these entities seeking entry into our world...and, I suspected, seeking willing hosts.
Like the creature within me.
