by Lynn S.
“The dweller said no, Brigitte. He didn’t even want to listen. What’s left to do now?”
“Oh, Bansit, bless your soul! You take care of the easy dead, poor humans that only die once, defeated by waves and fatigue. I’m used to dealing with revenants, those who keep returning. Those souls are driven to stay, hungry for a space in this world. Deep down, vampires are like any earthbound spirit, they just want to keep playing along. Let me tell you something about dwellers: they anchor themselves to skin, fugitives of a finite realm that demands their presence. They sleep, and once in a while they’ll wake up, feed, and go back into slumber, not to be seen again for decades, and then they move into another skin. What we need to do is push our friend into a corner, even if it means killing nice young Garan, who is serving as his host.”
Chapter V
Behind the Mirror
Time didn’t exist behind the mirror. Crimson peeking through the dark never sported varying shades to indicate the presence of light or the incoming night.
There was no breeze rising from the east, nor rain, heat, or cold to mark the seasons. Only one constant sound echoed: the hum of the singing black trees.
The bark of the trees in the Singing Forest was gelatinous, malleable to the touch, infecting with madness those who dared place their hands upon it. The trees were carved out of nightmares, wrested away from anything conceivable.
The surface of the black trees was covered with a sticky membrane that barely sustained the illusion of structure. The constant sound, the source of the song, was the beating the heart of the wood. Hungry roots stabbed through the black soil below, opening a constant wound upon the earth to reach a river running red and fed.
And then there were the spirits who rested upon the trees. Phantom birds that left no trace when taking flight or nesting in those branches. They were once vampyrs and dwellers, supernatural elements of great power who had been part of the living once. Shedding their humanity, they bought eternity through blood. However, nothing was fixed and eternal. Upon meeting a second, true death, be it by decapitation, incineration, or a stake through the heart, they ended up in the forest. Once a blood sucker, they were turned into birds with feathers the color of wine, forever bound to those branches by a length of silver chain. Eventually, they’d dry out and become one with the tree, trying forever to find their way into an endless source of blood below. That was their penance.
Adriana Popescu could not come to terms with this place at first. She fainted a couple of times. The first time in fear, the second because her body could not hold her exploding rage and shut her down. Bastian always brought her back. He had enough power to keep the song from shattering her nerves and the birds from getting near. The winged vampires knew she was not just a ghost. Their interest piqued as they thought of ways of draining whatever she kept of her soul. But Bastian always made them take a step back. Eventually, Adriana had enough strength to become once more his irreverent, willful blonde bomb, and soon that pretty head of hers was making connections and planning.
“I thought I’d lost you, menina bonita.” Bastian kept his arms firmly around her waist. Cradling her against his chest. They had made it out of the woods. After hours, perhaps days, of walking in the shadow and stench of death, they found a gray rock promontory, the only hope of color in an otherwise fixed gloom. It must have been something, a point of entrance, a door of sorts, a nice place to rest. The rock was smooth and cold, but Adriana didn’t mind. If anything, it made Bastian’s embrace feel warm against her skin.
Adriana smiled. In time, she had forgotten his voice, and now it felt so unforgivable. Had Marissa not been in such peril, she’d gladly stay there forever, just to hear him call her beautiful girl. To feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against her back, his breath, once more was better than those times in which she simply imagined having conversations with her favorite dead guy. Yes, she knew it was an illusion, Bastian being a ghost and all. But damn, those lips grazing the curve of her neck felt as good as ever.
“There was not much of a choice, husband. It was either tag along with you or stay down there playing Little Red Riding Hood to the Devil knows what.”
It was her way of confessing being scared. Bastian knew it well. When the order took care of Pappa Popescu, Bastian himself banished him to the mirror world. There was a chance that in the vastness of that forest, a creature comprised of thirst and vengeance might be watching over their every step. That was why he crossed over from peaceful slumber, to protect her. The Morrigan could not deliver Adriana from her fate in the mirror, so it was granted he’d come to her.
“Where was that practical thinking when I was alive?” He chuckled while kissing her temple. “You might not have missed me, but I surely missed you. Death is much more entertaining for the wicked, the Hall of Souls is boring once all your questions are answered. Plus, I love keeping scores. Having a hand in saving that firm, round behind of yours will buy me some kind of advantage.”
“Stop it right there, darling, before I start putting you in the distraction roster.” Adriana turned to face Bastian. “If there was something you trusted more than that smug smile of yours, it was your books. Now, make sense of this for me. How the hell are we going to get out of here?”
“Okay,” his enthusiasm was made evident, “get ready for a story. Have you ever heard about the Vermillion Bayou in Louisiana?”
Adriana moved her head side to side in the negative, and the story began…
***
The southern part of Louisiana had always been in a state of siege by waters. Not only did it have to bear the comings and goings of the fourth mightiest river on the planet, there were a number of tributaries cutting their way through the state to feed the Gulf of Mexico. When compared to the Mississippi, the Vermillion River was nothing but a drop in a bucket, but that insignificant vein of water had shaped the story of the state as much as its most famous river.
The east bank of the Vermillion was one of the most populated Cajun settlements, one of the many cultural influences that made Louisiana a proverbial other world anchored to North American soil.
During the first four years of his life, Garan Nolton, born in Vermillion, hardly heard a word of solid English. It was always inflicted with Creole French, a cadence that set him apart from most. However, upon starting school, river culture was not enough. He was forced to incorporate a bit of the norm, to fit in with the other residents of Lafayette. As much as he tried, though, he felt out of place, even at home. His mother loved him, no doubt, but once in a while the child would find her averting her eyes from him in fear, prey of an unfortunate superstition.
“It’s your eyes, cher. Green is quite common in the family, but that blue…the woman who brought you into this world warned me to keep you away from the water.”
His mother exhaled, frustrated. They were poorer than decency should ever allow, and then that damn midwife came and stated her opinion. The Noltons had been fisherman for generations, but that cerulean tinted with silver in the boy’s eyes spoke of terrible tragedies.
As Garan barely started kindergarten, his mother had been a widow for three and a half years. She fell in love again, this time with a man who had come to the riverside town to work in construction. He was a good man, with a wonderful heart. Even before they discovered they could not have children of their own, he considered Garan his son, blood of his blood.
The little boy soon started shadowing his stepfather in everything he did, and his mother felt blessed in many ways. Carpentry would take him far from Bayou Vermillion. If he followed his father’s trade, he’d leave that town, the river, and his death sentence.
The trouble with hoodoo, magic born in the marshes and riversides, was that, though benevolent, it often went astray. The midwife foretold a death by water. It only took a minute to know, as soon as she looked into that babe’s glistening blue eyes. But it would take them years to understand that not all gleaming, neat surfaces were liquid.
The summer of Garan’s tenth birthday was like most before it, trapped between a heat wave starting in late April and heavy showers toward the end of July. Garan had been left home alone, getting over a little head cold that kept him in bed for a couple of days. It was not unusual, nor irresponsible to leave a child of his age on his own; their community was closed enough for everyone to know one another and consider themselves extended family. They trusted each other enough as to live with doors unlocked.
It was the twenty-third of June, and the small town congregation was eager to take part of the feast Jean Baptiste, in commemoration of the Baptist. Some people knew this date as midsummer, the longest day. Many of the faithful, fishermen, shipyard workers, and such, looked forward to this day to ask for a blessing of their nets, boats, and trade. After all, there was quite a lot to be expected from a saint whose livelihood was ever so close to flowing waters.
Those who knew their theological trivia were aware that certain dates didn’t come about by sheer coincidence. There were feasts in the Catholic church that overlapped pagan festivals, all for a reason. They were meant to obscure celebrations that didn’t quite disappear with the advent of Christianity, some of which humanity, fearful of reprisal, refused to let go.
Garan opened his eyes; he’d slept for a full two hours after his family left for mass. His mother had bundled him up in a cozy blanket, but the boy no longer felt wrecked by the stuffed nose or light fever. And as all boys did, he decided it was time to jump out of bed. He scurried to the kitchen for some late-night pecan pie, but stopped in his tracks, taken over by the odd feeling of being observed.
“Maman? Gerard?” He called out for his mother and stepdad, but the echo of voices and music coming from the chapel’s yard told him they were probably still at the feast. There was a nightlight in the hallway, but it just distorted the shadows. It felt better to turn on the light before leaving his room.
As he crossed in front of the mirror, Garan stopped and listened. It was not the usual crack in the glass. It felt more like listening to a hushed conversation, something faraway and not of his business. But he was a curious little child. The glass vibrated, filtering words that were slightly intelligible, emanating from the heart of the mirror. The surface of the glass was tarnished and cold. Garan wiped it off with his sleeve.
The spot dissipated, leaving behind the reflection of a pair of eyes that, at first, Garan thought to be his own. But this pair of blues was older, peering from the other side of the glass, free of the frame of a face. Just there, suspended in the dark. Looking at him, through him, into the depths of his being. Eyes so haunting that they spirited him away from reality. His ears were opened and Garan could hear the words clearly now. “Set me free, Libere-moi…”
Words became sweet to his ear, like a song. It didn’t take much to convince a child. That natural inquisitiveness that reigned over early years did him in. The mirror was cracked along an almost imperceptible line, thin and dark, running parallel to the wooden frame in which the glass was mounted. It suppurated something clear, thick, and foamy that reminded Garan of a rabid animal at its worse. The boy got closer, sliding his finger on top of the broken glass.
What happened next was something beyond himself, a sort of instant fascination that guided him to close his hand in a fist and smash it against the mirror. Garan felt nothing, and did it once again, cutting his knuckles and the top of his hand as he hit. Thick drops of blood started feeding that which lay behind the mirror. A fresh offering, the first in over a hundred years.
The surface of the glass heated, burning the boy’s skin. Garan tried to walk away from the source of the heat, but the expansive wave caught up to him, pushing him violently and then drawing him in, his feet hardly touched the ground as the mirror beckoned. The boy found himself absorbed by the glass.
Garan made it to the other side. His universe became bleeding, burned skin encrusted with pieces of glass and excruciating pain. Something flashed before his eyes, red lightning, and the smell of chlorine and metal made his nostrils flare. The void conjured a birdlike form, shrouded in red feathers with blue eyes touched by silver. A talon, sharp like that of an eagle, tore through his face and clavicle while another dug deep into his chest, hollowing his heart. The bird had been tied by its foot with a length of silver chain that exploded into shards as soon as blood was drawn.
When his parents returned, they didn’t find him at home. There was nothing there but crumpled sheets and a broken, crimson stained mirror. The boy had left a trail of gore through the cabin that lead them into the nearby marsh. Search parties went looking for Garan, armed men who knew that bayou like the palms of their hands and had no qualms about searching deep into the river canals. They found him at the break of dawn. There was blood on his torn pajamas, already drying in brown blotches. Other stains were fresh, and not his at all. The boy was surrounded by carcasses of small game. Garan didn’t remember what happened. He had no wounds, except for a gash in his face that had quickly closed, leaving a white scar on his cheek. It looked old and part of him.
No one asked questions. None raised an objection as mother ran to son and locked him in her arms. Lots of things have happened through the years in Bayou Vermillion. This was just another thing to soon forget.
***
“Oh, dear Lord! You are talking about a dweller?” Adriana rushed the end of the story. She had heard enough. She pushed Bastian away with all her force. For the first time since they saw one another again, she felt it was time to kill him once more. She hit him, square in the chest, just to see the ghost explode into a thousand pieces before conjuring up his form again. Frustrating!
“What’s with you?” Bastian shouted back, more surprised than hurt.
“I hate you and all your damn books! Ugh! I mean, this is ridiculous!” Adriana fumed, her lips quivering with rage. “You are counting on a dweller to get us out of here…one who escaped that hell?” The blonde woman pointed toward the dark forest. “Do you have any idea what they do to a body once they slip in? What they do to a mind once they wake up? Those suckers sleep within a host for years on end and Shadows allow it. They are such a destructive force that all that is bad out there would rather see them out of the way! And you are trusting that to help our daughter be released from Francis Alexander? Damn you, Saint Sebastian, you just pushed her out of the pan and into the fire!”
“Then let’s pray Marissa has enough of her mother in her.” The Portuguese man spoke with such calm and sobriety as to close the argument. Their fight would last no time at all, or it could last an eternity. Time moved at a different pace behind the mirror.
Chapter VI
A Glimpse of Fairyland
It was decided. They left New York. He drove without stopping—sixteen whole hours—aiming to reach Florida that same day. It was imperative to stress they were on the run; he needed to make her feel apprehensive and, most of all, dependent on him.
Marissa was aware she had not committed any crime, not directly at least. Detective Anderson was quite satisfied with her answers, enough not to call her back. Taking off from the city didn’t make her a suspect; she was not even a person of interest. She was careful to build an alibi, though. To the eyes of all, Marissa Salgado was deeply affected by Esteban O’Reilly’s death and, in turn, took leave from work. Not quite quitting, but emptying out all of her accumulated time off. That way everyone would think her intention was to return.
No questions were asked. She had almost three months to herself, not bound to answer a phone call or report. No one would come for her. During this time, she’d be Maritza Halloway. She found herself free to appreciate what she had done. Marissa was both thrilled and worried about her acquired freedom.
“Esteban…”
“You should stop using that name, even when we are alone. Otherwise it will be hard for you to get used to our new identities.”
“I’m sorry. Ugh! Francis is such an old name. Perhaps I’ll just stick to Alexander. Is that okay with
you?” She tried to be suggestive, smiling with a little sass. He hardly acknowledged her, never taking his eyes off the road.
She felt a little embarrassed, ridiculous, even. It served her right, for playing feisty at such an inopportune time. Trying to bury that nagging feeling that something was off, Marissa resented losing that Esteban who used to be spontaneous and unpredictable. Since his return, O’Reilly had been terribly somber; he had become a man of set times and rehearsed steps. Sometimes it felt as if she were meeting him for the first time. Someone wearing a familiar face.
They made it to the border between Georgia and Florida, crossing the northern most part of the Sunshine State to connect with I-10, and continued due west.
“I never thought it’d look like this,” Marisa wondered. All images of Florida she’d ever seen had sandy beaches and palm trees, clear blue skies over silver seas. The sky above was overcast, showing the remains of a midday thunderstorm, and the road was flanked by thick patches of wood separated by gray marshes. Cypresses overrun by Spanish moss on both sides of the road.
Her travel companion grinned.
“Vestiges of the Deep South, right along the border. The sun that made you protest so much makes it all beachy as we get closer to the gulf.” He might have found his little statement amusing, but she didn’t. It just reminded her of their last argument, that stubborn negative of hers to go on vacation that gave way to a chain of events that ended in the accident. Marissa couldn’t help feeling guilty and tried changing the subject.
