by A. E. Rought
“That’s not it!” With a snarled expletive, Em yanks the car door open and plunges into the snow storm raging outside. She’s just… gone. The Acura shudders when I put it into park. Snow obscures my face and eyes when I jump out of the car.
“Emma!” I yell. A jittery feeling razors my nerves. “Emma, come back!”
The only response I get is the driver in the car behind me laying on the horn. I should flip him off and run after her. Something bad is going to happen, I know it like I know I love her. When I turn to give him the middle finger, I see the red and blue lights of a police car at the end of our traffic jam. If I run off, there’s no telling what kind of trouble I will be in.
I can’t see her. Searching for her blond hair in a snowstorm is an impossible task. Worry sickens me as I yank the door back open and drop behind the steering wheel. The driver behind adds a rude blat of the horn after the vehicle in front of me inches forward and I don’t follow immediately. Then I do flip him off.
I may fear police involvement. I am not going to take bullying from a crowd-follower.
Scanning the roadside, I try to catch a glimpse of Emma, praying the cold drives her back to the car, or that she comes to her senses and returns so we can figure this out. Yes, she has a reason to be upset. She should be angry, and I should be lashed with her anger. But jumping out of the car in a snowstorm? That behavior is far from normal. Em’s always the one nagging me about driving safely, dong the smart thing behind the wheel, wearing a jacket.
Did Paul calibrate the charge wrong? Did I overdose her with the formula? We could’ve fried her nervous system, anything…
I punch the Bluetooth connection button and voice command, “Call Paul.”
He answers almost before it rings the first time. “How is she, Alex?”
“Something is off. She got really angry and then stormed off – in the middle of a blizzard. Could we have overdosed her, or had the charge set too high and fried her limbic system?”
“Not likely,” he says. The confidence in his voice does little to make me feel better. Guilt and fear nearly drown me. “I hacked into her medical records at the clinic. The weight was exact. Your formula shouldn’t have affected her like that. Maybe her systems are rebooting as they’re newly affected? Did you make her angry?”
“No.” I feather the gas as the line of cars creeps forward. “She made herself angry.”
“What were the precipitating events?”
“Well, other than her dying, me bringing her back to life, and her figuring out Daniel’s truly gone? She compared herself to the animals on the estate….” Trapped in this car, with the police a few vehicles back and my recently resurrected girlfriend running wild, I feel so damn useless.
“I can scan the formula,” Paul suggests, “run over her files and see if I can find something. There’s no telling where she may go, or what she might say. Go everywhere you think she might go. Call her friends. We can’t have this mess coming back on the lab.”
Or me. “Thanks Paul.”
“Call me when you find her.”
“Of course.”
I disconnect the call, and then command, “Call Jason.”
Ahead the cars move, and flashing emergency vehicle lights become visible. On the second ring, Jason picks up. “Dude. Where are you guys? Bree’s going nuts.”
“She’s gone, Jason.”
“What!” His shock only makes my anxiety worse. “Dead again?”
“No. She got mad, and jumped out of the car. Now, I’m stuck in a traffic jam.”
“Shit.” Fabric rustles disrupt Bree’s voice in the background. “I’m just getting my jacket on,” he says. “Where do you think she would go?”
“The cemetery maybe?” I hate not knowing. She could go anywhere, do anything, let the world in on our secret. Paul’s right to worry about Ascension. “Her old house? Maybe my grandparents’ house.”
“Bree and I will take the cemetery and her house. You go back to your grandparents’. We’ll check in every hour, unless we find her sooner.”
“Jason?” He’s such a good friend it makes me feel inferior.
“Yeah?”
“You were right,” I say, “about being a bright star.”
“Don’t tell anyone.”
“Never.” The burden of secrets is less when shared. He shouldered a big weight with keeping all of mine. It’s the least I can do for him.
The line of cars sidles around a three-car pile-up that the first responders have cleared off to the side of the road. I stare, like the rest of the drivers parading past the scene. It’s human nature to look at an accident and make sure you’re not actually a victim. I think my life has suffered a completely different kind of crash.
Hours of fruitlessly driving White River’s streets later, I return to the farmhouse. Yellow light pours from the windows, illuminates snowflakes falling. Grandpa’s truck has been moved, and sits with the engine ticking and snow steaming on its hood.
Inside, it’s bedtime and Gran’s pacing. Her hair seems to have staged a revolt against her bobby pins, her face is drawn, eyes tired. She and Renfield wait at the top of the stairs when I drag myself through the back door.
“Alexander James Franks,” Gran uses my full name, confirming the sense I’m in deep shit with them. “I have so many questions I don’t know where to start. Park your butt at the table and start talking.”
Renfield eyes me, sitting next to Gran’s ankle like he put her up to the tirade. Fully deserved, but still, the last thing I need is that cat giving me more stinkeye while I prepare to give Gran the who, what, when, where, and why of the past day. Before I can confess a thing, Grandpa comes in from the living room. He adjusts his glasses and suspenders, then pours a large mug of coffee. Tired beyond belief, and even more stressed, I can’t muster up the fear I should feel under Grandpa’s unflinching gaze.
I can’t get through retelling Emma’s death without tears breeching my defenses. The rest of the story comes in a clinical account of a series of damning acts, told behind an emotionless wall keeping what’s left of my heart safe. Gran’s beside me when I finish recounting the fear sickening me as I drove here. Her hand, warm and soft, rests on my shoulder. Grandpa’s gaze finally shifts from my face. He looks up at his wife. Her fingers tighten slightly on my shoulder. He stands, pushes back his chair and walks to the coat rack by the back door.
“Grandpa?” My voice cracks.
“Shush,” Gran warns. “Let him go. He won’t do anything to make it worse.”
“Stay here,” Grandpa says, “in case Emma comes back. I’ll drive the roads for a while.”
I nod, and sink back to lean on my grandmother. What would I do without them? Both of them stronger than I would’ve dreamed, and incredibly resilient with how deeply the poison my father poured into my life is tainting theirs now.
Gran puts a plate of microwaved dinner leftovers in front of me. Meat, potatoes, vegetables. The rational side of my brain knows I should eat. The smell wakes up something in my stomach, the base animal in my human nature, begging to be fed. I push the plate away, and Gran shoves it back.
“You’re no good to that girl,” Gran says, couching her hands on her hips, “if you worry yourself sick. Now, eat.”
Renfield jumps into Grandpa’s vacated chair across from me. His gaze matches Grandpa’s for its steady hold. The fuzzy bastard is trying to tell me something, and I’m too numb to pick it up. Fine. To stop the nagging, I scoop a fork into my mouth, chew and swallow. There’s no flavor, no texture. Worry for Emma permeates everything, tastes, breaths, heartbeats. I can’t stomach more than half the plate before my emotions entirely railroad my self-preservation instincts. Why haven’t we heard from her? Where is she? What the hell happened to flip her trigger like that?
“Gran, may I leave the table?”
One look at my picked-at meal and my expression, and Gran nods.
“Take that cat and go to bed. When Emma’s ready, she’ll come back.”<
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The exhaustion hits when I stand. My joints are loose, muscles sandy. Weights drag down my eyelids. “I’m just going to lie down for a while, then I’ll drive the roads some more.”
“It’ll be OK,” Gran says, and shoos me toward the stairs.
Renfield trots one step in front of me, giving me the impression he thinks he’s leading me, taking care of me like he did by cuddling with Em all last night.
Once in my bedroom, I peel off my clothes and kick them toward the hamper. Fatigue weighs on me – Emma should be tired too. Where is she? Will she find someplace safe to sleep? Tired of waiting for me, the white cat leaps onto my pillow, pads across it, then walks to the end of the bed. He’s right – I need some sleep so I have enough energy to search for Em. Before getting under the blankets, I plug in my cell phone and set an alarm for four hours, inadequate to my body’s needs, but enough for me to get up and resume the hunt for Emma.
If I can sleep at all.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Cold air whisks over my face, pushes the smell of mud and iron down my throat with every breath. Two noises ride the edge of my fuzzy consciousness, a constant, annoying beep-beep, beep-beep and a low growl. What is that noise? Why does my room stink?
White plumes of breath rise in the dark before my eyes. The bed shudders beneath me, the blankets shackle me to the mattress. Slowly my eyes adjust to the black night.
My window is open, the storm window outside hangs at a crazy angle. A trail of muddy dirt leads down the wall and across the floor to my bed like something out of a slasher flick. Then I see why. In one breath I go from confused, to split in two and dually horrified. What’s left of Daniel responds to her presence, emanating shock and horror and disbelief in my mind, down my nerves, everywhere.
There’s nothing in their past to compare this moment to. For a breath, I see two of her as Emma lies atop my blankets. I blink and the images meld. Somehow, the emotion running through me – through us – fuses what’s left of Daniel deeper into me. Red mud cakes her worse than the day at the park when we pulled the deer from the culvert. She could be a murder victim by her appearance, and yet sound asleep, teeth chattering, body shivering in the cold.
Renfield stands, back arched and tail puffed, across the room by the door. The growling noise comes from him in a steady wave. It’s a vocal approximation of the primal response burning in me. Wrong. Bad. Not right.
So many questions swarm my brain. Where has she been? What has she done? And my stupid, broken heart whispers, does she love me anymore? As awful as she looks, I still love her and need her to love me.
“Emma?”
She mutters in her sleep, grabs my wrist with a bloody hand and pulls it over her ribs as she snuggles closer. Sour blood smell rises from her skin. Revulsion drives Daniel away, itches in my throat, razors my nerves. How can she be oblivious to the filth, the cold?
“Emma, wake up.” My voice comes out strangled, as I try not to gag.
“Gimme a few more minutes. I had such horrible nightmares.”
She looks like she’s still in one. My brain refuses to accept this. Bloody filth cakes her, bad enough to have rolled in a carcass, and she’s cuddled up to me like it’s a normal afternoon nap? I clamp my jaws on a retch. The last thing we need to add to this messed up equation is vomit.
“Hey,” I nudge her. “Em, my Gran can’t see you like this. She’ll have a heart attack.”
“What?” She yawns, stretches, and then lifts a hand to rub the sleep from her eyes.
Her chest constricts, forcing out a screech. I cup a hand over her mouth before she wakes the rest of the house. The scream doesn’t die, but scales high and shrill behind my hand. Warm water splatters my hand from Emma’s tears when she shakes her head. Emma’s hysteria claws at me, riding the electrical current between us, lightning in a narrow rift.
“Shhh.” I choke back the bile souring my stomach and draw Emma tight to my chest. The wails break down into sobs, her tears washing clean tracks down her cheeks. “Whatever it is, I’ll take care of it. We’ll make this better.”
“How?” She tucks her head closer to my skin. “How can you ever fix this? I don’t even know what happened!”
“We can fix anything, as long as you’re OK.”
“OK?” A manic cackle sounds so wrong coming out of her. “This is not OK. I’m not OK.”
Oh, God. Some of this blood may be hers. “Are you hurt?”
She stills in my arms. “That’s what scares me,” Em hiccups on a sob. “I feel fine.”
“Let’s get you cleaned up, and make sure you’re not hurt. Then we’ll try to figure out what happened.”
She nods, and pushes to sitting. Renfield’s growl deepens. Emma’s lip turns further down. “Even my cat hates me.”
“Shut up, Renfield.” I fling a pillow at the cat. The furball grumbles and scurries under the desk in the corner. He hunkers down, ears pasted to his skull, tail fat as a brush. “I’m sure he’s just reacting to the smell.”
Wrapping my quilt around her, I sit and grab my cellphone. I press my cheek to the back of her neck, with the blanket between us as I speed dial Jason. He answers on the first ring. “Find her?”
“Yeah.” I listen to her breathing, and the silence in the house. “She’s here. Filthy, confused, but seems unharmed.”
“Call me when you know more. I’ll call Bree.”
He disconnects the call, and I dial Paul. He answers before a second ring.
“Please tell me you found Emma.”
“More like she found her way back to me.”
“Good. Whatever is happening, she must be defaulting to returning to her source of greatest comfort.”
“We’ll discuss theories after I get her cleaned up.”
“Do I want to know?”
“No.” I don’t want to know what she did to get that dirty. “I’ll call soon.”
After putting the phone on my desk, I scoop Emma and the quilt into my arms. The hallway is quiet when I step out. A glimmer of light shines beneath my grandparents’ bedroom door. Instead of creeping past, and washing away the evidence of whatever Emma may have done, I walk across the hall and knock on their door. Footsteps punctuate the lack of snores coming from the other side of the door.
Grandpa wedges the door open. He gives Emma a quick glance, and her tears start again. I want to talk, feel like I should say something, but a sudden lump in my throat chokes off any words. Grandpa uses a wrinkled thumb to wipe Emma’s tears.
“You found your way home,” he tells her.
Something silent and deep passes between them, and then Emma nods.
“Take care of her,” Grandpa says. “Then put that quilt in the washer to soak, or Gran’ll have your hide.”
“Yessir.”
“Well,” I say after he closes their door. “That was surprising.”
Snuffling back tears, Emma nods in agreement. Her muscles tense more with every step I take closer to the bathroom. Her breaths come shorter, quicker. “Not the shower,” she whispers.
“People can’t see you like this, Em. And we have to make sure you’re not hurt.”
“But, it’s…”
“I know.” Water killed her. She may never win free of that fear now. I understand, because I constantly fight my fear of falling, an inheritance my father didn’t intend when he sewed Daniel’s parts into me.
I open the door on instinct, my eyes on her face as I do. Black lashes flutter as she squeezes her eyes shut. Her lips turn down. Then, something changes, a shift in the tension in her muscles, the knot of her pinched lips unwinds. Behind the closed bathroom door, Emma sheds the bloody cocoon of a quilt. Beneath, she’s a glorious, terrible beauty. Flushed cheeks, blond hair tipped in red, clothes a map of the grotesque. I really shouldn’t like it like I do.
“Will you check me for cuts, or anything?”
“Of course.”
She’s changed again, a shift in temperament like the one in the car, only not angr
y. A smile crooks her lips, inviting. Em holds my gaze, then turns away from me, and in one fluid motion pulls her shirt over her head. Emma’s back is smooth, a study of curves and planes, unmarked except for red splotches where blood soaked through to stain her skin. She extends both arms, twists them, displaying the angles and lines of sinew, bone and flesh.
“Perfect,” I say.
“If I didn’t know better,” she says, and unzips her jeans, “I would think you’re enjoying this.”
“Just looking for injuries,” I lie.
Her jeans fall. Nothing between Emma and me but a little cotton, air, and a thousand questions.
“Not even a bruise,” I promise. She turns then. “Not even one?” she asks, lashes at half-mast, finger hooked in the waist of my boxers.
Well, a bruise on my heart from her calling for Daniel. And one on my soul from me being as evil as my father to bring her back. I swallow a breath, trapped in her gaze as she steps nearer, closing the distance between us. Why fight it? I’m a fool for her and we both know it. Electricity dances through my fingertips when I slide them around her back and up her spine.
“I don’t want to get in there alone,” she whispers. Holding her as tight as I am, I feel the shiver of fear run down her spine.
“You don’t have to,” I breathe into her hair.
I release her, slide back the curtain, and invite her in.
The message light blinks on my cell phone when we return to my bedroom. Emma ducks behind the closet door to dress in more of my mother’s old sports jerseys and a pair of my flannel pajama pants. I toss a pair of socks over the door, a hoodie, in case she’s still cold, before checking my phone.
Bree Ransom?
My mind immediately starts formulating excuses, lies, anything to explain away Em’s missing chunk of hours. Or the amount of time we took in the shower...
I click through to open a message sent to Bree from an unlisted number. A video?
Why is Bree sending me a video? Who sent it to her?
The video loads, the frame stuck on a very recognizable scene: the front gates to my father’s estate. The last time I was there, Em sat in the car while I walked on the property to check on things. Everything was fine then. But doesn’t appear to be now.
