by Casey Hays
The black notes blur together—a line of ants marching across the pages—but I don’t stop. I wipe my tears on my sleeve and play the hell out of that beautiful song all the way to the final sweet note. Inside the melody, I feel my dad, and I think if he could see this, he would be so proud. Good job, baby girl. Keep practicing, and you’ll be the next Mozart.
My fingers form the final chord. I let it resonate a few seconds longer than written before the first hiccupping sob bursts out of me. After this, I lose it. My body shakes; the sobs hurt my chest. I shove up off the bench and walk the length of the room to catch my breath.
“D-Daddy.” I whisper it into the sudden silence, hoping he can hear me. Or feel me. Or know what’s inside my heart. “I m-miss y-you so m-much.”
From the minute Dad died, I had to be the strong one. So you see, I’ve never really cried for him. Oh, I grieved, but I never experienced the gut-wrenching weeping that cleans all the grief out of your system and leaves you feeling empty and refreshed all in one. But this is exactly where I’m headed now. My stomach hurts… I can tell you that much. And I can’t breathe. The air comes in greedy gasps until I think I might choke on my own lungs. But I don’t, and when I can’t take another minute of it, I curl up onto the end of the sectional, pull the throw over my head, and sob myself into exhaustion.
I get it now. This is what it means to grieve.
***
I manage to pull myself together by the time Frankie rings my bell. I even wash my face and slap on some make up to cover the evidence of my breakdown. But the cry did me good. In fact, I feel kind of renewed. A hope, I guess. That things are going to be different just like Mom promised. And until I’m disappointed again, I’m going to cling to it.
Kane sent me a text just before Frankie arrived.
Him: DID YOU GET IT?
Me: WORKING ON IT.
She follows me into the kitchen and drops her backpack near a stool. Her laptop is tucked under one arm, and I eye it. My nerves started jumping all over the place when she called to say she was on her way, but they crank it up to kickboxing mode as she sets the laptop on the bar. I turn away and take a breath.
Kane O’Reilly, you’re going to owe me big time for this.
“What all did you buy?” Frankie asks, pulling out an inventory list and a pen. She hops up onto the stool.
I open the fridge and rummage through the cold cuts drawer for the ham and turkey I also picked up at the deli while I was out.
“I got the pens you wanted, and some tacks and paint. They had display boxes that we can paint and hook to the board once we get it built.”
“Perfect,” she nods. “I think we have almost everything we need to prove our hypothesis, so we can get to work on the exhibit.”
“What is our hypothesis statement exactly?” I plop the meats and cheeses on the counter, along with a jar of mayonnaise, some lettuce, and a tomato. I slide off my ring and drop it into the soap dish to wash my hands. Despite all our research, we haven’t really come up with a definitive hypothesis.
“I’ve been thinking on that.” She props open her laptop and turns it on. “Do mythical creatures exist? Do Vatra u Krvi live among us? Are Firebloods real? The hypothesis itself can be simple as long as the evidence holds some weight. I think we have plenty of evidence.”
“Do you really?” I dry my hands and go for the bread, finishing my sentence while inside the pantry. “Because I think it’s going to be tough to prove any of it from just a feather and a few writings.”
“Well, I found an article written by Ademov himself.”
Returning, I toss the bread next to the other items. “You did?”
“I did.” Excitement lights her eyes, and she taps a few keys on her laptop. “Now, he doesn’t mention the Vatra u Krvi by name, but he defends the concept of transforming a living being into something more adept, more volatile, with the use of blood amalgams. He states that if the right alloy is created, especially if blood can be extracted from a purportedly mythical creature, abilities beyond the natural could be achieved. And then he names several options.” She smiles wide. “The Phoenix is on the list.”
“Interesting.” I spread mayo across four pieces of bread, very aware that I’m going to have to work double time at keeping up pretenses. “So you’re saying a Fireblood could have supernatural powers?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Of course, all the critics contend that Ademov was crazy.”
“Well… he sounds crazy. Do you want tomato?”
“Yes, please.” Her brows arc over the top of her glasses. “And are you still doubting?”
I raise my hands in defense. “Hey, I’m still here, aren’t I?”
This seems to satisfy her. She taps her pen against the keyboard. I rinse the tomato and pull out a cutting board.
“Okay,” she continues. “So now for the surprise.”
She drops off the stool into a squat. I hear the zip of her backpack, and she reappears with an envelope in her hand. I slice the tomato and pile meat and cheese onto our sandwiches while she dumps the contents of the envelope onto the bar. They’re pictures—a little fuzzy, but I lean in, and I can make them out. In the first one, a boy about ten years old with jet black hair and eyes so blue they look like the sky sits on the floor of an empty room. He puts a puzzle together. I pick it up.
“Who’s this?” I ask.
“I don’t know.”
I glance at her and reach for the next picture. My stomach lurches with shock.
It’s an image of the same boy, but he’s morphed into some sort of half human, lumpy creature. And he’s got wings—big, black wings. They aren’t completely formed, and one is a little smaller and crooked. But that aside, the most intriguing thing about the picture is his face. It glows in a distorted, fuzzy yellow light-bulb kind of way. My eyes widen, and I raise my head.
“Is this a Fireblood?” I whisper the words, pretense intact, because disfigured or not, I already know the answer. Frankie just smiles.
“Look at this one.”
She hands it to me. There he is—a full blown Fireblood—only different. Something terrifying lives in his eyes. Demented. No beauty. Not like what I’ve seen in Kane’s eyes. Not like the beautiful Fireblood in Frankie’s first photo or in Gema’s painting of Mateo Griego. His deformity—crooked wings and humped back—make him into the monster I feared we’d find.
“What's wrong with him?”
“I don't know. But he's a Fireblood. A disfigured kind of Hunchback of Notre Dame version of the Fireblood, but a Fireblood all the same.”
I study the boy’s fuzzy face. He reminds me of someone.
“You know what my father does for a living,” Frankie continues.
I nod. “Yeah. He’s a doctor.”
“A children’s psychiatrist,” she corrects.
“I know. And?”
“He owns his own practice here in Carson City. But when we first moved here, he was head psychiatrist at Willow Springs.”
Okay. She’s got my attention.
You see, Willow Springs is a psychiatric hospital in Reno. A mental hospital for children. I flip through the pictures again.
“My father is very open to unnatural occurrences. He has to be in his line of work.” She picks up the first picture, the one with the puzzle. “I recognize this tile pattern. My dad took me to work with him a few times the summer he took the position. He thought some of the less disturbed kids would benefit from interaction with somebody “normal.”
She looks at me and snickers, knowing full well no one would ever mistake her for normal. I have to smile.
“I was all he had at the time, okay?” she adds with an indifferent wave of her hand. “Anyway, these are the floors from Willow Springs. They may be updated now, but back then, this is what they looked like.”
“Where did you get these?” I ask.
She takes the pictures from me. “I went snooping. Found them in a hanging file folder in my dad’s o
ffice.”
I gape at her.
“Frankie! This stuff is probably confidential,” I whisper. “Does he know they're missing?”
She smiles. “They aren’t missing. I took pictures of the pictures with my phone and printed them.” Frankie runs her thumb across the first photo. “I don’t know who he is, but I know how we can find out.”
“How?”
“One name in the report accompanied these pictures. Nancy Babbitt.”
She pulls her bag up off the floor and digs out her phone. She presses a couple of buttons and hands it to me. I slide through more photos. She’s taken pictures of the entire report.
“Who’s Nancy Babbitt?”
“She was a nurse. I checked my dad's directory for the hospital, and it just so happens that she is now head director at Willow Springs.”
Frankie shuffles through the rest of the photos and hands me another one. A nurse wraps her arms around the boy from behind. His face is contorted and angry, and he clearly struggles against her.
“I think this is her,” Frankie says.
“All right. Give it to me. I know you have a plan.”
I almost hate saying it. I can see the wheels turning in her overly active brain as we speak.
“We're going to take a little road trip tomorrow.”
Just as I thought. I sigh. “Reno?”
“Bingo. Reno or bust.” She scoops up the pictures and shoves them back into the envelope. “One step closer to proving our theory.”
“Yeah. But how the heck are you going to get us into Willow Springs? I’m sure they won’t just let us walk in. And better yet, what makes you think this nurse will talk to us? If she's even allowed to.”
Frankie pushes on her glasses, grinning.
“I’ve already contacted her. Told her a half truth about our research project. When she found out I was Dr. Melmack’s daughter, she invited me right over.”
I raise my brows. Clearly, Frankie will do anything to get this project done, and this worries me. It makes me that much more anxious to get the audio from her too, because I’m beginning to see that Kane has a reason to be nervous. We can’t underestimate Frankie’s ingenuity. If anyone can translate the voices on the audio, my bets are on her.
I pull a bag of potato chips from the pantry, pile them onto our plates, and hand Frankie her sandwich.
“So, any luck with the audio?” I ask the question, steady and casual.
What happens over the next few minutes should really be added to that book, In Search of the Bizarre and Fantastical. Because seriously... it’s that bizarre. Frankie’s mouth kind of drops open, and her brows lift so high above her glasses, it crosses my mind for a split second that they just might take flight.
“How did you know about that?”
I freeze, a potato chip suspended in my fingers. “Uh…”
“Jude? How did you know about an audio?”
Okay… this is weird. I think fast, but clearly not smart.
“You… told me?”
“No. I didn’t know an audio existed until today.”
I’m at a real loss for words, but I know what’s going on. A little something Gema called redirecting. I bite into my sandwich and chew very slowly, and then, I just kind of shrug.
“No, you told me. I’m sure you did.” My words are muffled around my full mouth. I flick my eyes up, checking to see if she buys it.
“That’s just weird,” she whispers.
“Why?”
She produces a thumb drive from her pocket and holds it up. “Because Matty brought this to me this morning. He says I gave it to him and told him to hide it for a few days and then bring it back to me. I don’t remember doing that at all, but I’m positive I haven’t told anyone about it.”
A bead of nervous sweat trickles down my back. I play a wild card. “You told me when you called earlier. Maybe you don’t remember that, either.” I reach across the bar and press my palm against her forehead. “Are you coming down with something?”
She shoves my hand away. “No,” she retorts, but her voice is hesitant. She’s not sure. Good.
“Did you listen to it?”
She nods. “Yes. And you won’t believe what I heard.”
If only she knew. She slides the thumb drive into the port.
“Oh yeah?” I stare at the drive, anxiety mounting. “What’s that?
“Voices.” Her eyes widen with her smile. “Speaking in some unknown language. Literally, Jude. I’ve never heard it before.”
“Really?” I go to the fridge for sodas while she taps out a few keys.
“Yes. A couple of the words are similar to the old Gaelic language, but the rest? I’ve never heard it spoken. It could literally be a Vatra u Krvi language.”
“Why would you think that?” I hand her a soda.
“I know it’s a stretch, but maybe those two young Firebloods were there that night. Maybe, like I assumed, they’re creatures of habit. And maybe, we captured their voices on this audio. What else could it be?”
“An animal?”
She tosses me her best look of exasperation. “Unless bears have learned to speak words, it was not an animal.”
“Hey, now.” I throw her own argument right back at her. “You’re the one who dabbles in the Underground Section.”
“Just don’t be a skeptic, Jude.” She takes a potato chip. “You need to listen with an open mind. Someone is definitely having a conversation on this recording in a language that by all rights doesn’t exist.” She crunches down on the chip. “And based on former evidence that Firebloods have been spotted in the vicinity, I choose to believe this is what you will hear.”
I pop my soda top, take a long sip, gearing myself up for the pain that is inevitably coming. “Well, let’s hear it.”
“I’ve isolated just that part of the audio.” She widens her eyes. “Are you ready?”
I take a bite of my sandwich, hoping it will steady me. “Go for it.”
Static fills my kitchen first, followed by wind. A huge whooshing whirlwind of a sound. I stiffen, hold my breath, and then…
Voices.
The grip on my sandwich loosens, and I stop chewing completely and just swallow the rest of my bite—which kills my throat on the way down, but I ignore it. Frankie, watching my reaction, sits up a little bit straighter.
“Do you hear them?”
I’m numb. The half-eaten sandwich slips from my fingers and falls apart on my plate. I manage a nod, and Frankie takes in a quick slice of air.
“It’s unreal, isn’t it?” she whispers.
I have no answer for her, but I also have no answer for what my ears are picking up at this very moment. Because it isn’t just voices I hear; it isn’t just some strange unknown language that has no root. I hear real words, and I understand them.
“Rewind it,” I say, leaning in. Frankie does, and I listen again, more closely this time.
“I’m not here to cause trouble. I want the same as you.”
“I don’t care what you’re here for. We’ve been fine without you. We don’t need you. I’ve got this.”
“Are you sure? You let your emotions get in the way, and you’ll get you both killed.”
“You just stay away, you understand? And stop feeding her.”
After this, a snapping sound, like someone lit a giant match, followed by scuffling. A fight maybe—with cracking and popping intermingled. It sounds like fire. The two shout at each other, but their voices are so high-pitched, I can’t quite catch the words. The segment ends abruptly, and I pull back.
“It’s pretty fascinating, isn’t it?” Frankie presses end. “I just wish I knew what in the world they were saying.”
“Yeah.”
I say the word quietly, desperately working to keep my thoughts from invading my face with the truth. Two voices—arguing—and one of them is Kane. A slice of anger pinches me. He didn’t tell me he was with another Fireblood.
Even more puzzling? Why can
I hear the voices now when I couldn’t before? And why do I understand them? My whole body ripples with shock.
“Anyway,” Frankie says, gathering up my attention. “I’ll keep working on it, but I have a feeling we won’t be able to translate. Which means we probably can’t use it as proof. But we can display it as a theoretical attraction. You know, set it up and let people decide for themselves if these are the voices of Firebloods.”
I nod, but I’m not really listening. She ejects it and holds it up. “This is a copy, by the way.”
“Wait—” I stiffen, apprehension mounting as another piece of Frankie’s memory loss falls into place. “This is a copy?”
“Yes. I can’t find the original anywhere, and Matty has no clue.” She adjusts her glasses and straightens. “I suddenly have a theory.”
That doesn’t surprise me. Frankie’s mind has always run wild with conspiracies. She squeezes the thumb drive tightly in her fist and hones in on me.
“Someone who didn’t want us to know what was on this audio took it. Which means they knew about it.” She wipes a piece of loose hair from her face. “I obviously suspected something like that would happen, so I made this copy and safeguarded it by giving it to Matty.” She holds it up. “It certainly sounds like something I would do.”
“Okay,” I concede.
“And now… I have no recollection of my activity surrounding any of it.”
“And your theory?” I hold my breath, hoping she doesn’t take the path I’m visualizing.
“The man who recorded those two Firebloods? He can’t remember either.”
She nails it. I swallow the giant knot in my throat. She moves right along into her next speculation.
“Someone in the same general location where he recorded his footage came close enough to get caught on our audio.” She holds up the drive and tilts her head knowingly. “Those voices belong to Firebloods.”
Just like that, all the dots are connected, even if they do paint the wrong picture of the wrong Firebloods.
