Cannot Unite

by Jackie Ivie

  That’s when she came up with Rule Number Two - never speak of it to the unimaginative. The emotion thing was another rule, but it was down the list. Never exhibit emotion, especially hysteria. That’s what they’d called her breakdown, those psychiatrists, psychologists, neurologists, and every other doctor that practiced on her.

  Nobody listened to why.

  Nobody dared.

  Because if they did listen, they’d have to deal with how accurate her vision was. And that meant they’d have to believe her psychic abilities were real. They’d realize she really had witnessed her mother’s death by a drunk driver while sitting safely in an eighth grade geography class. They’d labeled her ensuing screaming fit as hysteria. That was the same diagnosis given the girls of Salem, Massachusetts back in 1792, the one that started off the Witch Trials. Hysteria: exhibiting signs of massive emotion that clouded reality. That had been the diagnosis given that bit of history, and it was the same one all those physicians had given her. The Inquisition hadn’t really ended. It was just subversive. Hidden. Jeannette came to terms with it and then she pretended to accept the diagnosis. And then she gave them the best acting of her life through every moment of it. That’s what got her out of that room six months later, and she was never going back.

  So. She had her rules and adhered to them without thinking anymore. Because they kept her safe. Hidden. Sane. Free.

  Rule Number Six: No emotion. Showing emotion got you attention, and attention got trouble. Both to be avoided.

  Rule Number Five: No speaking with the dead. Just the idea scared Jeannette.

  Rule Number Four: No altering of events. No being has the right to change or alter the future.

  Rule Three: Cause as little harm as possible. To every living thing, and that included the planet. Jeannette was even an invisible partner in two salvage companies that were losing propositions. She’d already violated this rule with the creature, but he’d seemed to recover. Besides, he was already dead.

  Rule Number Two: Never speak of her powers. To anyone. Especially the media. If she had answers, she gave them. She never said how she got them and never described it. It was safer. And saner.

  And those rules were all preceded by the Cardinal one: Rule Number One: Never, ever, under any circumstances, use her gift for selfish reasons.

  Ever.

  Until she reached legal age, she kept everything to herself. She never spoke of her gift. Never used it. Ran from any vestige of it. Acted calm and practical and completely sane. That’s how she got by. Once she reached twenty-one and gained her inheritance, however…well. All bets were off. She started flexing her gifts – but only for the benefit of others. Never for herself. The trauma of being with her mother for her last moments was too great. Too frightening. Too emotional.

  Remember Rule Number Six, Jeannette. No emotion. No screaming. No hysteria.

  That’s why she’d waited to react until this creature ceased flying. Or whatever he’d been doing. She kept her eyes tightly closed the entire time, denying everything. Him. The destruction of her hotel room. Flesh-like, rock-hard chest and abs she was pressed against and wrapped around. Strands of hair slipping past her cheeks with wind. The slight queasiness of her belly with each dip. Almost like a roller-coaster. As if they really were flying. Jeannette didn’t release one inch of her hold about his neck, or where her legs straddled his hips.

  “Do you always speak to yourself?”

  Ignore him, Jeannette.

  Something on him had flexed with his words. Her thighs felt it. An instant tingle radiated from there all over, surprising her. Then annoying. Then horrifying. It wasn’t possible she’d spoken aloud. Then again, it wasn’t possible that she’d been airborne in the arms of a vampire, either.

  “You do…don’t you?”

  She scrunched her eyes tighter before answering. “Yes. And no.”

  “It’s either one or the other. So, it’s yes. Right?”

  Denying his existence wasn’t working. Jeannette sighed heavily. The body she clutched seemed to do the same maneuver, but that was ridiculous. He was dead. Dead things did not breathe. Nor did they ask questions. Nor should she answer.

  And just like that, she violated Rule Number Five.

  “Okay. Fine. It’s a yes. I do speak to myself. But it’s also no. I usually think to myself. I’m a loner. I don’t speak aloud when others are about.”

  “I’m about.”

  “No you’re not. You’re dead. You don’t count. I do not speak with dead people. It’s another of my rules.”

  “Until this morning, I’d have agreed with you. I mean…yester-morn.”

  “You would?”

  “More the dead part of that. And what it means. And what we need to discuss. You and me.”

  “Listen up, Mister. I’m about to violate my cardinal rule. You’ve been warned.”

  “What is that?”

  “Something so sacrosanct, it’s inviolate.”

  “What does all that mean?”

  “Don’t you understand plain English?”

  “Um. Usually. That was plain?”

  “Look, Mister Nan—”

  “Who?”

  “Mister Nan. Kay Nan. You told me that was your name.”

  He chuckled. Everything on his torso moved with it. And she’d been wrong. They were still moving.

  “Please don’t tell me you’re still flying. No. Don’t say it.”

  “My name is KayNan. One word. And the answer to your question is yes. And also no.”

  “What?”

  “Do you want a plain answer? Or one gussied up with large adjectives?”

  Jeannette cracked open an eye. Then, the other. He might be dead, but he was still stirring. Handsome. Manly. Especially with strands of hair escaping his queue to trail alongside his cheeks. He had really gorgeous green eyes, too. She might as well admit it. His eyes were emerald green with a heavy outline of darkest brown. Being this close only added impact. This was too much attention from too much male. Jeannette closed her mouth before he noticed.

  “Plain,” she finally answered.

  He smiled. He had great lines about his eyes, too. And she really needed to look at something else. She moved her gaze over his shoulder, took in a view of four enormous recliner chairs, in sets of two, facing each other around a highly polished table. Carpeting. Soft lighting. A large projection-type screen. Cream-colored, pin-dotted walls. Window ports that reflected back nothing but blackness. Just like a movie set for a very expensive private plane.

  “We’re flying,” she said.

  “Exactly. That’s the yes portion of my answer. As well as the no one.”

  “What?”

  “We’re flying, but it isn’t due to me. We’re aboard my jet. And I have a pilot. His name is Vaughn. He’s very good.”

  Jeannette looked back at him, and consciously forced her arms to loosen their hold about his neck. She refused to acknowledge how he was still ensconced between her legs, her ankles linked behind him, while one of his arms supported the position. The other arm felt like it was behind her, sealing her against him. Worse and worse.

  It felt good.

  Rule Number Six, Jeannette. No emotion. Definitely no male-to-female, enticement-type emotion. Geez. She was violating that rule, too. Of all the horrible consequences to this episode. She had to stifle this odd attraction. She’d deal with it later. When he wasn’t giving her his complete attention, and flushing again as if he read her mind. Which was more insanity. He was dead. Dead things do not flush, Jeannette.

  She cleared her throat. “All right. You win.”

  “I do?”

  “Where…exactly, is your pilot flying us?”

  “Somewhere safe.”

  “Safe?”

  “That wasn’t a 4D Team back there. Those were Hunters. They now know you. They have your scent. And your contact information. Nowhere is safe. Except with me.”

  “Oh, no. No. I told you I didn’t contact any hunters,
vampire or otherwise.”

  “You don’t need to contact them. All you had to do was query. They’re good. Very good. We never underestimate them. They probably had you in their sights the moment you reached out to me this morn. I mean yester-morn.”

  “Reached…out to you? Look. I wasn’t reaching. I was envisioning. That’s what I call it, anyway.”

  Damn. There went a huge violation of Rule Number Two.

  “Envisioning. That’s what you call it? Hmm.”

  “For lack of a better word, yes. Envisioning. I help with investigations. For family closure. I rarely tell the cops what I see. It’s a waste of time.”

  “Why?”

  “They wouldn’t believe me. I can’t blame them. Right now, I don’t even believe me.”

  “Why not?”

  “I see…things that aren’t visible to others.”

  “I know. I heard.”

  He sucked in his cheeks, pursing his lips, and damn it all, if she didn’t immediately think of kissing him! Physical contact was completely out of the question. He was a murderer. A creature of the night. A vampire. Undead. Unclean. Kissing him should horrify and disgust, not be causing a flurry of shivers that felt deliciously decadent. Illicit. Tantalizing. What was the matter with her? His clean looks and lack of fangs aside, any overture was impossible to even contemplate. She was adding that to her rule list.

  “You should probably stop that,” he told her.

  Jeannette forced herself to meet his gaze. Ignored the buzz of reaction that tugged at her. Attempting to drag her into a mesmeric fog. Reaching to encase her. Wanting to enwrap her. Again…

  “I do not hypnotize that easily,” she informed him.

  He grinned, the gesture showing lots of white teeth, and nothing with a sharp fang. Dang. He really was gorgeous. She had to remember he wasn’t what he looked. He was a killer. A monster. It wasn’t working. He still looked good. Really good. And kissable. Jeannette narrowed her eyes next.

  “Listen. KayNan. You need to take me back. I have a life. My own apartment. A business. It’s all completely innocuous. And totally safe.”

  “Not anymore, it’s not.”

  “Let go of me.”

  “It’s not me doing the holding,” he replied.

  Jeannette’s face fell. Her legs did, too. That’s when she knew her hold wasn’t the only thing linking to him. He had her cradled with an arm about her back, his thighs pretty much matched to hers. And that felt better than good, too.

  “KayNan.”

  “Yes?”

  “Let go of me.”

  “You’ll not go far?”

  “And just how far could I go?”

  He tipped his head as if debating it, and then loosened his arms. Jeannette had lost her sandals somewhere midflight. The soles of her feet felt every bit of his shins as she slid down them, finally connecting with the floor. She probably should’ve waited. At his height she had to crane her neck to stay connected with his gaze.

  “You’re very small,” he commented.

  “So?”

  “Except in certain…areas.”

  His eyes flicked to her bosom. Jeannette pulled up on her neckline with a thumb and forefinger and then stepped back. Another step before she dropped into one of his recliners. The chairs felt safer. Equalizing. She motioned for him to join her with an open hand toward an opposing chair.

  “What?”

  “That’s a request to sit down, KayNan. So we can talk.”

  “Why would I want that?”

  “We need to talk this over. Civilly. Without…interference.”

  He dropped into the chair, making it look small.

  “Good. That’s much better, isn’t it?”

  “Not to my thinking.”

  He leaned forward, taking up more than his share of area, and making her feel even smaller.

  “You need to sit back, KayNan. Now.”

  “Why?”

  “I already told you. You should have listened.”

  “You’ve said a lot, though.”

  “Please remember, KayNan, that I did warn you.”

  “About what?”

  “This.”

  And Jeannette leaned back, closed her eyes in order to open every other sense. She grew lightheaded. Woozy. Tingling touched her fingers…toes. And then the vision started.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Smack. Slap. Slap.

  Smack. Slap. Slap.

  The sound assailed her first, coming from somewhere in the murky haze, rhythmically, not unlike a really slow waltz tempo. One, two, three. One, two, three. Smells reached her next. Some familiar. Some not. Damp earth. Rusting iron. Old wood. Some type of meat roasting over a coal-fired brazier. A wafting bit of incense. And then she got a whiff of sweat. Unwashed bodies. Blood.

  Fear.

  Jeannette wrinkled her nose and squinted, trying to see down the corridor she found herself in. Light percolated in dust-filled sunbeams, streaming down in waves that radiated heat. She looked up, taking in several slits high in what looked like stone walls. She ran her eyes down the wall, and then reached a hand out, watched her fingers until they touched. Grazed. Her fingertips slid along the wall, getting chaffed by the emery-board type surface. Not stone…or if it was, it was rough-hewn. It felt more like brick. Looked like it, too. Dull color, too. Mostly beige.

  Jeannette followed the wall downward, evaluating. Deciding. The floor matched the same shade as the walls. She lifted her skirt hem. Oh, look. She was still barefoot. She wondered momentarily what sorts of viruses and funguses she might be toying with by running around barefoot in a strange place. Atop a strange floor. Wait. She skimmed one foot along the floor, lifting a fine layer of silt. That was wrong, too. This wasn’t floor. It looked more like packed sand. Damp from some sort of water source.

  She dared open her senses more, pulling in the scent of animals…grains. Dung. The smells got added to – now carrying the aroma of strong perfumes, vying with each other for mastery. She caught a whiff of spices – perhaps cinnamon and sandalwood. And somewhere she thought she detected a floral undertone, not unlike rose petal. The air grew humid. Hot. Sapping at her will. Taking her strength. Sending a slight sheen of perspiration to coat her entire body, sticking the t-shirt and cotton skirt to her.

  She walked deeper into the abyss. Losing what daylight she’d had, but gaining flickering torchlight in its stead. It gave her patches of light to see with. And even that had little flecks of sand reflecting in it.

  This is the future?

  Oh, dear. Look, Jeannette. Looks like someone had finally done it. They’d flipped the switch. All the proselytizing and negotiating and political rhetoric had been for naught. They’d unleashed a bomb. Annihilated. Destroyed. Humankind had lost electricity. And with it, they’d lost technology.

  Jeannette frowned. Wait. Something didn’t feel right. Anything nuclear would have worse consequences than sending the world back to what looked like the dark ages. Wouldn’t it?

  Smack. Slap. Slap.

  The odd three sounds continued apace, now growing louder and interspersed with a groan. And that became a low continuum of them. Lots of groans. From lots of throats.

  Jeannette rounded a corner. The stone gave way to bars. Old, iron bars, rusting from the ground up with the damp. And behind them were men. In various stages of undress, age, nationality, and every stage of health. Or…un-health.

  Jeannette stumbled, her toe catching in the dirt, propelling her into a collision with a large man, except at that exact moment he moved, completely unaware of her existence. Jeannette’s palm skin tore as she caught herself on the wall, scraping minute cuts into her flesh. That was odd. She’d never had physical manifestations before.

  She spun, putting her back against the wall, to watch the man shove a long, spear-like object through the bars. He was dressed in a long robe, of some dark material without a hint of ornamentation, and he had his head wrapped with an Arabic covering she knew to be called a ghotra. She wa
sn’t surprised to hear him speak what was probably Arabic. She didn’t understand it, but the inhabitants of the cell thing did. She watched them scramble out of reach, some even using other occupants as shields.

  Smack. Slap. Slap.

  “They’re going to kill him this time!”

  “Shut up!”

  The words weren’t loud, but the guard must have heard it, too. He stopped poking with his spear-thing and cocked his head. They weren’t in view, but the first speaker sounded young. His voice had roved two octaves with pubescent vigor. His answer had been curt. Final. Angry. They’d also used a language she actually understood…but how? Nothing about this vision made sense. Something was wrong. She’d gone somewhere meaningless. It resembled a studio set for a Spartacus movie, or maybe a Persian epic that featured pain and suffering among war prisoners.

  Jeannette closed her eyes again. Released all thought. Began by envisioning darkness. Obscurity. Blankness. She inhaled; held it for eight seconds while her heart did a slow count with her; exhaled. Repeated the process. And then she opened her eyes.

  Smack. Slap. Slap.

  “Why doesn’t he speak? Give them what they want!”

  “Because he’ll never give his word not to try to escape.”

  “Then, why doesn’t he just lie?”

  Nothing had altered. She was still stuck in some sort of purgatory, getting sensory overload by the moment. Growing more appalled. Distressed. Jeannette slid along the wall, her skirt snagging on the rough bricks as she went. Good thing she still wore her denim jacket. It could take such abuse. The embroidery had come out nice, too. She’d drawn and stitched a daisy onto this one. It matched how she’d felt at the time. It also laundered well. No wrinkles.

  Normalcy. She had to think of the normal and mundane. That was the path back to sanity.

  “He’ll never lie! His word is his bond. It’s all he has left.”