After a stop at Beelah's house to shower and change (it was the house they felt safest at), the girls got back on the road, heading for the outer edge of Newcastle.
Blakely Asylum, once a tri-county prison, sat just inside the city limits. The tall walls, razor-wire, guard towers and cells-turned-rooms worked perfect for containing the 'crazies', as Larissa called them.
The first time Farris ever visited her mother there had been traumatic and frightening. Made of beige colored stone on the outside, the inside had been converted into a white wonder.
Floors, walls, rooms, gathering areas. All white. Every nurse, doctor and orderly also wore white, as if there were a law against color.
The only thing Farris had ever found positive about the monochrome theme was that it always seemed clean. White had that going for it, at least.
Otherwise, Blakely felt lifeless. Sterile. Depressing. Rumor ran wild that dead inmates haunted the halls and made the patients there that much crazier.
If you had any sanity left at all when you got there, you sure didn't when (if) you got out.
Passing through the first, unmanned gate, Farris parked the Chevy in the guest parking lot and left the keys in the ignition. She glanced at Beelah, who was watching her with a skeptical expression.
“Okay, so I'll just be a little bit. Not long, I promise,” Farris said. Beelah never came inside with her. She waited in the parking lot every time. Blakely scared the socks off poor Bee.
“I'll be here.” Bee laughed a nervous laugh. She had another organizer on her lap to replace the one she lost in the diner blast. “Don't worry. I'll be fine. Have a good visit.”
“Thanks, Bee. I'll be back.” Farris disembarked, waved at Bee, then headed through the parking lot for the next gate. It sat between two tall stone columns attached to a guard house. Farris dug around for her identification and showed it to the guard who stepped out to receive her.
Two minutes later, Farris opened the outer door of the asylum and headed in.
Deep breath in, deep breath out.
The scent of cleaners stung her nose immediately. White floors polished to a high gloss stretched the length of the foyer, a thirty by thirty foot space with a few white chairs set against the walls, a counter with white bars instead of a real window, and a white door that looked like it weighed a thousand pounds.
Checking in at the counter, she was informed that she had her usual amount of time to visit her mother: a half hour.
Led through the hallways by an orderly, Farris braced herself. She hated this walk. Shouts, bangs, screeches, curses and more rang out from other rooms they passed. One woman with a scratchy voice always reached through the small square of bars on her door, fingers curled into claws, and screamed over and over: “They're coming! They're coming! Help me. Help meeeee!”
Farris cringed when they walked by. She could feel the woman's eyes following her down the hallway.
In another room, a man cried mournfully. Cried and cried and cried.
Still another, a young woman full of rage and paranoia, thought everyone else except her was an alien.
Farris knew she would lose her mind if she had to listen to this mayhem on a regular basis.
Coming up on 'Room' (they were cells, in Farris' view) 32, the orderly pulled a set of keys attached to his belt into his hand and unlocked the door.
“Half hour. I'll be right outside if you need me,” he said.
Farris nodded. This was the hardest part.
She stepped into the small room, a fifteen by fifteen foot space (if that), and had her first jolt of the day.
They were in the wrong cell.
The woman sitting in a chair near the rectangular window was frail. Old. She rocked back and forth, face turned to the warmth of the filtered sunlight, hair silvery gray instead of golden blonde.
“Wait. This is the wrong room--”
The orderly checked the number beside the door. “Room 32. Charlotte Landry. No, it's the right room.”
Farris stood there, shocked. The woman looked nothing like her mother. Swallowing with difficulty, Farris approached.
“M...mom?”
The woman turned just her head toward the sound of her voice. Ugly scratches marred both of her eyes, straight lines of red as if Charlotte had tried to gouge them out.
When Farris had a straight on view of the woman's face, she saw that it really was her mother. It wasn't that she had deep wrinkles or sagging cheeks—Charlotte just appeared old. Her stature, the hunch of her shoulders, the rat's nest of gray hair. Life had leeched the vibrancy from her skin, her eyes.
“Mother,” Charlotte said. “I've lost her.”
Farris frowned. “What? No mom, it's me. Farris.”
Charlotte started rocking again. The chair she sat in wasn't a rocking chair, but that didn't matter.
“I just couldn't make her see. She didn't understand,” Charlotte lamented. She turned her face back to the window. “Now I can't go to her funeral. Who will pick out her dress, Mother?”
Taken aback, Farris picked at the end of the purple scarf wrapped twice around her throat. “Mom. This is Farris. I'm your daughter.”
“No one understands, Mother. No one believes me. I tried to protect her, tried to shield her. I tried.”
With cautious steps, Farris closed the distance to the chair. She knelt at her mother's knee, resting a hand there. What she wouldn't have given to be drawn into a motherly hug right then. Farris wanted what so many other children had: comfort, shelter, protection. For an awful moment, she felt tears sting the back of her eyes.
At the same time, Farris had an overwhelming urge to be the one to protect.
“Mom? Look at me. It's Farris. Not Ada. Do you hear me?”
Charlotte grimaced. Her chin trembled. “She's gone. Gone. Nothing can save her now. It's her birthday, and nothing--”
“No Mom. Tomorrow is my birthday. I'm still here. Listen to me.” Farris heard the urgency in her own words.
Fat tears overflowed Charlotte's eyes and trickled down her cheeks.
“What's going to happen on her birthday?” Farris tried a different tactic to get the information she needed.
Charlotte's hands started to shake. “Oh dear. Oh dear. That woman is coming. You know, Mother. I told you. Merwen. Merwen is coming.”
“Who is Merwen?”
“The woman from the park. Don't you remember, Mother?” Charlotte's voice took an edgy turn. “The woman who is coming back for my Farris. Taking her away.”
“Tell me again. What did she look like?”
“Dark hair. Dark as sin. Blue eyes that I at first thought were kind. She seemed so peaceful. And then I heard her.”
“Heard her telling Farris what?”
“That she was coming for her! She's coming, Mother! Farris doesn't have a chance!” Charlotte screamed. One fist pounded her thigh in frustration.
Startled, Farris readjusted her balance.
“Maybe Merwen won't come. Maybe Merwen forgot about Farris.”
Charlotte shook her head, staring off out the window again. “It's too late, Mother. It's been too late for so long. She's gone. I can feel it.”
“But today isn't her birthday,” Farris reminded gently.
“She's gone. That woman got her. Got my Farris.” Charlotte tucked her chin against her chest and sobbed.
Farris rose to her feet and took a step closer. Carefully, she wrapped her arms around her mother's shoulders and drew her head to rest against her chest.
Taking on the protector role came naturally, no matter how much it hurt. She cooed and soothed, stroking a hand over her mother's messy hair. In all the prior visits except the last one, Charlotte had at least recognized her. Never before had Merwen's name come up, nor the details of the park. Only frantic talk of saving Farris, protecting her, hiding her away from 'them', which the doctors had all said was normal for someone sinking into dementia. Many patients thought someone was always out to get them or a loved one.
/>
If it wasn't that it was another trauma or catastrophe that was the product of a fevered mind.
Twenty minutes later, the orderly knocked on the door. Her signal that her time was at an end. Farris leaned down to kiss her mother on the top of the head. No matter how much she'd probed, no more information about Merwen or the incident at the park was forthcoming.
“I love you, Mom. I'll be back to see you soon.”
Charlotte sobbed and rocked, sobbed and rocked.
A tsunami of tears threatened to unleash; Farris fought them back. She stroked her mother's shoulder one last time before departing the room. One last glance back showed Charlotte weeping and rocking and staring out the window.
Farris, heavy of heart, left Blakely behind.
. . .
The Steel Room looked like the underbelly of a great ship. Reinforced by strips of metal with rivets as big as his fist, the twenty square foot space served as a protective barrier against unwanted guests. It was the only way in and out of the castle where Driscoll resided unless you were Driscoll himself.
Emerson crossed to the broad steel door, placed both hands directly above one of the foot wide strips stretching horizontal over the portal, and repeated a chant three times: once in German, once in French and the third time in Arabic.
Each detail mattered. His hands had to be in the right spot and each chant had to come in correct language order.
He stepped back when a booming clack reverberated through the room. The immense, heavy door swung inward, admitting him into a corridor that seemed an extension of the outer room. Steel made up the walls and more fist sized rivets nailed reinforcing strips in place. Emerson jogged along the well lit corridor to another, smaller but no less sturdy door, where he repeated the chant—in reverse. Arabic, French, German.
Beyond that door was a choice of three corridors. Left, right, straight ahead.
Emerson veered left at a run, following the tunnel to five sets of metal stairs leading up from the underbelly of the structure.
At the top of the final flight, Emerson used the same technique on a third door. It opened into a well appointed lobby with half wood walls, cream plaster and leather furniture studded along the seams. Overhead, thick beams ran the length of the ceiling. A definite masculine flair both in color and style prevailed. It could have been any lobby in an upper crust hotel or resort, though the room lacked windows to the outside world.
Emerson stepped over to the wall beside a heavy oak door carved with scenes of Chaos and depressed a burnished gold button. He pressed it no less than eight times. Excessive, perhaps, but he was in a hurry.
He didn't worry that Driscoll might be off in another part of the country. The summoning would bring him back immediately. This was an unplanned visit, one that took precedence over almost everything else except war on a mass scale.
Less than three minutes later, the latch on the door popped.
Emerson grasped the knob and opened it. From windowless corridors and heavy steel, stepping into the spacious receiving room was like stepping into the light. Surrounded completely by floor to ceiling glass, the circular shaped area consisted of several thousand square feet. A staggering panoramic view presented itself as if they were sitting on top of a majestic mountain, overlooking the landscape for tens of miles in every direction.
And they were.
Situated on a peak in a remote area of Romania, the castle commanded a spectacular snapshot of distant hills, low valleys and a snaking river of blue. Turrets, walls and other parts of the home could also be seen spreading out below. Heavy furniture made U shapes toward the center of the room, offset by thick, padded chairs. The ceiling, spiking upwards to a point, added an atmospheric quality.
With a whoosh, a door in the stone floor opened and Driscoll emerged.
There was never any mistaking the Lord of Chaos. Driscoll stood six-foot-six, with broad shoulders and a mane of blonde streaked, brown hair. A pair of vivid blue eyes stared out from a chiseled face sporting a layer of three day stubble.
It wasn't unusual to see Driscoll dressed in a leather breastplate and thick leather pants. The Lord of Chaos had access to worlds beyond Earth, worlds that Emerson had never yet visited that were ten times as Chaotic as this one.
Today, Driscoll wore only a long sleeved shirt of black and matching pants. Snakeskin boots, the scales as black as his clothing, thudded over the floor.
On his worst day, the Lord of Chaos was intimidating; on his best, Emerson wouldn't have paid money to be in the same state.
“This is an unexpected visit,” Driscoll said. His baritone voice boomed through the room.
Emerson, who hadn't been face to face with Driscoll in five years, stepped around a set of couches and approached. His worry over the situation must have shown on his face; Driscoll cocked his head in curiosity.
“I need help,” Emerson said, cutting right to the chase.
Driscoll clasped Emerson's forearm in a welcoming grasp, which Emerson returned. It was an old world form of greeting that Emerson had eventually grown used to.
“With?” Driscoll crossed his arms over his chest.
“I need to find out how to contact the Fate of Destiny. Merwen.” Emerson threaded both hands through his hair and let them fall back to his sides.
“What do you need with Merwen?”
“Something unusual is happening. Devon, the new Fate of Chaos--”
“I'm aware who Devon is.”
“...right. Devon asked me to enhance some storms in a small Oklahoma town a few days ago. She pleaded her case, said it was important. So I did.” Emerson paced back and forth before Driscoll, collecting his thoughts.
“Not out of the ordinary.”
“No. We get requests all the time from both sides. But anyway, so I was there with the target when the tornado hit. Except there were too many other innocent people involved and I saved not only the target, but her friend.”
Driscoll arched a brow. He said nothing.
“Devon showed back up and threatened me, said I needed to finish what I'd started. I found out the hard way that her target was really someone else. Someone she can't hit directly, so she chose this girl's friend.”
“She threatened you how?”
“Oh you know. I'll make someone fall in love with you and then take them away, kind of thing.”
Driscoll's brows arched again. “Interesting. That is the first I've heard of any Fate resorting to threats to get her way.”
“I know. Audrinne, Merwen and Faelynn were always straight up if they needed anything. But this girl, Farris is her name—I found out that Merwen apparently visited her when she was little. Or that's what her mother, who is clinically insane, insists.”
“All right. Where is all this leading you?”
“I want to know why they want Farris dead. In the beginning, I thought it was just structural damage, something like that, but not anymore. I believe Devon wants Farris dead. It seems like a personal vendetta—and I don't understand it. I want to ask Merwen if she knows what's going on.” Emerson glanced at Driscoll while he paced, trying to get a bead on the man's thoughts. Driscoll, when he wanted to be, was difficult to read.
“To my knowledge, the Fates don't get personally involved with the Destinies they write for others.”
“I know, that's exactly what I think, too. Yet, here's Farris, facing some catastrophe or another every day. Someone, I'm not sure who because it wasn't me or Theron, sent a rabid pack of dogs after us last night. We barely escaped. Chaos was involved.”
Driscoll narrowed his eyes. “You're sure?”
“Absolutely. All four of us almost got nailed. Theron and I couldn't exactly use Chaos in front of the girls to counter the attack. I think they would have noticed.”
Driscoll tongued the inside of his cheek, gaze drifting toward the expansive view out the windows for a moment.
“The only Weaver of Chaos who has been stripped from the brotherhood is Rowley. It's not out of
the realm of possibility that Devon went to him if you failed to do what she asked. He is completely unpredictable.”
“I've never met Rowley. Don't know him. Only heard of him.” There were many Weavers Emerson had never met. They roamed the world at will, often out of touch of the brotherhood for decades at a time.
“Do you have any ideas why this Farris would be targeted to such a degree?” Driscoll asked.
“No. I mean, it has to be something big though. You know?” Emerson glanced at Driscoll. “It has to tie in with the Merwen visit—if she actually did make the visit.”
Driscoll's eyes narrowed a little. “Tell me. Is there anything unusual about this Farris that you've noticed?”
“Unusual? Not really. I mean, she has issues like most everyone. Her mother went crazy, she's on her own, lives in a loft above a garage. The diner she worked at suffered an explosion. We barely got out alive.”
“You were there for that as well?”
“Yeah. Theron and I were. Farris and Beelah, her friend that I believed was targeted first, work at the diner.”
“It could be that Farris, down the line in the future, will influence another, and this other person is actually the real target. It could be to do with a major breakthrough in science, or of a political nature. These Destinies often have a trickle down effect, you know, a whole web of people who are involved in one event. It doesn't necessarily have to be in the same year, or even in the same country.”
Emerson paced and thought about that. The idea hadn't occurred to him. He didn't like it, either, because it meant that Farris was destined to die and there was nothing he could do to save her.
“You have issue with her death?” Driscoll, perceptive, asked his question before Emerson had time to contemplate long.
“Yeah.”
“What is it? Have you fallen for her?”
Emerson bent his head and rubbed at the shell of his ear.
Driscoll rumbled a laugh. “That explains your hurry here.”
“I haven't fallen for her. I just...she's unique. Different. She shouldn't die.”
“Many people's lives end before their time.”
The Fate of Destiny (Fates #1) Page 15
