Burning Emerald

by Jaime Reed

  He opened the back door. “Come on!”

  Capone kicked from the ground and leapt inside headfirst. He misjudged the landing, slid across the seat, and struck the opposite door.

  I hopped inside with better care, while Haden floored it before I could close the door. The cloud enclosed the car, bouncing off its veneer, causing as much harm as vapor. Again and again, it rammed against the open door only to fan out behind an invisible screen. Nothing but two inches of empty space separated us from harm, yet that was enough to deny him entry.

  Not pressing my luck, I slammed the door shut and rolled up the windows. Relieved to be out of harm’s way—if only for two seconds—I regarded the narrow road stretched before us.

  It was a miracle we didn’t crash on the way back to the interstate. Haden veered from lane to lane, dodging the shadow that chased us down. It was hard to tell what caused the motion sickness, Tobias playing bumper cars with the fellow commuters, or Haden’s daredevil driving. Each turn flung me from one side of the car to another, and I scrambled around for my seat belt.

  “You mind telling me what the hell just happened back there?” Haden yelled from the front seat.

  “I’ll explain when we get someplace safe,” I promised.

  “And where would that be?”

  The answer at once solved the riddle of the strange shield. I didn’t know why I hadn’t realized it before. “My house. It’s protected and he can’t get in,” I said. “He can’t hurt us there or while we’re in this car.”

  Haden turned his profile to me. “Protected?”

  “Olive oil protects the house,” I explained.

  “Olive oil? Are you telling me that thing back there was a ...” The statement went unfinished when my cell phone rang.

  I reached in my pocket and answered the call. “Mom?”

  “Samara, where are you? You said you were coming back home; you should have been here by now. I was about to call the police. Where are you?”

  “I’m fine, but Caleb is hurt. We’re on our way home now. Is Michael there?”

  There was a pause before she answered, “He just pulled up in a cab. Samara, what’s going on?”

  I ignored her question and asked, “Is there anyone else there?”

  “No ... why?”

  “We’ll be there in a few minutes. When we pull up, I want you to open the door.”

  Mom stammered, “O-okay? Why do you sound frantic? What’s going on—”

  I hung up. Too many questions; not enough time.

  The car traced the warped curve toward the shadow of trees up ahead. As luck would have it, I only saw one cop car in the area, empty and parked in front of a minimart, but not even the threat of arrest could lift Haden’s foot off the gas. My free hands clamped down on the back of the driver’s seat as I held my breath. All we had to do was get there.

  While Haden auditioned for NASCAR, I tended to Caleb, who remained unconscious next to me. I held his head on my chest and tried to wake him. Blood leaked from the growing knot on his head.

  “Capone? Caleb? Either of you, come on, wake up. Please, wake up.” I ignored the pain in my own head and rocked him in my arms, hoping my nearness alone could revive him.

  Apparently, Haden felt that the use of the driveway was merely a suggestion. The car hopped onto the curb, barely missing the mailbox, and charged over the grass toward the walkway. Dirt and grass kicked from under the tires, and tracks of bare earth marred the landscape. He would’ve driven through my living room if I hadn’t yelled for him to stop. He honked the horn and the front door swung open. Mom stepped out of the house, rubbing the chill from her arms.

  “Get back inside!” I yelled as I opened the door.

  Haden went around the car and helped me pull Caleb from the backseat. Michael rushed from the front door to help. The olive oil I’d used protected the house and the inside of my car, but not the few yards in between. Caleb’s dead weight was slowing us down and Tobias was getting closer.

  The brothers hefted Caleb across the lawn.

  “What is that?” Michael pointed to something just beyond the trees. I didn’t look and neither did Haden. We moved faster as the wind picked up and the leaves swiveled around our feet.

  “Come on, hurry,” Mom coached from the doorway as the darkness surrounded the lawn and blackened the security lights. Slowly, she retreated into the house, cowering from the image that had produced that horrified look on her face. Unable to look away, she nearly tripped while holding the door open for us.

  Twelve feet had never been such a far distance. While moving backward, Michael stumbled on the second step, causing a chain reaction of clumsy maneuvering. My hand held firm to Caleb’s leg, using his jeans as a handle to pull him along.

  The shade followed us across the grass, up the stairs of the porch, and stopped short at the threshold just as I slammed the door behind me. Leaves and papers fluttered in the foyer and settled to the floor. I leaned against the door, absorbing the central heating and the promise of safety.

  Mom hurried to my side and touched my cheek and dust-covered hair, flinching at every new injury she came across. Her bun had fallen loose and brown tendrils cascaded down her round, angelic face, but her greeting was anything but heavenly. I heard her speak in that high-pitched screech of alarm, but I couldn’t register her words.

  Something large moved outside, loudly enough to pull me out of my trance. Metal creaked and ground together, then pried apart in some industrial demolition. I searched for the source of the noise, and my heart ripped in two when I looked out of the window.

  Trash, lawn furniture, and Christmas ornaments overran the yard, dancing to a chaotic beat the wind commanded. The dark funnel twirling along the grass burrowed underneath the wheels of my car.

  The vehicle rose in the air as though it were no more than a Matchbox toy, then plummeted back to earth. Closing my eyes didn’t mute out the crash, the shattering of glass, the clatter of fallen hubcaps. I knew what was happening, almost expected it, as if “what more could go wrong” was the theme of the evening.

  The rules about keeping a low profile didn’t seem to apply to Tobias, and his temper tantrums were spectacular. I had to respect my opponent. He sure knew how to hit below the belt and knew all my weaknesses. I schooled my emotions, trying to trick my mind to not give away my reaction. My breath shivered, my body trembled, but no tears fell. I wouldn’t allow it. He would hear them if I did.

  21

  One question people ask in traumatic situations is, “How did this happen?” As if the mind has rejected the message the eyes delivered.

  That question kept repeating until I got an answer, and only a good one would get me to move again. I stared out of the window, my face pressed against the glass, waiting for the chemical stasis to wear off. Everyone handled shock differently, but I opted for an approach that involved the least effort.

  My pride and joy, not new, but still new to me, lay on its back in the pebbled driveway. The wheels pointed skyward like the legs of a dead insect. White coils of steam shot from the crushed engine as the roof and floor sandwiched together and met the business end of a trash compactor. Tobias was just a large child taking his anger out on his toys.

  After his epic hissy fit, Tobias called it a night and left us with the check. I knew this had been a sample of the damage he could cause, a warning shot. The next confrontation wouldn’t be as friendly, which made the prospect of returning to school that much more thrilling.

  A howl came from the couch and shattered the tension. I leapt back a few steps and clutched my pounding chest. Mom pulled me behind her, but I caught a glimpse of what had caused the noise.

  Caleb had returned to the conscious world, kicking and screaming on the living room floor. Color leached from his skin, all but the puffy red folds around his eyes.

  The brothers scrambled for a good grip on the swinging arms and legs. Michael and Haden hefted him back on the couch. I didn’t know who was at play here, Caleb
or Capone, but both suffered in tandem and dragged me with them. Tobias’s energy ran its course and left Caleb stranded. Capone may have imparted superstrength and agility, but Caleb was still human and endured the hangover from his comic book antics.

  Though this wasn’t my pain, my body, those grunts and tears were definitely mine. I’d heard stories about amputee patients who could still feel their missing limbs years after their procedures. It was the phantom limb, a shadow without an object to draw from. I could now appreciate its effect and dreaded how bad it could’ve been. I braced the wall for support, counting the seconds until the throbs went away.

  “Fire! Feels. Like fire!” Caleb growled between breaths. Sweat drenched his body and soaked into his clothes.

  When Haden touched his feet, Caleb went stiff; the veins rose in thick ropes on his neck. He thrashed against the pillows, pleading for relief that no one could give.

  “We have to remove his shoes,” Michael advised while fumbling with the series of laces. The simple gesture made Caleb jerk and twitch. Slowly, the boots peeled from the feet, exposing swollen flesh caked with mud and scabby blisters.

  “What on earth?” Michael covered his mouth, his face turning green with disgust.

  “He left the hospital on foot, literally,” Haden commented. “We need to clean this up before it gets infected.”

  That was Mom’s cue to take action. Judging by her haste to leave the room, she needed an occupation. She always kept a level head, even in distress, but this was out of her element. Her house had become a hotbed for otherworldly dealings, which was bound to rattle anyone’s nerves. She returned shortly with more bandages and a pan of soapy water. The brothers pulled Caleb to sit straight and directed his feet over the pan.

  As soon as his feet hit the water, Caleb and I engaged in a screaming contest. The pain shot a lightning bolt up my spine, locking my joints and straining muscles.

  I centered my thoughts, focused on my own feet and wiggled my toes. If I could feel Caleb’s sickness, then he could sense my health. It was a good theory. Too bad his pain canceled that program. Heads lobbed back and forth, confused over which one of us to treat first.

  “Sam, are you all right?” Haden helped me to my feet.

  “No.” I pushed him away. “Don’t worry about me. Help Caleb!”

  “It burns!” Caleb battered against his brothers’ weight. “I swear I’ll kill him when I see him!”

  “Calm down. Get yourself patched up and think about killing later,” Michael said while the others tended to Caleb’s feet.

  Caleb’s body quaked under his restraints. He looked rabid, truly possessed, yet Capone had no input in this behavior. It wasn’t physical pain from his injuries, no cuts or scrapes, but uncensored rage. Only then did I grasp the intensity of a Cambion’s nature.

  What lived in us fed from life energy and emotion, and therefore, experienced everything to the extreme. All this time, I stood in the company of pure torment, which materialized into solid matter. I half expected it to pull up a chair and start talking to me, for its presence was very much alive.

  “We need to get him calm.” Ducking the stray blows, Mom placed a cool towel over Caleb’s swollen eyes and pressed down. “This should soothe the burning. Cambion light can get very hot after a while,” she murmured to no one in particular, but we all heard it and froze to the spot.

  “What did you say?” Haden asked.

  “Something I read. Let’s focus please,” Mom instructed and flipped the towel over.

  The seconds crawled by as the men continued to pin down their brother. Slowly, the pain began to dissipate, all but a dull ache that left me stiff. I moved to the couch and reached for Caleb, but he shrank away from me. The distress in his eyes hurt worse than any external injury.

  Mom leaned over and trapped Caleb’s face in her hands. On contact, he stopped fighting and stared at her, his eyes wild with implicit terror.

  “Don’t get too close,” Haden warned, but Mom shrugged him away.

  “It’s all right, Caleb. It’s all right. You’re safe,” she whispered. “I’m not afraid of your power. I feel it pulling me forward, but you won’t hurt me, will you?” It wasn’t a question, but an affirmation of what she already knew.

  The rest of us weren’t so sure, and we waited expectantly for Caleb’s reaction. He was hungry, scared, and unstable. There was no telling what would set him off.

  To our surprise, Caleb just watched her, his chest heaving as he strained for understanding. The two locked eyes while Michael dried Caleb’s feet and wrapped them in bandages.

  Mom stroked Caleb’s tear-stained cheeks. “Where else do you hurt?”

  “Everywhere.” He gulped. “But more on the inside.”

  Mom frowned and pushed the sweaty strands from his face. “May I hold you?”

  Caleb nodded keenly; his lips trembled as he whimpered, “Please.”

  Mom clutched him tight to her chest, rocking him back and forth as she had done with me countless times. And like me in that position, he clung to her quiet strength. Maybe it was a maternal thing, or her kind nature, but she projected a warm halo of safety that kept the monsters at bay. They hovered in the shadows, skirting the border, but dared not enter the sanctuary of such light.

  Caleb stopped struggling and surrendered to the steady lull of peace. The even rise and fall of his chest told us that Mom had worked her magic, and I’d never been more proud.

  The brothers stood and witnessed the display in quiet awe. This woman in all her human frailty achieved what no supernatural being in the room could do. I couldn’t ignore the presence of irony, but I did wonder if it possessed a color.

  Just when the night couldn’t get any weirder, any more chaotic, another issue dropped into my lap. One would think I’d be used to it, have developed a tolerance somehow, but I felt just as green as when I’d first learned Cambions existed.

  From the doorway, I searched the room and met a familiar yet clean setting. The party favors, dishes, bloody bandages, and trash were cleared away and the furniture set to rights. Cleanup would have taken hours, indicating a substantial lapse in time between Thanksgiving dinner and this point. It felt surreal, and in my sedate hindsight, no one could convince me that I had left the house tonight. However, the wailing of sirens outside the house begged to differ.

  Red and blue police lights swept over the lawn, marking it as ground zero for yet another crime scene. Heads peered behind drawn curtains, while more daring onlookers came outside in coats and fuzzy slippers to view the spectacle.

  “Must have been a freak storm. This wasn’t the only area hit. Damages stretch from here past I-199. Damnedest thing, too. The weatherman said it would be clear skies ’til Mundee,” one of the officers relayed to Mrs. Sherwood, a weasel-looking woman two doors down.

  Her raggedy gray poodle shivered under her arm. The poor thing, used as an alibi to spy on the neighborhood, looked as miserable as I felt out in the cold. Mrs. Sherwood wasn’t the only one with an ear for scandal. Locals picked this particular time to defrost their cars and take out trash.

  Twice in one year, the police had interrupted this quiet, unassuming block in the middle of the night, a disruption certain to bring down the neighborhood’s property value. Just another stigma my mom and I had to live down.

  I chuckled bitterly at the murmurs and failed attempts at reason. People tend to adhere to clean-cut facts, never mind that the pattern of said storm was so erratic, it appeared the weather held a motive. Or that the wind path seemed to concentrate on one area before dispersing. Despite the nods, suspicious eyes glared at my ugly white house with its chipped paint and the crushed soda can that resembled a car.

  The tow truck guy successfully and loudly flipped the car back on its proper side. The chains clanked as the belt lift hoisted the crumpled wreck by its axel. Pulling up his sagging jeans and hawking a loogie on the driveway, he propped himself against the side door of his truck. He was dragging away two years of scrapin
g and saving like something he’d shot in the woods. And that was his show of condolence, this sloppy mortician, jaded by the constant presence of destruction. Nadine would’ve liked him.

  My eyelid began to twitch, causing the entire right side of my face to pulse. I kept watching this crude funeral march until a warm hand touched my shoulder. “Sweetie, come sit down. We need to talk,” Mom said.

  I turned away from one devastation to face another.

  Mom led me to the couch, where I met an awkward, albeit polite interrogation. The police had questions about a disturbance in Caleb’s neighborhood. Witnesses identified me and two other men running away from the property. Someone had taken down the license plate to my car, which had led to this lovely house call. I wasn’t under arrest, but I had a lot to answer for. I kept my responses precise and used my draw to smooth over the rough edges. If there was ever a time to exploit my powers, it was now.

  Mom held my hand the entire time, while dabbing wet cotton balls on the scratches on my arm. Blissfully numb at this point, my eyes played on the weird shapes forming around the room. I strained to keep focused, or else get sucked into the dark vortex that the living room controlled. Now was not the time for panic attacks and hallucinations, not with this many witnesses.

  “And you say you have no idea where Caleb Baker is now?” Officer Rolland leered at me, trying to read some hidden code in my face. He squirmed in the seat across from me as if waiting for something to jump out and attack. I recognized him and a few of the others littering the foyer. More importantly, they remembered me and what had happened in this house last summer.

  “No. I tried to look for him, but the storm hit and I had to get home.” I steeled my expression, curbing the instinct to lift my eyes to the second floor.

  It had been Mom’s idea not to bring Caleb out into the open. He was in no shape to go back to the hospital. There had to have been a good reason for him to have left wearing nothing but a paper gown, and this latest incident guaranteed that no one was leaving the house anytime soon.