Revenant: Black Rose Files Book 2 (The Black Rose Files)

by Ira Robinson

  They crawled into her ears, the buzzing hiss growing as Sam's hearing began to recover from the sound of the gunshot. She had to snort out through her nostrils, blowing out the things trying to crawl inside of her through them. Snot combined with the tears streaming out of her closed eyes, while her mind locked in complete shock.

  Sam's body was battered under the mass that covered her and, in her panic, she finally stood and tried to run, taking hold of the gun as she did.

  She dropped her arms and opened her eyes, swatting away as much as she could. She jumped and ducked, her arms flinging around as they came at her again, moving as one.

  She ran into the house, stomping on the floor to try to shake them off. As they fell, they came again until, a few moments later, the ones that followed her inside flew back through the door.

  She glanced outside before slamming the door shut; the whole mass was beginning to lumber off, scattering into the night away from her house. The sound of so many wings and legs fluttering and flitting was louder than the gun she fired at the thing that had been waiting for her.

  The door closed, cutting off the view of the figure disappearing with the bugs.

  She patted her hands everywhere, running through her dirtied hair, looking for any remnants of what had come in with her, but nothing was there.

  Sam fell back against the wood, great sobs heaving out beyond her control.

  Chapter 10

  Sam jumped up from the chair and crossed to the front door, her anxiety shooting through her as the knock resounded.

  She clutched the gun tight as sweat poured down her face and across her palms, though half an hour passed since she came back inside. Exhaustion overwhelmed her, even as the nervousness and fear kept her heart running at a rapid pace.

  She stood next to the door, her back against the hard surface with the gun upraised, waiting for any sound to echo through.

  Finally she heard, "Sam?" come questioningly. The familiar deep voice carried through the wood.

  It still took her a moment before Sam could get her feet to move. When the call of her name came again, however, she felt controlled enough to swing the door wide.

  Her brother was there, his face illuminated from within the house. Before moving aside, she hurriedly looked past him. Nothing was there beyond the normal dark patches and the light across the street.

  "Sam," he said again, "What is going on?" His eyes swept across her, taking in the roughness of her appearance and the small cuts which only recently stopped flowing with blood. She saw him flinch from the acrid smell of her own sweat which hung in the air.

  When he lit upon the gun, he stepped back a pace and stared at it, watching her every movement.

  Sam turned sideways and waved him inside. His eyes flicked between her own and the gun, but she made no moves to put it away; the hot edge of her nerves was still too strong.

  "Come on, damn it," she finally said at his hesitation.

  When he reluctantly stepped into the house, she glanced once more into the darkness. Seeing nothing change, she pulled the door shut and leaned against it, relaxing her hand. The gun clattered to the floor, and she winced at the echo of it.

  Bart grabbed her by the arms and kept her upright as she slumped. He tried to be gentle with her, but the welts on her skin from where the masses of bugs crawled and bit were sensitive and stung at the pressure.

  She moaned and he released his grip, keeping just enough to help her stay erect. She closed her lids and the anxiety began to crack, reassured by the thought she was not alone.

  "Talk to me," his smooth voice said. She opened her eyes again and stared into his own. "What happened?"

  She could only shake her head, gasping for breath as a wave of the panic and fear channeled through her veins, and another round of cold sweat beaded on her forehead. Bart held her arms tight as the tears began to flood across her cheeks. She pulled from his grip and stepped away, throwing herself on the small couch.

  She put her head into her hands and wept, letting the pressure finally release. Her throat locked as they flowed, great heaves of breaths pushing through for a moment or two before her chest seized again with ache. She wanted hold it all within, a part of her needing to feed on it to keep it going. She had been eating so much anxiety and pain that it was almost addictive.

  But she let it go, as Bart went to the couch with her and sat beside her wailing body. He put his arm across her back and rubbed it softly, comfortingly. It had been a long while since he was there for her like this, which only egged her on more.

  She did not know how much time passed as she was locked into the depths of her despair, but when she finally sniffed the last of the tears, he was still there beside her, waiting for her to come out of it. When she sat back, wiping the vestiges of dampness from across her cheeks, Bart pulled his arm from her and put it in his lap.

  "You gotta talk to me," he said, after she kept silent, lost in her thoughts of the horrible things the past hours had brought to her.

  She knew she had to tell him, to get it out. She could not be alone with all of it anymore.

  But she was hesitant because, for the first time since she was a younger girl, her brother had comforted her. A small thing, to be sure, but he was always so much "the sheriff" that he could not afford to show any other part to the outside world. Even to her.

  Yet, for those brief moments in her despair, he let himself be the comforter, and the presence of that side of himself was something Sam missed terribly, and would likely be hidden away again when she began talking.

  She realized how much she was right as the words came.

  She told him about the figure that was haunting her, and how she had found herself waking up in the midst of painting dark things.

  He remained silent, but when she mentioned she saw the thing across the street, he shifted his weight on the couch and pulled further away from her. Her stomach dropped, and she grit her teeth, not wanting to continue.

  The words flowed out just the same.

  "You know what you're saying isn't possible, don't you?" he finally said, confirming her fears. He did not even turn her way.

  "Look at me, Bart," she said as flatly as she could, though the anger at her brother's constant disbelief of the things she had to say rose. "Look at what they did to me. It was real."

  He did glance at her arm, letting his eyes slide across her skin as she forced it into his view. But he shook his head. "Maybe you're perceiving wrong. They could have been swarming because of a dead animal nearby..."

  "No, damn it, they were from him!" She jumped up and paced before him. "I saw him, right there across the street. He was controlling them, somehow."

  She lifted her arm again and pointed toward the front door. "They were everywhere, Bart. Everywhere. Millions of them, covering everything." Her hand dropped to the side of her hip. "They came after me when I shot at him, and I know I hit him but..."

  He jerked and leaped to his feet from the couch. He grabbed her arm. "You shot your gun? What were you thinking?"

  He let her go and walked around the couch toward the front door.

  "You weren't there, Bart. You didn't see what was happening." Sam watched as he picked up her revolver from the floor and checked the chambers. "I was afraid for my life and defending myself!"

  "What if you hit someone, Sam?" he shouted. She winced against his voice echoing. His face reddened with rage. "What if you killed a kid just out for a walk?"

  "It wasn't an effing kid. I would never do something like that, and you know it."

  "Do I?" He did not put her gun down and stayed close to the door. His hands shook slightly as he stared at her from across the room. "I'm really starting to wonder."

  Her own anger forced her to move a few steps closer. "Why can't you believe me?"

  He swiped his hand across his mouth. "Would you?"

  The question made her hesitate for a moment, before she replied, "If it was you? Yes."

  "Look at it from my
side, Sam." He relaxed slightly, his face flattening as he did. "You have been so tired lately, and that can mess with your head. With anybodies head." He neared her again, but still held the gun so she could barely see it. "I know you've been depressed and feeling like stuff isn't right. That, too, can really screw someone up."

  "What I saw was real. This," she scraped her hand across her arm, rekindling the itching sensations as the welts were annoyed, "this is not my imagination."

  "But how you perceive everything around it could be. That's my point." Bart tipped his hat with his empty hand, the hair beneath it coming free in patches. "You need help, Sam. Real help."

  "What I need is a brother who can trust me for once," she said, her anger flaring anew. "I need you to believe in me."

  "I believe you saw something. But that doesn't make it real."

  Her mouth drooped, her voice caught in her throat. She wanted to fire at him, to, in some way, find the words that could cut him as deep as his did. The only thing that came out, though, was stammering as her mind and heart locked. The fury and frustration with Bart and his ignorance was just too much, but she did not want to say anything that would be impossible to return from.

  She closed her mouth and breathed, seething at the way he consistently treated her.

  Finally, Sam said, "Come with me."

  She left the living room and went into the one covered in her paintings. She heard his footsteps come down the hallway after her, though they were much slower than the pace she had.

  She turned on all of the lights, shedding illumination everywhere. It was brighter than she normally kept it and, after the dimmer lighting in the living room and the swelling in her eyes from crying, she squinted and waited for him to come through the door.

  It was not the first time he had been there, but it had been a while. He hesitated at the doorway, staring at the easel and the many canvasses strewn throughout the room.

  Her own gaze was on the easel and the last painting she did. The splotches of paint she had thrown at the fabric was all over the floor around the wood slats, while other bits of it were hardening along the bottom of the canvas.

  She could see some traces of the figure she had drawn there, and pointed to them when she heard him come into the room.

  "There. That's what I woke up to. That's him."

  He stepped a little closer but kept enough distance between himself and her so she could not grab at him. Sam turned her head so she could watch as he took in the painting.

  A moment later, he asked, "What am I supposed to see?"

  "Him! The dark man. Whatever the hell you want to call him." Her voice was strained from the exasperation of trying to get through to him. She desperately wanted him to see. "I painted him. I woke up with him right there on the page, and when it started to move, I threw the paint on it..."

  He held up his hand. "It moved? You saw it move?"

  She nodded, regretting the words that came out the instant left her mouth. But it was too late to take them back.

  "Have you seen any others moving?" he asked, looking around the room. "Did birds fly over the mountain there?" He pointed to one of her landscapes.

  "Not funny, Bart," she said, taking a step backward. "This is serious."

  "You're right about that." He reached behind himself and tucked her gun, into the back of his pants, then brought his hands up in frustration. "This is very serious, Samantha. If you are seeing paintings move and shooting at things in the night, there's something really bad going on with you."

  "It's not like you're making it out to be," she said in protest. "I'm not a crazy person. You know that."

  "Damn it, how?" The loudness of it made her rebound a step. "How am I supposed to think you're not freaking crazy when you tell me you're shooting at things that aren't there, and seeing paintings move on their own, and who knows whatever the hell else you're not telling me. You're not helping your case here at all, and I don't know what to do to help you anymore."

  Each word was punctuated by the movement of his arms, pointing at her, at the paintings around her, and finally coming to rest against his hips as he tried to catch his breath.

  Her stomach quavered with every syllable as her anger at him flowed into despair, knowing she had lost any hope of a chance of him believing her.

  Why did I even try?

  She watched his face in silence. Anything more she had to say would just exacerbate the situation that much more. Sam did not know why she wanted so desperately for him to believe her. Perhaps it was the connection they had as children, when she felt she could talk to him about what was going on in her life and understand he would be there for her.

  Maybe it was because of the shared trauma they had, beginning with the moment their mother died and he had to do what he could to make sure Sam was taken care of. She never begrudged him the way he had to be during those years, having to play father, mother, and brother to a teenage girl who had enough problems of her own.

  But there was still a level of distrust in him, for whatever reason she did not understand, and after this night, she was sure she would not be able to get it back again. Maybe it never did in him to begin with.

  So Sam held her anger in check as much as she could. It hurt and her chest ached even as the urge to spit words at him wanted to gain control, but her butt landed on her stool and stayed there while he looked around at the life she built up for herself, at the modest pretty things she tried to inundate herself in so her spirit could feel some kind of lift when she felt down.

  His eyes came to rest on the painting of the strange creature, pale and long amid the green background. Sam had no idea what it could be, but unease ran through her when she gazed at it.

  Bart seemed struck by it as well, staring into it for a minute before he finally broke his silence.

  "Look, let me take some of these things, Sam." He still stared at the thing without looking her way while the words came out. "You've got yourself surrounded by all this and it's just making you miserable. You said it yourself."

  He tore his eyes away for only as brief second to look at her, before returning once more to the pale figure. "Can I do that for you, at least?"

  She did not really desire to let them go, yet she reached the point where she just wished he would leave. But she did not want to do it in a way that would cause an even worse scene to occur. It was already bad enough.

  So she relented, nodding to him when he looked to her again. Bart crossed the room and picked up the pale painting, as well as the two she had done that seemed to represent the man who had been tormenting her.

  He tucked them under his arm and walked from the room; Samantha followed, walking much more slowly than he did.

  When they reached the living room, he turned once more and said, "Take some time off. Go see the doctor, or go to Bixby and see a therapist." He frowned as the words came. "Either way, get some help, Sam. For both our sakes."

  She opened her mouth, but shut it again without saying anything.

  Just go. Leave and let me be.

  "Don't force me to make it an order." He started again to the door and pulled it open with his free hand. "I'm keeping the gun. You don't need it around you right now."

  With that, he closed it behind him, leaving Sam alone in the house she feared being in.

  She rubbed absently at the welts on her arm as she heard his steps ponder away on the porch.

  Chapter 11

  The office door was closed and Bart had yet to come out, despite Sam being sure he was aware she was there.

  She did not know why she expected anything different. He made his feelings clear with his visit in the night, and she did not necessarily want to face him, anyway. But still, a subtle rejected feeling stirred in her.

  Though he demanded she take time off work, she could not sit at home. It took her a few hours to clean herself up after the attack and, even with exhaustion on her heels, the last thing she wanted to do was try to lay down for sleep.

&nb
sp; It had worked out so well for her before.

  Being at the police station did not help much. It was as familiar as her own home, but did not offer the comfort she needed. The stone walls were secure, but her heart was not.

  Noah tried here and there to spark conversation, but she parried his attempts, though she kept civil. He meant well and was unaware of her emotional issues going on, and she did not want him to be the brunt of her ire.

  It was a slow day, overall, with only two calls coming in. Neither of those actually needed anyone to go; she probably would have passed on them, either way. Dealing with the problems of other people was the last thing she really had interest in.

  Sam turned in her chair to watch as Bart finally came out of his office at mid-morning, but she kept her silence at his look. He bustled around the department for only a few minutes before he walked through the front door and headed to his truck without a word to either herself or Noah.