by Ira Robinson
Out of everything, though, one thing was clear to Sam as she sat in the room in a new shirt Mort had given her: the people here were frightened.
Her fingers distractedly fondled the large bandage one of the medics slapped on her shoulder and chest, feeling the gauze beneath the fabric of the shirt. It flushed with severe pain when she touched it, but doing it gave her cold comfort that she was still alive, there and lingering for the next round with the dad she never knew.
Her eyes drifted across the people, waiting for an answer to her question. She expected nothing, though, and they met that assumption.
Mortimer, his face pale and slight frame bent over the table, did not look at her. He, in particular, looked the most devastated at the encounter with a person he had once cared deeply for. To see Jackson changed into the what he had become had to be difficult, especially when he had been responsible for so many good things.
Tamara remained silent, as well, waiting for someone else to take the baton up and begin speaking. Her young features were gaunt, but whether that was from the emotions she was feeling or the energy she had used to send the revenant away, Sam could not tell for sure. The woman was leaning back in her chair, her hands before her on the book Sam saw her with always.
The guard, too, remained passive, settling against the wall with his arms folded before him. At least he was not looking at her.
When Mortimer finally spoke, everyone jolted when his hollow voice cut through the soft whir of the computers lined along the side.
"As long as you're inside the warding of the building, you'll be safe."
Sam took a deep breath and let her hand fall back to her lap. "Yeah? And what good does that do me?" She stared across the table at the old man. "You've all made it clear you don't really want me to be here."
"We -" Mortimer started to answer, but Sam cut him off before he could get out any more.
"No, I mean it. What am I supposed to do? Stay here forever, knowing I am not accepted? Stuck in these walls with people who have always had it in for me?" She gestured with her finger, pointing in the direction she thought the exit was. "At least I know the real deal there, if I wanted to take my chances."
"Don't be foolish, Samantha," he replied. "We only want to make sure you're secure."
"Right. And my father only tried to give me a hug." Her hand went to her chest again. "How am I supposed to be protected in a place that never wanted me here to begin with?"
"Because I will be with you," a new voice said.
Her gaze darted to the familiar sound and lit upon Bart standing in the doorway, staring past the guard to her. His big frame took up most of the portal and his eyes were hard beneath the brim of the hat.
"You?" she shouted. "You're just as bad as the rest of them." She turned away from him to the table in front of her. "Maybe even worse. You've lied to me the most. How am I supposed to believe you now?"
"Doesn't matter," he said simply. He walked into the room and took a seat in the chair nearest her. "I'm here whether you like it or not."
She was about to say more but Mortimer said, "Thank you for coming, Bart."
"What are you going to do about this thing, Mort?" Bart demanded, his voice loud. "Something has to be done, and I mean right now. It's affecting my family."
Sam raised a brow at her brother's insistence and the tone he was using. She did not expect that.
She turned her head to Mortimer, waiting for his response.
"Jackson is your family, too," he said flatly.
Bart hissed through is teeth, "That monster is not my father."
Mortimer's mouth gaped, struck by the defiance and anger in Bart's voice. He looked like he would say more about it, but then changed his mind and tack.
"Regardless, we do know things have to happen quickly. The revenant cannot be allowed to gain more strength." He sat back a little, wincing at the movement. "Tamara, do you have any ideas?"
The girl put her hands on the other book sitting before her, the one Sam found in the cabin in the woods.
Sam handed it to her when the medic was working on her, with the stipulation it be returned. Tamara leafed through it for a few minutes, but had spoken few words since.
Tamara now flipped the papers again. "The journal has a lot of information in it, but I don't think there's anything specifically we can use with the situation at hand."
"Wait, what journal?" Mortimer asked, sitting up straighter in the chair.
"My father's," Sam said, keeping watch on the pages as they turned in the girl's hands. "I found it."
"May I see it, please?"
Tamara passed it over to the old man, who looked in it slowly. His eyes widened in some spots, making her wonder if he, too, could read the language she could not. The urge to prompt him on it was strong but she fought against it. Though she avoided looking at him, the presence of her brother in the room threw her off balance.
"From what I could see," Tamara said as Mortimer kept changing pages, "it is something Jackson used to keep his personal thoughts together. There are some things about his missions, his fears and what he wanted for the future, but not much beyond that."
Mortimer nodded, coming to the final entries, where her father's writing became harder to read and more deranged.
Sam stole a glance to Bart, who kept his own gaze upon the account in Mortimer's hands. When the old man reached the end, her brother brought his hand forward across the table, taking it for himself when it was passed on.
"I'm not sure if it will do us good or not," Tamara continued as Bart paged the book, himself. "But it's worth a try. I'll shape the spell Odessa was doing. She had the right idea, but the wrong components and, I think, was not strong enough in the end, anyhow." She raised her hand to Sam, who was about to say otherwise. "No offense to her. But magic is a draining thing, and the older someone is, the more taxing it becomes."
"She had him under control for a time." Sam retorted, not really sure why she was so defensive about Odessa. Maybe it was the guilt she felt over getting the woman involved to begin with.
"Not fully, though, and that's the point. She lost her life because she could not maintain what was needed and she did not expect the revenant to be so potent."
"And you're strong enough?" Sam asked, more sarcastically than she really intended.
"I have to be," Tamara replied simply. She pushed a chunk of hair back from her eye, swiping it behind her ear. "Either way, I'm going to do it."
"So what's the plan, then?" Bart's hands closed the book and tossed it across the table to Tamara.
Sam was not sure if she should feel hopeful, but, when the meeting finally came to an end with an idea of how they would proceed, she walked from the room with less confusion than she had before.
They would go to the cabin the next morning, with Sam in the lead. Tamara hoped between the presence of the book and the location of her father's death, it would be able to anchor his phantom to the circle they created.
Sam trusted her judgment, not knowing what else to do. She did not have experience in this stuff to know if what Tamara was saying was legitimate or not, but Mortimer and Bart seemed approving of what was said.
That had to be good enough for Sam, too, whether she liked it or not.
She could still argue for a different path, something they could do to help, but the aching in her shoulder and the subtle sensation of the gauze on her skin proved she was in a situation that was only getting worse.
She would stay within the depths of the Black Rose Society headquarters, supposedly safe from any attacks by the revenant. But the fact the thing attacked her right outside the doors of the building made her wonder just how reliable that would be.
Voicing that, however, seemed a useless endeavor, so she kept her mouth shut about it and swallowed down her fears. It was not like she had much choice, anyway.
As she laid her head on the pillow of the darkened little room they set up for her, somewhere below the main level, she wondered i
f it might be the last slumber she would get.
Morning would come soon enough and, with it, the final seal on her fate would be cast.
Sleep crept upon her much more slowly than she hoped.
Chapter 33
"Do you think this is going to work?" Sam asked Bart as they pulled to a stop near the broken fence.
"What? The ritual?" He put the truck into park and turned off the engine.
When she nodded, he said, "I dunno. I don't use magic, myself."
The morning light barely cut through the early mist, but the changing leaves suffusing color spread from the trees surrounding them. For all the beauty, it would be a chilly day and Sam was grateful Mortimer was thoughtful to leave a jacket for her, along with a fresh change of clothing.
It chafed her a bit, though, to be wearing stuff that was not hers. She never liked being beholden to anyone. Even if she did sense herself softening toward the Society - grudgingly - she would have preferred doing things for herself.
But with the passing of each hour, she was weakening inside. The thorn left in her was eating its way through her essence and, soon enough, there would be nothing of her. She may not have understood how it was happening, but the fact it was could not be denied. How much of what she was going through now was the same as her mother endured? Or her father? Were the words in the journal she held on her lap reflective of what she was living with, too?
She wished she could understand what was cryptically hidden behind a language she did not know, but, if she came through all of this, she was determined to find out.
That was, however, as were so many other things, for another time and place. Somewhere beyond this twist of the knife rendering her useless, there could be safety.
If it were for only a moment, it would be enough to last.
"You've got to know something about it, though," she continued, taking her stare from the wilds around her to light on her brother. He kept his own eyes pinned to the woods, watching for any signs of movement beyond the mist.
"A little, but it's outside of my expertise," he said, his deep voice rumbling in the closeness of the truck's cab. "A lot less than I should, I suppose."
"It's still so strange to me," Sam said, looking around again. "Monsters, magic, ghosts... none of it seems real, like anything you'd have involvement with."
"I didn't have much choice."
Her head snapped back to stare at him anew. "What do you mean?"
"You don't get it, do you?" He looked at her for the first time since they got into the truck and drove to the forest. "All of this fell on me, too, Sam."
He stared into her face for a long moment before turning away again.
"I was just a damn kid when all of this started for me. I didn't know anything about anything. You think you've had it hard? Try being told these things, that your parents were involved in it, and that you now had no choice but to do it too. And keep it secret from everyone. Forever."
"So why tell them I would be a bad pick? Why actively fight against me being there with you?" She absently pulled at the fake leather covering the door. "I think that's what makes me angriest at this whole situation."
She spared a glance his way, but he still kept his eyes off of her.
"I didn't know how to handle it right. I admit it, okay? I dropped the ball." A soft sigh drifted to her ears. "At first, I was just doing what they wanted me to do. I thought it was the best way to keep you safe, especially the more I learned. This stuff is really dangerous, a lot more than being a cop could ever be."
"But how much better could it have been if we could have been in it together?"
"Again, Sam, you don't understand the lack of choice I had." He shifted in his seat slightly, the creaking matching his moves. "What those in charge say, goes. It's been that way since the beginning. If they want something done, it gets done, and if they want something kept secret, it stays buried away from even those of us who are in it."
"You could have at least tried," she replied, the old frustrations coming to the fore again. "Did you?"
"Yes," he said flatly, his voice going low. "It didn't work out well for me."
"Huh?" She maneuvered herself to try to make him look at her, but, instead, he opened the door on his side and got out.
She blinked forcefully at the noise of it slamming shut, her breath gasping out.
He leaned against the truck while she opened her own and, after she grabbed the backpack from the rear seat, she crawled out of the cab, as well. When she closed it, he was already beginning the trek across the ditch and the broken down fence line.
He obviously did not want to answer, but her stubbornness would not let go. She frowned as she crossed over the gap and pushed herself to catch up to his long strides. By the time she did, she was slightly out of breath.
"I know you don't really want to deal with me," she said, gulping down a gasp, "and I know I'm a burden on you. I've never wanted to have to be the little sister you had to protect."
The leaves crunched beneath their feet as they passed one stand of trees after another.
"I have always only wanted you to treat me like you have even a bit respect."
He stopped walking for a moment, finally turning to look at her. His irritation was evident.
Then he started again, stirring her back into movement.
"Don't you think I need the same from you?" he asked without stopping again. "Look how you've been through all of this. Where's the respect for me, Sam?"
She rolled her eyes. "I've only been trying to protect myself, Bart! I'm the one in danger here. You want me to bow down and kiss your ring, when I'm in trouble?"
"That's the thing." He stopped again and pulled up his sleeve. "You're not the only one."
She stared at the marks on his forearm; two deep bruises, blue and purple mixed with black, welted across it.
Her eyes flashed to his with her brows raised. "He did this?"
"It," Bart replied, forcing the sleeve down again. "Not he. It."
His steps resumed. "It came to me at my home, damn it."
"I'm sorry. I didn't know."
"Now you do." He snapped the button on the flannel shirt back in place as he walked. "The stronger the thing gets, the more people it can start hurting. I just want to get this over with."
"I do too," she said, her voice raising to echo from the surrounding trees.
"No matter what anyone says, that monster is not our father. Everyone assumes it's him, or some part of him, but it's nothing like the man I knew." A catch in his throat cut off some of his words. "I don't care what they think. Hell, I don't care what you think. Whatever else that thing might be, it is not dad."
She wanted to respond, but could not fathom how.
Since she had never experienced their father, maybe she could have a more objective view on it. While she did not understand much about magic or the effects it could have, the little she did know made sense and could explain how events had become the way they had. Bart, being so close to the man who gave them both life, could not see past the human he was, the indomitable spirit Jackson had while alive.
The revenant coming after Bart frightened her greatly. Not just because he was her brother and she wanted him to come to no harm, but if the creature was able to move from her to attack him, it meant he was strong enough to ne a danger to everyone.
He was right; they had to handle it quickly, before anyone else became the target.
The rest of the trek through the woods was made in silence, only the crunching of leaves, old grass, and fallen twigs accented their passage. She took the lead in a few places to keep them from getting off track, but it did not take long for them to reach the cabin she found.
It looked no different to her eyes from before. The same broken window was on the side. The roof still tenuously held, like it would crumble into itself at any moment.
Sam remembered closing the door before she left, but it now stood wide open. She squinted to try to see into the
interior but nothing was immediately amiss.
They both stopped and stared at the place. In the light of earlier day, it seemed to her more foreboding than it had before.
Bart was about to step closer but Sam put her arm out and interrupted him. "I left that door closed."
His fingers slipped to his head and tipped his hat slightly, repositioning it. Then he let it fall to his waist to rest on the gun in the dark leather holster.
"You sure?" He frowned as he stared.
