Wickedly They Dream

by Cathrina Constantine

  Standing shoulder to shoulder with her mom, a grin curving her lips, Jordan focused on the bureau drawers, pulling them open with her mind. Laughing, she orchestrated her clothing to fold in on themselves and falling into neat rows in the drawers. Next came the intimate apparel. Jordan flounced the bras and underwear, and then curled them into balls. Mimicking a baseball player, she swung her arm, and akin to being hit by a bat, the apparel slammed into the middle drawer.

  A heavy box magically ascended, it then flipped upside down and began peppering books, DVDs, and CDs. The anticipated clatter was never heard, as one-by-one they drifted and stacked themselves on the bookshelf.

  They giggled, each attempting to outdo the other. A tornado of sneakers, sandals, and shoes whisked around the room as Seeley’s psychic capability escalated and the shoes dove to the carpet, dancing a slapdash jig before prancing into the closet.

  Jordan laughed aloud, losing her concentration. Articles of whatnot that had been suspended in mid-air rained to the floor. The two women clung to each other’s shoulders for support in a buoyant fit of giggles.

  “You’ve always been such a show-off,” said Seeley between fits of hilarity.

  “Look who’s talking!” squealed Jordan.

  A JULY BREEZE skimmed the waterfront, shifting the Louvered blinds with a spray of fishy odor combined with particles of sand. Wrinkling and then plugging her nose, Jordan wondered if she could get used to the offensive reek. She glanced at Seeley, who puttered around in the kitchen, pulling together a meal of cheesy chicken quesadillas.

  Jordan lounged on the couch and riffled through a Wired magazine. Her locks were shelved on the top of her head with a hair tie, looking like a riot of wavy tendrils. Skinny black jeans where cuffed up to her knees, exposing her deco high-tops in a multitude of colors. And she wore a black T-shirt screen-printed with the words, Take It To The Morgue—a gift from Thrill. Flinging the magazine on the coffee table, she slogged to the kitchen.

  Crutching her elbows on the counter, she watched her mom preparing a quesadilla. She analyzed the thinness of her waist and wondered how she could feel a baby kicking when there wasn’t any baby bump yet. Her mom’s complexion, which was supposed to be glowing in pregnancy, appeared sallow. Pale blue veins streamed through her temples like the day Jordan had found her lying in bed. Maybe the morning sickness has kept her from the sunshine.

  Nevertheless, Seeley was gorgeous and hardly looked a day over twenty-five. Jordan hoped to be as lovely someday.

  “Shouldn’t Declan be home by now?” Jordan asked.

  “Yep, he should be walking in any minute. He’s happy you’ll be staying with us.” Seeley slipped the hot quesadilla on the cutting board, sliced through the pita, and placed the wedges on a serving platter. “I know you’re starving. Come and sit at the table.”

  Pushing away from the counter, Jordan scraped the legs of a chair on the tiled floor and lowered her butt on the red-and-navy-blue-weaved cushion. “You’re sure I won’t be in the way?”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  As if on cue, Declan entered the apartment with his keys jangling in his hand. His hair was shorter than she’d remembered, with not a strand out of place, and clothed in a sports jacket and toting a brown leather briefcase.

  He smiled broadly. “Who’s that elegant beauty seated at my kitchen table.”

  “Oh, Dec.” She flipped limp wrists and uttered in a sophisticated falsetto, “Yes, I am rather elegant this evening, draped in the latest fashion attire.” She rose on slender legs to strike a pose. Flamboyantly swishing her arms like a modeling demonstration, she specified her T-shirt and jeans. “Made in the USA, this ebony shirt is 100% cotton, sporting the Take It To The Morgue logo, a rising metal band. This shirt is sought after by the most influential persons of interest. And then we have a matching color of hip-hugging jeans, razor sliced in strategic areas on the body to tease those interested. Let’s not forget the elaborate hand sketched sneakers.” She angled her ankles, presenting the front and back of the colorful drawings.

  Vastly amused, Declan and Seeley snickered at her demonstration.

  Declan rumpled Jordan’s fountain of hair, and then turned to kiss Seeley on the cheek before taking a seat. Seeley supplied the table with quesadillas, an assortment of watermelon, cantaloupe, and honeydew. A pitcher of pink lemonade was distributed into tall glasses.

  “Hey, kid, it’s about time you came to stay with us,” Declan said while chewing into his chicken wedge. “Seeley’s missed you terribly, and me too.”

  “I hope you still feel that way in a week.” Jordan felt at ease with her new family and wondered what it would be like with a baby in the picture. She had always wanted a brother or a sister, and then she recollected Paisley’s comment of the enormous age difference.

  Either way, it’ll be fantastic.

  Declan pointed to her high-tops. “Did you paint those?”

  She peeked under the table at her sneaks. “Yeah, with markers. I bought plain white and wanted to see what I could do with them.”

  “You could easily market those. The drawing looks like feathered wings in wild colors.”

  “I have wings like the Greek god Hermes,” Jordan said. “Now if only I could fly.”

  Declan sent Seeley a cheery glance. “I wouldn’t put it past the two of you. I’m sure, one day, I’ll see you both flying through the air.”

  Seeley covered his large hand with hers. “Oh, Dec, don’t be silly.”

  Hours after the meal, dusky skies swathed in a purplish-blue could be seen through the living room window where Seeley and Declan lay parallel, embracing on the couch. The television lit the room with the glow from a sitcom rerun, and a cross-legged Jordan sat in a neighboring chair. She looked at her contented mom, who deserved happiness after years of battle.

  Jordan stood, stretched, and padded to the wall of casement windows to watch the coral moon halved over the water’s horizon. She suddenly felt the need to be on the move to investigate the city.

  “Mom?” She turned toward the couch. “I’m going for a walk.”

  Seeley and Declan struggled into a vertical position, each wide-eyed and speculative.

  “It’s getting dark.” Declan was the first to speak. “And you don’t know the city. Maybe you should wait and take a walk tomorrow.”

  “Declan’s right,” agreed her mom.

  “I know how to take care of myself,” she responded in a wheedling tone. She looked to her mom for support while tugging out the hair tie on top of her head, letting a waterfall of hair course down her back. “Just up a few blocks. I’m really restless.”

  “It’s up to you,” said Seeley and peered at Declan, who shrugged.

  “You know best.”

  “All right,” she said with an air of prudence. “If you’re not home in an hour, we’ll come searching for you. Got that?”

  Jordan darted her fingers through her insubordinate hair. She probably looked like a grunge, but at the moment, she didn’t care. “Yeah, thanks.”

  She shuffled to the front door, wedged her feet into her high-tops, and then closed the door behind her with a soft click.

  Her tempo was measured, falling in line with city dwellers meandering to and fro. Young, gabbling people clustered, whereas elderly couples lingered on city benches licking ice cream cones, oblivious to the hullabaloo. Dissimilar to the quaint sidewalks of Elma, a kaleidoscope of neon lights blocked the night sky as music sailed on tepid currents, setting the streets alive.

  An assembled crowd loitered around two guys and a girl strumming guitars. She’d weaseled her way to the forefront as a girl sang a harmonious melody. Her raspy voice pleased those congregating and clapping their hands to the rhythm.

  From her periphery vision, Jordan caught a shine, snaring her interest. Her first inclination was Markus or a flicker of a neon light. It was neither. In a murky archway, a streetlight poured over a silvery-white head peeking out of the shadow. A chill and a tangible sense of b
eing stalked scuttled up the nape of her neck. He’d eclipsed into the dark before she could make out his features, except for his height and the white hair.

  Shaking off the unwelcome thoughts, she maneuvered her way amid the throng, cruising the wide sidewalk, and leaving behind the spooky man in the archway. Jordan breathed a lungful of exhaust fumes and a mixture of spice and greasy cooking. She rubbed the aroma from her nose. Elma’s village smelled of pungent coffee with an undertone of sweet honey- suckles. Also adrift in the village were wisteria vines that weaved trellis after trellis and colorful impatiens planted in every garden box on Main Street.

  She browsed the eclectic store windows through protective wrought iron bars because they were mainly closed at this late hour. Trekking along the street absent of an objective, she’d noticed traffic had lessened in this part of the city and there were fewer people. She’d evidently wandered past the block into a residential area.

  She came upon a weathered brownstone, and for some reason her legs felt leaden and her eyes were drawn to the buildings architecture and the square, stained-glass window depicting a crystal ball. She’d meant to prolong her walk but nearly fell on her face when her foot seemed stuck in place as if glued to the pavement. She attempted to dislodge her foot from whatever and was glad no one was present to see her pulling on her thigh with both hands.

  As if easing her leg from a vat of paste, she was able to take a step, and then two. The exertion was mindboggling. A strange reddish-orange vapor began unfolding over the sidewalk, coiling her legs. Searching for the vapor’s source, she swiveled toward a door-less entry the brownstone. The vaporous fog seemed to be pulling her in.

  Hindered by the prevailing magic, her psyche was overcome with a taste of adventure. As soon as her decision was made to venture into the unknown, her feet jarred loose from their bindings. Jordan budged her foot onto the crumbling concrete step. Before regretting her decision, she hopped above the next two steps and headed into the vapory glow.

  Fanning her arms through the smog, she adapted to a blaze of reddish-orange. She spotted cylinder tubes outlining the crevices of the ceiling in a stark hallway. Jordan paused, half-expecting demons to come charging from the woodwork. When nothing unusual happened, she uncurled her knuckles and went onward. Directed by a low hum—either radiating from the incandescent tubes, or something else entirely—she lengthened her stride. A floorboard creaked announcing her arrival.

  “I’ve been waiting. Come in, come in,” said an anxious voice.

  Besides anxious, it’s cadence was almost cloying, beckoning her. Pirouetting, she searched for the person. The hallway remained unoccupied. She then detected the once door-less entry now had a metal door, barring her from the street beyond. Silently, she called for Markus. Without a response or a hint that he was on board, Jordan knew better than to proceed.

  However, a niggling worm of curiosity ate at her.

  Lacking an exit, she continued until arriving at a narrow staircase. Here, the reddish-orange blaze condensed like a dividing partition. She gazed into the darkness and dragged in a torn breath and headed into the void. Walking blindly, she swept both hands over the outer walls as the toe of her sneakers bumped each consecutive stair.

  It was a steep incline. Her breathing strained from the flight of stairs and from sheer trepidation. Respite came when she reached the upper landing, the space swelling into a further comparable hallway. In the darkness, a diffused light trickled over floorboards at the end of the passage.

  She tiptoed to the light until she faced a six-paneled door. Peering down to the filtering glow, a moving shade blocked the spilling light. “Is anyone here?” She clacked her knuckles on the door. “Hello?”

  What exactly did she envisage, a demon wearing an apron and offering her tea and cookies? Of course, there was no reply. She reached her trembling fingers for the copper knob, the contact not yet complete when the door burst open.

  Accustomed to the darkness, Jordan was hit by an extreme flash of light. Shielding her brow with her arms, she saw the origin of the flash: a glass globe, the size of a soccer ball, enclosing a vortex of fog. Steady, she waited, but for what, she didn’t know.

  “Come closer,” the voice advised.

  She expected a lady in a turban, dressed in divination garments, hooped earrings, dozens of chains dangling from her neck, and bangles on her wrists. Instead, not a breathing soul strode into her line of sight.

  Slinging her arm to her side, she turned from the illumination to check her surroundings. The room was empty except for some crinkled newspaper, tin cans, and layers of filth. It was also windowless and vacant, excluding a three-legged stand with the obscure globe swirling with white smoke. Wordlessly, she stepped forward.

  Jordan reached out a hand to touch its glossy surface, but her fingers fragmented the image, passing right through. She withdrew her hand. The image readjusted back to a glossy globe.

  “Do not touch,” dictated the voice. “And lean closer.”

  Against her better judgment, Jordan brought her face within inches of the oddity. A whirlpool of white smoke enveloped the inner globe, and then dispersed like the wind clearing a cloudy sky. Playing havoc with her vision, it churned like water in a fish tank until she identified a vague figure.

  “Jordan Chase, there is little time,” declared the figure. “To save Seeley you must infiltrate The Order.”

  “Who are you?”

  “My identity cannot be revealed.”

  The undulating figure was making her seasick. After pressing her eyelids with the heels of her palms, she refocused on the globe. “You could be under the guidance of the cult, one of their mystics,” she said. “I’d be a fool to listen to anything you had to say.”

  “Not all sorcerers and mystics pay homage to the dark lord. You, of all people, know that,” the cryptic entity protested. “I wish to be of service to the white warrior. Though, exposure would mean my destruction. Do you understand?”

  Jordan straightened and circled the globe on the stand while at the same time monitoring the area for demons. The undulating image seemed to follow her as she paced.

  “What makes you think my mother needs saving?”

  “Seeley is being devoured by a wicked curse. Her mystical gifts have been compromised. Even she cannot distinguish its control,” intoned the messenger. “But, you sense the spell that possesses her. Each day, it cultivates strength by absorbing Seeley’s power.”

  “My mother is fine,” opposed Jordan, although an internal vibe told her otherwise.

  “I don’t have time to argue. My incantation will be detected shortly, if not already.” The apparition shuddered, hurrying its words. “Listen to me. Uncover the basis of Seeley’s possession before it’s too late. The compulsory spell will have absolute power, and Seeley will no longer exist.”

  “If you’re such a prevailing sorcerer, why can’t you tell me the source?”

  “I have my suspicions. Mentioning a source might lead you astray and mean my demise. Trust and act on my information or ignore it.”

  Jordan heard rapid breathing coming from the globe.

  “It’s mandatory for you to be shrewd and clever,” the figure continued. “The one quality that’s vital, you appear to lack—deceit.”

  The figure lost clarity as traces of foggy smoke emerged into the globe.

  “Wait!” Jordan shouted. “How do I infiltrate The Order?”

  Like a strobe light, the globe popped in and out.

  “No doubt—” the voice professed “—they will find you.”

  SHAME THOSE WHO

  TRAMPLE UPON ME

  THE APPARITION VANISHED, leaving a wisp of smoke in its stead. Jordan was left in the dark, not even a window to shed some light from the street. Her arms groped in front of her like a blind person, and her rubber-soled high-tops skated on the wooden floor, optimistic in finding the exit.

  Her fingers clunked on the wall, and then she ironed her palms over the surface. Feeling
for the doorframe, she found the handle. Somehow, the door that had opened freely before was now unmovable.

  “I could use some help here.” Applying both hands, she clutched the doorknob and yanked. It appeared to be rusted shut. Fixing her foot firmly on the wall for leverage, she tugged with all her might. The knob became increasingly hot and burned red as if on fire. “Aarg!” she screamed and pried her hands off. Patches of her skin remained sizzling on the knob, and hissing through her teeth, she puffed at the painful blisters forming over her palms.

  “Markus, I really need you.” Dread filled every pore in her body as fiery witch-light sealed the doorframe like a welding torch. She reversed her stance to stare into the darkened room.

  Floating through the far wall, a ghostly image lit the area. The ghost solidified into a glowy human form of an old man of average height, adorned with a head of mangy silver hair, wearing a moth-eaten suit and looking like a standard vagabond. Not particularly impressive or fearsome, apart from the fact he’d just floated through a wall.

  Initially, he paid little heed to the young lady gaping at him. Rather, he briskly walked to the three-legged table, circling it three times. Raising his arms like a sleepwalker, he mumbled some sort of invocation until a glass globe manifested. Swiftly his hands grasped for the globe, but it detonated like a smoke bomb.

  The man’s fury bled over his face, especially when he swiveled in her direction. An over-developed jaw protruded, revealing asymmetrical teeth. In the gloomy light, his mealy skin sketched over his face as he peered through half-moon slits, wheezing, “Who were you talking to?”

  She retracted a step, her tongue burrowed in her mouth. The man advanced within a yard of her. His black slitted eyes widened a fraction.

  “I can’t believe my good fortune.” He turned his back to her. The curt clap of his hands reverberated off the walls, wheezing, “I know who you are.” Then in an unexpected action, he kicked the three-legged table toward the ceiling, where it splintered to pieces and vanished.