by C. M. Murphy
Alma tried to open her eyes, but all she saw was the same purple-black blindness she'd experienced with her eyes shut. Had they even opened? Her ears rang with a maddening high-pitched squeal, making it impossible for her to think.
He wiped the last of the blood from his hands and reached for his pack of Winstons and matches. He lit a match. The faint yellow light illuminated the dark alley as he puffed on his cigarette to catch the flame.
His muscles remained tight with leftover adrenaline. He took a long drag and tossed the smoking match to the ground.
He leaned against the brick wall. The father had fought harder than the others, but in the end he'd won. That's what mattered.
He smiled to himself and relived the moment when he caught up with the man at the ice machine, pulled him into the stairwell, and slit his throat. The power of all those lifetimes flooded into him. Well, not all the lifetimes. Until he got better at his acquisitions, there would be some drain off, but he'd picked the perfect IM. So old. So many lives. Solid mind.
He took a moment and thumbed through his new thoughts and memories. A few fragments of Italian conversations flitted to the forefront of his mind. He marveled at how they made sense, but that wasn't what he wanted to know. He reached into the man's memories and pulled out lifetimes of philosophies and ideas.
He'd believed in the Infinite Truth, but like a passive man of science, he used to look for evidence in books and lectures. He scoffed at his former ridiculousness. He knew the true way now.
The secret to gaining knowledge wasn't to absorb it secondhand; it was to experience it, and if you couldn't experience it directly, you could acquire that experience. He smiled, remembering the powerful feeling of taking the man's life. He'd been horrified during his first acquisitions, but now it was different. He'd accepted his destiny.
He found himself shaking. At first he'd thought it was an earthquake, but then remembered he wasn't in California anymore.
A man's screams echoed through the alley. He yelled a woman's name. It irritated him, and he considered slitting the throat of this man, too. He'd absorb whatever bit of knowledge the insignificant one-lifer had and add it to his own.
"Alma!" the man yelled, shaking him by the arm.
How has this man gotten the drop on him? He went to toss away his cigarette to free both hands, except it wasn't there. He reached into his waistband for his knife, but it wasn't there. What the hell was going on?
"Alma!" Doug yelled again.
Wind as strong as a hurricane rushed by his ears as a bright white light threatened to blind him. He closed his eyes, held them shut, and when the wind died down, opened them.
A man's face loomed inches from his.
"Doug?" he said, recognizing the man. The sound of her own voice snapped Alma back into her body. She looked around and found herself sitting on the floor, leaning against her bed with a folder in her lap.
"Alma, you scared the crap out of me! Why wouldn't you answer me?" Doug asked, crouched next to her.
Alma looked down at the matchbook. She'd held it in the alley to light her cigarette—his cigarette. Alma looked at her hands. Feminine hands. Clean hands without blood. But she'd killed the father. She could almost remember his face.
"Alma, are you okay?"
That annoying man interrupted her again. She turned toward him, wanting to slit his throat, until she caught herself looking into the concerned eyes of her best friend. "I'm okay," she said, her voice sounding alien to her.
"You don't look okay," Doug said.
"What do I look like?" Alma asked, unable to remember her own face. She reached up and touched her own cheek with a trembling hand.
Doug's face flooded with concern. His brow furrowed. His hand swept to her shoulder. "Alma, what's wrong?"
Her brain focused on the word "Alma." She knew it was her name, but only in an academic way. Her attachment to her own identity threatened to fall out of her understanding. Sweat rolled down her back, and bile curdled at the base of her throat. She needed a reference point.
"I've been here in this room," she said, touching the floor of her apartment, seeking reassurance in the solidity of it.
"Yes, I've been calling all morning, but your line was busy," he said, motioning to her modem attached to her phone. "You didn't answer the door, so I let myself in." Doug got up off the floor and walked over to the computer. "Can I put your phone back on the hook or are you still online?"
Alma gave him an impatient nod yes. "What was I doing? Was I in a trance?"
"You kept staring at that matchbook, and then you looked around like you didn't even see me until—"
"Until what?"
"You looked right at me, but..." Doug walked back over to her and squatted down. "Are you sure you're all right?"
"But what? This is important," Alma said.
"You looked like you wanted to kill me."
She had wanted to kill him. Even the thought of it now dredged up a hunger coupled with memory fragments of the people she'd killed. The man by the ice machine. The annoying woman. Guilt tore at her stomach and terror weighed on her chest like the foot of an elephant pushing down on her seconds from releasing its full, crushing weight.
"Alma?" Doug said softly, taking her hand.
Alma erupted into choking sobs of grief and guilt.
Chapter Nine
Alma stared out the car window, grateful for the silence. Her best friend understood she needed time to think. Doug's idea to visit Professor Cassidy seemed like a good one at the time. He'd promised that she could change her mind, and she knew he meant it. She marveled at how supportive he was being. She would've thought his support would have been more in line with getting a brain scan or going to the doctor. But like Tita Win, Doug assured her that she wasn't losing her mind.
It had taken her almost an hour to feel like Alma Davis again. In that alley, she had forgotten herself completely. She'd tried to tell herself that it was some kind of nightmare, but being in the alley felt as real as the moment she'd spent as her mother—maybe even more so. But who had she been this time? Without thinking, Alma's mind reached into her memories. An image of a scared boy hiding under his bed flashed in her mind, followed by a quaint, ancient-looking building by the sea, and then an old-fashioned looking lecture hall full of students.
"We're here," Doug said as he pulled into the Cal State Northridge parking lot.
Alma snapped back to the present. She hadn't even noticed they'd exited the 405 freeway. She glanced out at the parking lot and watched kids with backpacks and books rushing off to their classes. The summer sun beamed hot through the car window, and the warmth on her skin centered her in her own body.
Doug took her hand. The gesture struck Alma as out of character, but his hand around hers comforted her. My hand. That's my hand. I'm Alma Davis.
"Listen," he said, "from what you told me, this stuff is getting dangerous, and we don't even know what's happening to you. Professor Cassidy seems like she knows a lot about stuff like this."
Alma hesitated. For all she knew this Cassidy woman was the reason all of this started.
"She knew Leo Upton and your mother, Alma," Doug said.
Doug mentioning her mother sparked Alma's thoughts. If Alma had never met Professor Cassidy, she would have lived her entire life without any knowledge of her mother. And her mother trusted Cassidy. She'd sent her the letter with the photo in it for Alma. With so much happening, Alma hadn't really digested the weight of what her mother had written. Her mother had foreseen that night at the bookstore. She'd even made it happen by writing the letter in the first place. If her mother trusted Cassidy, Alma would, too.
Haniel busied himself shining a pair of shoes as he sat behind the counter. He wanted his father to leave him alone.
"Did you call her again?" his dad asked.
"She's probably just out."
His father stared at him. Despite hearing so many people comment that they "had the same eyes," Haniel found James's
eyes hard and almost lifeless.
Haniel defied his father by returning his attention to the shoes.
James stepped closer, his height blocking the light. Despite Haniel's growing confidence, his father did have two inches and twenty pounds on him, and a temper that could kill. Haniel caved. "I'll call again in an hour."
"I can feel her power growing," James said.
Haniel fought the urge to roll his eyes. He was sick of his father's plan. "If I'm supposed to reach her, I will. Aren't you always saying, 'There is no free will'?"
"Don't get smart with me, young man."
Haniel tossed aside the shoes, pushed by his father, and headed for his room. The sound of his father's boots trailed behind him. He wished he could run the shoe repair shop without his dad and forget the man's stupid "plan."
Alma's frustration mounted the more Cassidy spoke.
"What you're describing is different from what happened to me," Alma insisted.
"Listen, you mentioned memory fragments from other people. Those people are just you in another lifetime," Cassidy explained.
"Except you said the whole reincarnation thing ran in families. My mother was psychic. Tita Win is a healer."
"It's rarely immediate family. It's sometimes a grandparent or someone more distant."
"Tita Win Win told me my grandmother was a witch on the island of Siquijor. She said nothing about..." Alma paused, trying to think of the phrase. "What did you say you were?"
"An Immortal Mortal," Doug answered. He knew it wasn't a moniker that most IMs enjoyed.
"Yes, but you don't know much about your family beyond that. And perhaps you being from such a diverse array of paramortals in your—
"Para what?" Alma asked.
"Mortals," Doug answered. He wanted to add that Alma's father, Stu, was a Witness with zero paramortals in his family tree. It wasn't likely that Alma was an IM. But he couldn't reveal any of that without blowing his cover.
"Mortals with paranormal abilities," Cassidy explained.
"Like telekinesis? Maybe people who possess other people?" Alma asked, looking for an alternative explanation for what was happening to her.
"I meant more along the lines of psychics and healers. Maybe a bit of witchcraft, and of course people like me," Cassidy said. "We're getting off track. What's important is that we integrate your memories of your past lives before—" Cassidy stopped herself.
"Before what?" Doug asked, but his question was ignored by both Alma and Cassidy.
"So what's happening aren't visions. They're real," Alma said.
"Absolutely. And they can't be visions; they're of the past," Cassidy said.
"Could I be possessing people?" Alma asked.
Cassidy shook her head. "You're a wild incarnation. You're one of us."
"But you said you haven't seen a wild incarnation in centuries, and all your memories feel like memories. With me I feel like I'm living somewhere else as someone else and then have flashes of someone else's remembrances!"
Cassidy took a deep breath, rubbed her temples, and then steepled her hands under her chin, a series of gestures that struck Alma as familiar.
"Most of our kind are awakened around puberty or just before," Cassidy explained. "You were awakened at least seven years past the ideal time. It's been known to have unexpected consequences. For you, it's this identity dysmorphia. Now, I have a friend that can help you."
"What consequences?" Doug interrupted.
Almost at the same time Alma heard herself say, "Identity dysmorphia! You just made that up!" For a moment, Alma had thought she'd seen Cassidy smile, but the woman's mouth hadn't moved nor had her expression noticeably changed. But Alma felt as if she could see the woman had smiled on the inside.
"It's a side effect of your late awakening," Cassidy insisted. "And as I was saying, I have a friend who can help you integrate your past lives. As a matter of fact—"
"Let's say I am an Immortal Mortal," Alma said, impatient to settle this ridiculous argument. "I have memories of my mother. That means I used to be her. So you're saying I died and reincarnated as the child I was pregnant with."
"Well," Cassidy paused, steepling her hands again as she tried to figure how that might work. "Maybe you were someone who knew her," Cassidy suggested.
"I remember the night she died when she was walking alone. I saw what she saw," Alma said.
"Well, it's an unusually tight turnaround, but I suppose it's possible you're your own mother."
Alma folded her arms and shook her head. Still so stubborn. "Ma, che sei grullo, Felix?" Alma said without thought.
Both Doug and Cassidy sat up and stared at Alma.
"What did you say?" Doug asked.
Alma answered in English, not realizing she'd that she'd switched languages. "I asked her if she was crazy. It's ridiculous to believe I'm my own mother."
"But you said it in Italian," Doug said.
"And you called me Felix," Cassidy said, her voice hushed with shock. Only one person ever called her Felix.
A knock on Cassidy's office door interrupted them. Doug and Alma shot Cassidy a look.
"That's the friend I mentioned. I asked him to come here," Cassidy said.
Before Alma could object the professor called out, "Come in!"
"Ciao," said the swarthy man with dark hair as he opened the door. His jaw dropped open when he saw Alma. "Birdie bella," he whispered half to himself.
Alma looked up at him, not understanding what he'd said. But there was something familiar about the way the man stood.
"Leo," Cassidy said. "Meet Alma Davis and her friend, Doug."
Leo regained his composure shook Doug's hand and then turned his attention to Alma. "So you're the one Felix says is having trouble assimilating your past lives." His voice had an Italian accent.
"He called you Felix," Doug said to Cassidy.
"It's a nickname from ages past. This," Leo gestured to Cassidy, "woman thing is only the last three lifetimes. Some kind of penance I presume."
Alma smiled. "You're the only one who calls her Felix, right?"
"Well, bella," Leo began, "the only one in about a thousand years. Am I right, old friend?"
Alma turned to Cassidy and said, "So I couldn't be remembering that from a previous life, because this friend of yours is Leo Upton's reincarnation. So if I'm not one of you, I'm something else."
"What did I miss?" Leo asked.
Leo ignored his old friend's babbling explanation. Ever since Felix had chosen to be a woman, Leo believed his friend was more prone to being emotional. "Wait, wait, wait. Let me take a seat, and we'll talk about this rationally."
"We don't have time for your sexism, Leo," Cassidy said with her arms folded.
"You are cute when you are angry," Leo said as he grabbed a chair from the corner of the office and dragged it between Doug's and Alma's chairs. "If you could move over," he said to Doug, "we will all be more comfortable."
Cassidy rolled her eyes. Same old Leo. He wouldn't be rushed and insisted on being in the middle of everything. The man retained his Italian accent for nearly every one of his incarnations and always openly called himself Leo no matter what name appeared on his birth certificate.
"Now, what is this about you not being me?" Leo asked, turning to Alma.
"Did you die in Vegas?" Alma blurted out.
Leo's expression remained blank.
Alma continued. "In your life just before this one. Did you die in Las Vegas?"
"I believe so, yes," Leo said, keeping his voice polite and neutral. It definitely wasn't a coincidence that she looked like his birdie.
Doug frowned at the question. Immortal Mortals didn't like to talk about the way they died. Many of them developed psychosis as a result of remembering their deaths.
"Your last lifetime, you were murdered. How did he do it?" Alma interrupted.
"I can't remember," Leo said.
"But you've always had the best memory. Even the youngest Immortal Mortal r
emembers how he died," Cassidy interrupted.
"There are holes now," Leo said.
"Holes?" Cassidy asked.
Alma's brain rummaged through her new memories. "Do you remember feeling like you were being drained? Like your life including your memories were being sucked out of you?"
Leo shook his head no. "I remember nothing but anger."
"He was killed in a stairwell in Las Vegas," Cassidy said.
Leo turned to Cassidy.
"Your throat cut like Irene," Cassidy continued. "I wasn't sure you would come back."
Leo nodded. "I see."
The room dissolved into silence.
"But I am back, and this young lady has questions and a story to tell," Leo said, motioning for Alma to speak.
"I remember parts of my mother's life. Snippets of yours. And pieces of other memories I can't place," Alma said. "But it's not just memories. I was there after you died. I was there just before my mom died."
"She felt like she was there," Cassidy corrected.
"Stop saying that," Alma said. "When I was in the alley earlier today, I felt like I was in the alley. I didn't even remember who I was. Remember?" Alma said, turning to Doug. "You shook me? What did you say?"
Doug didn't want to answer.
"You said that I looked like I wanted to kill you. And I did, but I wasn't me. I was someone else. It's like when I was in the bathroom getting ready for a date. I felt like I was my mom. I became my mom. Sometimes when I come back, I have a hard time even remembering it's me."
"That doesn't make sense," Cassidy said.
"I think it could make sense when you take into account The Infinite Truth," Leo countered. Everyone turned to Leo. "If you imagine that the world is merely an out-picturing of consciousness. From there, imagine that the glimpse of a piece of that truth is what makes it possible for some people like us," Leo said, pointing to Cassidy and himself, "and even small children to remember past lives."
"So you two realized the world wasn't real and then all of the sudden you could remember past lives?" Alma asked.
"It's not that we realized that the world wasn't real, but that a part of us, a part of this consciousness, was 'awakened' to that portion of the truth. You don't have to understand gravity to be aware of its effects. The law holds true regardless."
