by Jules Hedger
Originally from California, Jules Hedger now lives on a narrow boat in London with one cat and one husband. The Reign and Ruin series is her debut.
Visit Jules Hedger online:
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To Mr Poling and WISE English, who let me take one period off every day to encourage my writing. You, good sir, are a dude.
First published in 2014 by This Thistle Press
Copyright 2014 by Jules Hedger
Smashwords Edition
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All characters and events in this publication, other than
those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious
and any resemblance to real persons,
living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
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Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.
- Edgar Allan Poe
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Acknowledgements
Coming Soon
Prologue
There have been some close breaks on this way to my death. Honestly, I wasn't surprised when it finally arrived. I had almost been killed twice already that I knew of. Both times, I was scared. But that terror was for the pain, the feeling of needle through skin or teeth tearing. I never feared the actual death itself.
But this fear now – the man that stood before me – was something entirely different. His face showed nothing but gentle compassion. His fingers twitched in a yearning to embrace my body in love, not wrap around my neck. His arms were spread innocently wide in the promise of acceptance and unconditional affection. He needed me so much.
But I could already feel myself slipping away. I saw the lines blurring around my vision and sense the darkness creeping into my brain to engulf all memory, opinions, and independent thought. Our hearts were connected but my mind was screaming out against him.
Death was upon me now in a way entirely different than blinking out of physical existence. I was so much more afraid of this death than I had ever been of the others.
Loneliness. Desperation. The loss of my fated birth right. What a thing to look forward to in a relationship right?
"How long has it been since you've seen real sunlight?" I whispered.
Chapter 1
"Flight UA231 from Chicago is arriving at baggage claim 4 . . ."
To try and decipher why I have never dreamt – not once in my short 22 years – would be a bit like trying to work out why some people my age can master more than one language without breaking a sweat. Or why planes get lost over Bermuda. Or Justin Bieber. Nobody knows.
Perhaps I have yet to live through anything that was meaningful enough to make a subconscious impact. My life was hardly worth remembering up until I swallowed the marble, at least by my standards.
And yet even after it all, even after finding the dead body on the floor of my uncle's apartment, falling through the purple cloud and jumping off the white horizon, those dreams still eluded me. I was still as normal and boring as any other girl in New York, or any other dimension created. I smoked. I swore. I listened to John Grant and cut my bangs from a YouTube video. And even after looking into the eyes of someone so beautiful, feeling his heart beat under my hot palm like an electric pulse, it was only when awake did I know for sure I was real.
All the other times were darkness.
"Flight UA231 from Chicago is arriving at baggage claim 4 . . ."
Flight UA231 from Chicago to New York, just landed with minor delays and a shitty in-flight pasta meal.
The arrivals lobby was packed with families home from school vacation, reuniting again under the fluorescent lights with the hope of a hot summer and picnics in Central Park. I was just praying my bag turned up.
An elderly couple stood beside me as I waited next to the rotating carousel and watched black bag after black bag roll past. There was always this breath of expectation and, as sad as it was to admit, excitement in the wait. The elderly woman gave a little hum of pleasure as her husband kissed her temple gently and leaned in slightly so their shoulders were touching. I tried not to notice but when all the bags had been and gone except for our own, I had no choice but to look over and give the usual, "Oh no, it is us?" half-smile. Of course it was me: the lone girl plugged into her iPod, head down to avoid unnecessary conversation. But it was as a team that we walked over to the information desk.
The airline representative looked up lazily from his magazine and picked up a pen.
"Baggage gone missing?"
"Yes, we changed in O'Hare and perhaps it got held up there," the elderly man said, handing over his ticket.
As the clerk filled out the forms, the couple turned to me curiously.
"Where are you coming from?"
"Sorry?" I asked, pulling out my earphones and turning down Broken Bells.
"Where did you fly from?" the old man repeated.
"Chicago," I said blankly. Obviously. But when they kept staring, I felt inclined to expand. "Third year in college, just back for summer." I pointed embarrassingly at my t-shirt. "Are the big white letters not a giveaway?"
"Absolutely, show some pride in your education'" the old man said. "Kids these days have no respect for it all, except for the football." He looked at me suddenly. "You don't like football, do you?"
"No, no, never been into football." The old man nodded in approval and his wife reached over to pat my arm.
"Is anyone picking you up? Do you live close or would you like a ride somewhere?"
I smiled uncomfortably and shook my head, because no, someone wasn't picking me up. No one ever picked me up. My mom had long ago decided that if I could handle pepper spray, I was better off on my own. Besides, she was probably busy.
Before I went to college I lived with my mother in the lower east side, rented from a business man who reminded me strongly of a blueberry; the fat, overripe kind that is already so spoiled you have to throw it down the garbage dispenser and mourn the fact you just wasted $4.99 on moldy fruit. He wore a fedora hat, a cheap suit, and toupee that looked like it had lost all hope of ever looking more like a dead animal. I was tall enough to look over the man's balding head while at the same time knowing he was probably staring at my tits.
"And you, Miss?" the clerk was saying, calling me over. I held out my ticket and positioned myself at the high desk. "Anything of value in your luggage at all?"
"Just my vibrator," I deadpanned. The man looked uncomfortable and I heard a little gasp from behin
d me. Oh jeez, I sighed inwardly. "It was a joke."
A shot of air burst from the man's mouth like a locomotive releasing steam, in relief or genuine mirth I really didn't know. Just like I didn't know how to function in social situations, obviously.
The incredible thing was that the couple behind me were laughing. And in the newly empty baggage claim it was one of the only sounds I could hear and it was stunningly loud. My insides squirmed.
The clerk behind the counter ticked a box on his sheet, still shaking his head and stealing shy glances up from the page. His freckles nearly disappeared into his blush. He couldn't have been more than 19 years old.
"Right Miss, we have the number. But in case someone took it by mistake or it gets dropped off at a police or fire station, does it have any defining characteristics?"
"Um, it's black. It . . . has a few zippers. Decorative ones, I mean. And um . . . there's a badge on it that says 'Fuck the police'," I replied hesitantly. The man laughed and shook his head again. "No, sorry . . . that wasn't a joke."
Freckle-face 19-year old coughed embarrassingly and I was damn sure he wasn't the biggest loser in the room at the moment. And when I turned around the elderly couple had disappeared.
There goes my ride . . .
***
PLZ STAY @ STEVES. BREAKFAST 2MORROW. SOZ HONEY, HAVE GUESTS.
I read the text as the taxi sped past the lit freeway signs and through the dank tunnels into the City. The latest Top 40 played from the front as the driver studiously ignored me and nodded along to the lyrics of some incredibly loud rapper putting a beat down about Hummers or something. I read the text again. From what I could gather my mother was hosting, seeing her gentleman caller, the Blueberry Man.
I was used to it. For the majority of my adolescent years, my mother would shake me off at her brother's apartment on her way to the Upper West Side. A heroin addict. A drunk. But a really nice guy if you got to know him.
"Make sure he feeds you something with green in it," my mother would say. "And don't touch anything sharp."
My uncle locked himself in his small apartment in central New York to paint his demons. While my mother was off not even pretending to be a good widow, I found myself passing an evening watching him create until he left to meet his dealer Marty, who also stared at my breasts.
"The man was in Vietnam, Mags. Have a little respect," said my uncle one night.
"He was not in Vietnam. He's a liar and an old pervert who smells like an airplane and leeches off of you," I replied with a snort. I shrugged and pulled up the hood of my sweatshirt. He never turned the heat on. "I just think you should have friends who don't spend the night so often. Or steal your money."
Spreading his hands wide, my uncle smiled wryly and winked. "Eh? What money?"
I ran my fingers through the coarse, dark mane that pretended to be hair and felt the red, hot anger course up through my fingers and melt into cool resignation. So once again, I was spending the night at my uncle's. My phone buzzed again and I snatched it from my lap.
MAKE SURE HE EATS. KISSES MOM.
***
The apartment was dark when I eased the door open. The only light shone from a dingy overhead fan twirling methodically into the air. The phone began to ring, its call an incessant buzz from the front room. I counted seven rings before the caller gave up, as the callers always do when my uncle fails to notice someone is trying to make human contact.
Dropping my jacket and the key on the table by the door, I leaned over to pet a thin cat that was meowing piteously in greeting. The cat nuzzled its warm face into my palm to lick off the salt from my hands.
"Hello pussy, lovely Tidbit," I murmured.
Glancing up from stroking the cat, I jumped at my own reflection in the hall mirror: a muddy, dark figure with hair hanging over her face. But not a vengeful Japanese ghost.
I steadied myself and studied the stranger in the mirror. In the murky darkness, the girl staring back at me grimaced. Nothing to write home about, especially after the miserable plane ride: Dark hair, slightly wavy and never as shiny as the toothy girls on TV; dark eyes, to match the dark hair (so far, so boring); freckles sneezed across my nose and cheeks; and a facial expression that my mother always said would work wonders for the boys if I only smiled. Too bad that didn't happen so often . . .
Following the cat's flagpole tail from the hallway into the sitting room, I found my uncle painting by the window that looked down at the streets below. The corner was lit from the neon, fluorescent signs that shone through the glass and illuminated his face to shades of green and orange and sometimes violent red.
The walls were covered with paintings; dozens upon dozens of paintings that wouldn't find a home in any gallery. They spoke of rage and loneliness and sometimes bright sparks of happiness that broke up the dominant reds and grays with splashes of cool blue and deep green. Sidling up to one of them, I put my face close to a man with the face of a dog. His tongue lolled happily over his business suit.
I glanced back to my uncle, who was immersed in the confused whirlwind of colors it looked like he had started painting only hours ago. It seemed as if he had started out with some idea before suddenly giving up to begin splashing the colors over the pencil outline. His eyes were lost in the jumbled swirls of blues and purples hovering above a sandy-looking stretch of barren landscape. The purple swirl he was working on lingered around the right corner of the painting like an oncoming whirlwind.
Dumping my bag, I walked over to stand behind his shoulder. As I watched the muscles move in his back and the paintbrush sail back and forth across the canvas, an ache clawed its way into my stomach, gnawing and chewing at my insides. I punched the pain with a frown and breathed it out through my mouth.
Something was different about this picture . . .
Suddenly my uncle stopped, shoulders heaving upwards as if his body had suddenly remembered it must breathe. He sat still, the only sound in the room his long sigh out.
"Hey, you alright?" I asked, gently touching his shoulder. My uncle turned sharply around on his stool.
When he saw me he relaxed and let his paintbrush fall into the empty bucket by his easel.
"I didn't notice you come in," he said as he brushed back a strand of straggly blond hair from his face. His fingertips left a vivid red smear of paint on his forehead.
"You were busy," I replied frankly. He nodded and gave a heavy sigh. He rummaged in his pocket until finding a slightly crushed cigarette and, after fumbling a bit with the lighter, breathed in deeply.
"Sorry, I know your mom hates it."
"She smokes," I said. So did I, when she wasn't looking.
"Yeah." He tossed the empty pack in with the paintbrush. "I get too caught up in what I'm doing sometimes. I would have greeted you at the door if your mother told me you were coming."
I felt my shoulders shrug again. Typical of my mother to have assumed it was ok and not even ask my uncle if I could stay over. And not even consider what I might be walking into or give her brother a chance to clean up or sober up.
"How long have you been here?" he asked.
"About three minutes," I said. "It's really not a big deal." My uncle opened the mini fridge by the door. He turned back around with a sandwich and threw his cigarette into the sink.
"Do you like my new painting?" he asked, sitting down next to a coffee table that also served as the dining room table that also served as his desk that on occasion served as an ironing board.
I smiled and shook my head. "Honesty is a virtue, Uncle Dearest. It's absolutely terrible." He laughed and rubbed his hands together in pleasure. Small flakes of paint that had accumulated over the days came off like snow that settled upon the white bread of his dinner.
"I was going for something like ‘forlorn' or ‘tragic,' but I never dared hoped it would be ‘terrible.'"
"Why would you paint something like that?"
"It came to me one night in one of those dreams you have between waking and sl
eep." He looked back at me and took a sip of his water.
Yeah right, I thought. Try between being sober and high as a fucking kite.
"I tossed and turned all night," he continued. You know when you shut your eyes so tight colors erupt in fireworks behind the lids of your eyes? Whenever I closed my eyes all I could see was that swirl of purple threatening to sweep me away or tear me apart." He scratched his wrists absentmindedly. "I held on so tight to the sides of the mattress but I felt like the wave was pushing me over." He scratched harder and I noticed the tell-tale twitch in his neck. "I guess I thought if I painted it that it would leave me somehow and I would finally be able to fall asleep. But it only made it more real." He looked at me sitting in the bean bag chair. His face was flashing orange and green. It seemed a really important moment. "It feels like the first time in days that I've eaten."
"It probably is," I pointed out.
We had a few moments of sitting quietly, imagining what it would be like to be swept up in his dream, to be flown and tossed across a sky of desolation by an angry cloud. Until it got uncomfortable and I started to rummage in my carry-on for my phone.
"I think we should burn it," I said loudly.
No messages.
I sighed and sensed my uncle rise from his position and move above me. When I glanced up he was staring out of the window in deep thought. He looked old and wise and worn, like a cliff face softened with years of oncoming waves.
"No, Maggie," my uncle said softly, his smile fading. "It's not yet finished." With that he pulled the curtains shut.
Chapter 2
There's something about that time of night when the clock strikes 3:45; it's too early for people to be up for work and most night owls have since retired to bed by either succumbing to exhaustion, alcohol or finally finding victory over insomnia. The most grim and devious acts are made at this time and the most fantastical, too. It's a magical, evil part of the night where dreams are waking.
