Harm none argi-1

by M. R. Sellars

  “She’s right,” Ben added. “You guys aren’t cops. I never should have exposed you to the risks.”

  “ Damnu ort! ” Felicity stood as the expletive burst from her lips. “How dare you! How can you two be so selfish?!”

  “Selfish?”

  “Yes, selfish!” she shouted. “This is MY pain, not yours! It’s MY fault!”

  I joined Ben and Allison in their stunned expressions as I turned to my wife. We had discussed at length the fact that Ben was not to blame for the accident, but at no point had she ever affixed that blame to herself.

  Until now.

  Felicity remained standing, her auburn hair draping forward as she dropped her chin, murmuring through choked whimpers. “It’s my fault. I’m the one to blame.”

  I was caught completely by surprise. I inwardly damned myself for not recognizing the fragility of her mental state. Even with the heightened senses I had developed through years of practice and meditation, I had completely missed this possibility. I shouldn’t have even needed those senses to know that something like this could happen. I felt horribly fallible. I had let her down.

  “No, Felicity.” Allison was up from her seat instantly, maternal instincts in overdrive. “No it isn’t.”

  I stood and placed a comforting hand on my sobbing wife’s shoulder. “It’s not your fault, honey. It’s nobody’s fault. It was an accident.”

  She turned quickly and buried her face against my chest, shoulders heaving as she let out the pent up emotion. I wrapped my arms about her gently, holding her close but trying to avoid putting pressure on her cracked and bruised ribs. Ben was on his feet now. Both he and Allison looked back at me in astonishment. It was obvious from their expressions that they hadn’t foreseen this eventuality either.

  I continued to hold this woman I loved more than my very life, crooning softly to her and allowing her to release the torrent of tears she had been silently gathering for the past day. We all stood wordlessly in the living room until Felicity’s weeping ebbed. Eventually, she began to calm. The shaking slowly faded away, and the sobs were replaced by muted sniffles. She looked up at me with reddened eyes and brushed a tangle of hair from her face.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “It’s okay,” I told her. “You don’t have anything to be sorry about.”

  She released her grip on me then stepped back unsteadily and shot Allison an embarrassed glance. “You wouldn’t have a tissue then, would you?”

  “Sure I do,” Allison soothed and slipped an arm about her shoulders. “Come with me.”

  Ben and I stared after them as Allison led Felicity down the hallway adjoining the living room. Considering the circumstances, I figured they would be gone for a while.

  “Jeezus, Rowan, I’m sorry,” Ben sympathized as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I never thought…”

  “Neither did I,” I echoed as his words trailed off. “Neither did I.”

  The blame and self-accusation had finally completed its rounds, starting with Cally and ending with Felicity. Of everyone involved, she understandably took it the hardest. It was nearing midnight before we finally left Ben and Allison. All four of us were emotionally drained and physically exhausted, but the two of them were getting along much better than they had been when we first arrived. The cathartic episode left Felicity red-eyed and fighting a sinus headache, but in a somewhat selfish way, I was relieved that it was now over. Whether the police wanted to believe it or not, there was still a psycho out there, and I was certain he was preparing to kill again. I needed to be able to apply all of my attention to figuring out who he was before that happened.

  “So I guess I managed to make a complete fool of myself this evening,” Felicity lamented, eyes shut, head tilted back on the headrest and rubbing the bridge of her nose.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” I consoled. “You just did what anyone else in your position would have. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “At least Allison and Ben are straightened out.”

  “Yeah. I think they’re pretty clear on the subject now.”

  We continued on quietly, and I hooked a cautious left through the flashing yellow light at the intersection, speeding onto the highway in the direction of home.

  “I guess I owe you an apology,” I finally announced.

  “For what?” She was still massaging her sinuses, head back and eyes closed.

  “For not being prepared,” I explained. “For not knowing how it was that you really felt.”

  “How could you have known?” she half asked, half stated. “I told you I was fine. You aren’t a mind reader.”

  “I’m a Witch. I should have sensed that something was wrong.”

  “You’ve been preoccupied lately,” she admonished. “You can’t expect to be able to do everything.”

  “I can at least expect to be sensitive to you and your feelings,” I expressed, glancing over at her.

  “Don’t beat yourself up over this, Rowan.” She opened her eyes and looked at me. “Take it from someone who’s been doing just that. It won’t accomplish anything.”

  I paused for a moment, pondering the wisdom of what she had just said. “I just wanted you to know I love you,” I whispered.

  “I never doubted it.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Darkness.

  Cold, lifeless, complete darkness.

  Falling.

  Screaming.

  Silence.

  Light.

  I’m standing somewhere. I’m standing nowhere.

  There is something in my hand. I look down and notice that I am holding a cane. My hand is encased in a white glove. I am dressed in white.

  Formal.

  A white tuxedo with tails.

  “ Hello, Mister,” a small voice calls from the void.

  I turn to find a small child. A young girl with silky, strawberry-blonde hair tied up with perfect, white satin bows. She is dressed in a lacy, white, party dress and Mary Janes. She’s looking up at me with large, curious eyes. She holds out her tiny, gloved hand to me and then waits.

  I take her hand.

  A scream.

  Silence.

  The young girl is tugging on my coattail.

  “ Give him the tickets, Mister,” she tells me.

  “ What?” I ask. “Who? What tickets?”

  “ Tickets, please.” There is a faceless man standing before me.

  In my hand, I hold two smooth rectangles. I turn them over in my hand. I don’t know where they came from or why I have them. I can only assume that they are the tickets the man wants.

  At first glance, they appear blank.

  At second glance, they appear patterned.

  At third glance, they appear familiar.

  I look at them closer.

  The Seven of Pentacles.

  “ Mister, give him the tickets, or we’ll miss the show.”

  The young girl continues to tug on my coattail in frustration.

  “ Hurry.”

  I give the faceless man the tickets. I don’t know why.

  We are sitting.

  We are in a theatre.

  Seats seem to extend forever into the shadows. They are all empty. The young girl and I are the only audience.

  There is a program in my hands. It is printed on a single sheet of fancy paper and folded in the center. The symbol adorning the front of the page is the Seven of Pentacles. I begin to peel open the crisp parchment.

  “ They’re starting.” The girl nudges me and points to the stage before us.

  I look up. The tall vermilion curtain is swinging open slowly. A grey mist is beginning to spill from the slit forming in the center.

  The curtains are open wide, suddenly, as if they had never been closed.

  A faceless woman with strawberry-blonde hair, dressed in elegant white lace is standing center stage. She is flanked on her left by a faceless brunette and on her right by a faceless blond
e. They are all dressed alike.

  The grey mist spills over the edge of the stage and is filling the theatre. It hangs wetly around my ankles, creeping incessantly up my legs.

  A scream.

  A splash of red spreads across the breast of the woman at center stage, and her body heaves violently as a gurgling voice calls out, “Why, Rowan, Why?”

  I try to get up. I can’t. The cold grey mist has crept up over my knees and into my lap. It is holding me in the seat. I can’t move.

  I look over at the young girl. She is staring intently at the stage.

  A scream.

  I look back to the stage. I don’t want to, but I can’t help myself. A crimson stain bursts forth on the chest of the faceless brunette woman. She begins crumpling to the floor, shrouded in the mist. A new voice gurgles, “Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name…”

  The mist has made its way farther up my body now. It floats about me mid-chest. I look over to the young girl. I expect her to be completely covered in the paralyzing fog.

  She isn’t.

  She looks back at me curiously as the fog licks at her but never touches. I open my mouth, but I can’t make a sound. She turns back to the stage.

  A scream.

  Blood, thick and red, flows from the chest of the blonde, quickly forming a Pentagram, then blending into a formless blotch. She begins to slip downward into the fog, her gurgling voice reaches my ears, “Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?”

  The woman center stage is still standing. She continues to shake violently, her head rolls forward, and a face forms where there had only been void. Her eyes open, and she looks directly at me. She begins to slide away into the grey mist, and her mouth begins to move, “Why don’t you stop him, Rowan?”

  Her body disappears. Standing in place behind her is a hooded, robed figure, a bloody dirk held firmly in his grip. He looks at me, then to the young girl, then back to me again. He appears faceless, but even at this distance, I can see his eyes.

  Cold.

  Cold, grey eyes.

  The thick fog erupts before him. A plume rises quickly, then dissipates, falling back to the floor almost as quickly as it had risen, leaving behind the lace clad form of yet another young woman. She screams.

  The scream echoes forever throughout the shadows. The robed figure raises the dirk, then plunges it downward.

  Blood.

  Dark crimson, thick with the young woman’s life. The life that flows out of her in time with her waning scream. The hooded figure thrusts his hand into her chest, then wrenches it back as her dying body crumples to the floor.

  The mist is just below my chin. I’m completely unable to move now, and I’m finding it hard to breathe. I look over at the young girl next to me.

  “ This is just the dress rehearsal,” she tells me matter-of-factly, looking up at my face with large bright eyes. “I’ve got to go now, Mister.”

  I try to speak as the girl slides off her seat and begins skipping up the aisle, a fogless void enveloping her. Nothing comes out. She disappears.

  “ All…Is…Forgiven,” a deep, demonic voice filters into my ears.

  I look back to the stage. The hooded figure holds his hand aloft, vermilion streaks dripping down his bare arm. In his hand there is grasped a still-beating heart.

  The fog has reached my face. I try to hold my breath, but it slides in anyway. It creeps into my nostrils and into my mouth. It tastes foul.

  It continues to rise and now covers my head.

  I can hold my breath no longer.

  Darkness.

  An endless scream.

  Once again, I awoke to the sound of my own tortured scream. As Felicity had suspected days ago, the nightmares weren’t going to end until this was over. Not until the real killer was found and stopped.

  As neither of us had foreseen, the episodes were growing more intense. Each nightmare was more disturbing than its predecessor-more vivid, more maddening. Each dream was drawing me closer to what could only be an inexorable convergence with the cancerous insanity eating away at the mind of the murderer.

  My wife straddled me in the bed, gripping my shoulders and shaking me violently. I continued to scream.

  “Rowan!” Her mouth formed the word, my name, but her voice couldn’t penetrate the banshee wail that filled my ears. “ROWAN!”

  A stinging sensation suddenly radiated through the side of my face as my head wrenched to the side, and silence faded quickly into the room. It had taken the shock of Felicity’s hand impacting my cheek to awaken me from the pain of the nightmare.

  “I’m sorry,” I heard her say, rapt concern flooding her voice.

  I pulled her close.

  It was my turn to cry.

  “How many?” she asked softly after my sobs had waned. “How many of these nightmares have you had?”

  “Four,” I choked, pulling back from her and pressing the heels of my palms against my eyes.

  “They’re getting worse, aren’t they?”

  “Yes,” I affirmed, “they’re getting worse.”

  My wife rolled to the side and fluidly got out of bed. She continued to stare at me as she slipped into her bathrobe, her expression rapidly beginning to show irritation on top of the concern.

  “Why haven’t you told me about this?” she demanded angrily as she knotted the belt.

  “I started to this morning.” I swung my legs over the side of the bed and hauled myself up. “But that media circus was waiting for us, and then everything else…” I let my voice trail off.

  “Well, everything else is over,” she flatly rebutted my objection. “We’re going to talk about it now.”

  “I’ll be all right,” I protested. “We can talk in the morning.”

  She glared back. “Now.”

  The tone of her voice told me in no uncertain terms that I shouldn’t argue. I finished pulling myself from the bed and stood shakily, still rubbing my eyes.

  “Can I take a shower first?” I queried.

  “I’ll be in the kitchen,” she answered.

  I felt somewhat better after standing under the cool spray of the shower for a few minutes. At the very least, I was no longer drenched in sweat, and I had stopped shaking for the most part. Felicity was seated at the breakfast nook, cradling a mug of freshly brewed coffee in her hands when I entered. Salinger, Dickens, and Emily lined the wide window sill, staring back at me through slit eyes, ears cocked out to the sides of their heads as if they were three wise, albeit small and furry, prophets.

  I pulled down a mug from the cabinet and poured myself a measure of the black caffeine-laden brew.

  “Feeling better?” Felicity asked as I poured.

  “A little,” I replied and then slid in across from her. I had quickly recorded my latest nightmare in my Book of Shadows before showering, and it was now tucked beneath my arm. I pulled it out and dropped it to the table with an audible smack. The trio of felines followed its course in unison, from my hand to the table, and then looked back at me expectantly. “I’m still feeling rattled though.”

  “So you want to fill me in, then?” My wife peered at me over the rim of her cup before taking a sip.

  I tapped the bound sheaf of papers that was my dream diary. “I’ve written them all down. The first one was Saturday when I fell asleep on the couch.”

  “I remember,” she confirmed.

  “I didn’t have one that night though,” I continued. “I guess I was too exhausted.”

  “So, is it a recurring nightmare?”

  “In some ways I guess it is, but not really.” I thoughtfully fingered the rim of my coffee cup. “Ariel is always in them. She’s always dressed in white lace, and by the end of the nightmare, she’s always dead.”

  “That’s pretty straightforward,” Felicity told me, analyzing my words carefully. “Just think about what you’ve seen.”

  “It’s bad enough seeing her die over and over,” I outlined. “But she always says something like, �
�Why don’t you stop him?’”

  “Subconscious reaction to a feeling of helplessness?” she proffered. “You want to be able to save her, but you can’t. It’s probably your own psyche saying it.”

  “That’s what I thought at first too,” I partially agreed. “But there’s too much detail, and the variations in the dreams seem to form a pattern. It’s as if Ariel is trying to tell me something. Like she’s trying to give me clues to the identity of her killer.”

  “So you don’t think these are just nightmares then?”

  “Not since the third one,” I answered. “They’re just too damn real…And they keep getting more intense.”

  “What kind of clues do you think she’s giving you?”

  “I’m not exactly sure. One of the things that has recurred in the past two nightmares was the Seven of Pentacles.”

  “The tarot card?”

  “Yeah. In the third dream anyway.” I flipped through the pages of the Book of Shadows halfway hoping an answer would leap out at me. “Ariel always was fascinated with tarot.”

  “What do you think it means?” Felicity queried.

  “The inherent meaning of the card is something like hard work and patience brings growth… and something to do with money, if I’m remembering correctly. I was never that interested in the cards.”

  “Neither was I,” she echoed then paused. “You said it was a tarot card in the third dream. What was it this time?”

  I scribed in the air with my finger while taking a sip of my coffee. “The symbol, from a card, only it was on a pair of tickets and a program.”

  “What, like concert tickets or something?”

  “Tickets to a play. Or I guess it was a play.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well,” I sighed. “In this nightmare, I went to what appeared to be a play, but there was this little girl with me. I’m pretty sure she’s Ariel as a child,” I explained. “Anyway, she told me that it was just a dress rehearsal.”

  “What was the play about?”

  “The murders,” I answered flatly. “The curtain opens up and there are three faceless women on the stage. A strawberry-blonde in the center, a brunette on her left, and a blonde on her right.”