The Temple

by Heather Marie Adkins

  I curled up beside one of her feet, my back to the cauldron, and closed my eyes on the howling of the wind, picking up with a vengeance outside.

  It was hard not to think of home. The smell of Mom’s meatloaf and Dad’s absent minded voice yelling, “Peach, I can’t find my glasses!” Theresa’s secret smile and head shake as she plucked them from the coffee table where he left them only an hour before, depositing them on the desk beside him. We would watch Jeopardy before dinner, the four of us, and then chatter about the day while we ate. Dane would update us on his progress in his most recent book, Theresa would tell us about the crazy things her students said in class, and I’d keep the frustration of idiot Wal-Mart customers to myself. Macy would throw a fit every time she guessed a Jeopardy question wrong.

  I thought of the nights Macy would slip into my bed when I was a teenager, during bad weather or scary dreams, and the strawberry smell of her hair pressed under my chin. She’d curl her little body into mine, her hands gripping just one of my own. I used to press my other hand to her collar bone and count her heartbeats, an amazingly life-affirming feeling.

  Sitting at the feet of a massive stone goddess, I counted my own heartbeats, each light and quick beneath my bare palm, like the flutter of a bird’s wings. I crossed my legs, using the cadence to enter a meditative state, tuning out the world.

  At three, the uneasiness wore off like a bad perfume, along with the steady pour of rain. Three hours had drug on in a haze of eerie sounds from beyond the walls and leaving the warmth of the statue to light a stick of jasmine incense every hour, still clinging to the half-trance I’d found. I’d chewed a rough patch into my bottom lip. I raised my head from Cerridwen’s leg, eying the door warily. I touched her, and could swear it felt like skin. “Well, Cerri, I don’t know what the hell that was about, but it wasn’t any fun.”

  I slid from Cerridwen’s throne, my feet slapping to the floor. The tower windows made just as much noise opening as they did when they closed, the kind of sounds the Hydra must have made when Hercules killed it. I could see clouds and stars outside the distant windows.

  I hadn’t paid any attention to Freya, sitting seductively to the left of Cerridwen. To be honest, caught in the warmth of the central goddess through the wee hours of the morning, I’d forgotten she was there.

  Boy oh boy, was she there in all her feminine glory. She was colored the lightest of the three women, her porcelain skin almost shining in the spotlight. Her head was tilted, hands lifted to brush her fingers through her strawberry blonde hair, the waves of which cascaded from her fingertips halfway to the floor. Bright blue eyes dominated her elfish face, gazing out with an authority that didn’t mesh with her child-like appearance. Her chest was bare, her breasts perfect round globes with obscenely painted nipples, like blush on her skin. A white cloth draped her lap, keeping her opened knees just this side of indecent. A cloak of white feathers draped down her back, a falcon’s head resting on her own. The only other ornament on her body was a ruby and amber necklace. A metallic colored blob between her feet proved to be a suit of mail, a sword stuck into the pedestal beside it.

  The three of them made quite a trio: demure, sarcastic, and saucy. With another glance at Cerridwen, I headed for the office to wile away another hour.

  At four o’clock on the dot, I watched my relief come walking up the lawn to the exterior door. It occurred to me I’d wasted the entire night instead of getting to know the various areas of the temple. Hopefully there wouldn’t be a quiz.

  The jarring buzz of the doorbell followed as I watched him press the button to the right of the entrance. Grabbing the five pound key ring, I headed to let him in, vowing to explore tomorrow.

  He was stunning. His hair was a mass of rich brown that slanted sideways into his eyes and brushed the collar of his black polo. I was thrown by his eyes, black as the night around him, but twinkling with good humor. He wasn’t much taller than I, putting us almost eye to eye, and his long, lean body was something I’d be writing home about. The air behind him smelled like ozone, and I couldn’t tell if the storm was coming or going.

  Lifting his hand, he displayed a white paper bag. “I brought coffee and doughnuts,” he offered, his voice strong but not too deep. When he smiled, his teeth were white and straight in his tanned face.

  I laughed, putting a hand to my forehead in mock swoon. “Oh, god, I think I might be in love!”

  With a sheepish grin, he stepped into the temple and closed the door behind him. I started the ritual of locking the doors, still trying to learn which key did what. “It’s an apology,” he told me. Finishing the door, I turned to him with a confused look, keys dangling from my hand.

  “Apology? I’ve never even met you.”

  “An apology for having to deal with Jordan last night,” he replied, motioning with his head for me to follow him to the computer room. I dropped back just a tad and my eyes widened at the masterpiece that was his luscious bottom. His blue jeans were like a second skin. I even liked his silly brown cowboy boots.

  “Ah yes, Jordan. I pity anyone who crosses his path.” I fell into the second rolling chair as he sat and began dispersing jelly filled doughnuts. He must have been psychic, because they’re my favorite. Of course, he could literally be psychic, if the employees of the temple were any indication. The first drink of coffee warmed my insides, banishing any worries left over from the night.

  “My name’s Brett Hollis,” he said, taking a bite of his doughnut. “And you’re Vale. What an awesome name. Is there a story there?”

  “Not really, just hippie parents.” I shook my head, chugging some more coffee. “God, this stuff is good. Is it actually brewed?”

  He laughed, and I liked it, a low rumble that I felt in my chest. I also liked the comfortable way he slouched in his chair, one ankle crossed to rest on his knee. His polo shirt wasn’t tucked into his waistband, earning him many brownie points in my fashion book. “Yeah, I have my own drip pot. It’s hard to find good coffee in this country, even I can admit that. Where are you from?”

  “A tiny town in Mississippi called Frog Lick, about an hour from Jackson.” He burst out laughing, and I gave him a sheepish look. “No, really, that’s its name. A little bit of nowhere.”

  “From one small unknown town to another, eh? I’ve lived here all my life. What brought you here?” He had powdered sugar on his top lip. It was precious.

  “A dart,” I answered through a mouthful of doughnut.

  He questioned me with his eyes, chewing.

  I smiled, swallowing before I answered. “I saved money for five years to get out of Frog Lick. Bagging groceries,” I rolled my eyes. “One day, I threw a dart at a map and it landed on Quicksilver.”

  “Brave,” he said, waggling his eyebrows at me.

  “Or insane, if you’re my mother,” I laughed. I was silent for a minute, the doughnut sticky between my fingers. Last night came back in a rush. “What’s up with the curfew? I mean, I’d never heard of it before Jordan dumped it in my lap. And there were weird noises…” I trailed off, wondering if he would think I was crazy.

  I’d struck a nerve. An almost imperceptible stiffness took his back, before he relaxed and took another sip of coffee, licking his perfect pink lips. “It’s not so much a curfew, Vale. Did he tell you nothing about it?”

  I met his inky eyes, and they were full of worry. “No, he just told me to stay inside and gave me instructions for the temple.”

  “That guy’s such a wanker.” Brett took a deep breath, putting his Styrofoam cup back on the desk. He may have been staring at the surveillance screens, but he wasn’t seeing them. “Have you ever heard of the Wild Hunt?”

  It sounded vaguely familiar from years of listening to witchy-babble from my parents. “Maybe. Isn’t it a myth?”

  He nodded. “A group of souls led by a lesser deity that pillages the countryside in the guise of a hunting party. Hounds from hell, horses with fire in their eyes. Anyone who sees them gets taken to
join the party.” His voice was hollow, full of old pain. There was another story there that he wasn’t sharing.

  “But, it’s just a legend,” I argued, my eyes searching his face.

  “No, it’s not.” The words fell flat between us, his dark eyes sparking as they caught mine. He dropped one boot to the floor, leaning forward to put his elbows on his knees. He stared at the dirty concrete floor, avoiding my gaze. “It’s very real.”

  I scooted my chair back, abandoning my doughnut to the desk. The fluorescent lights above us made my hands look sallow, and I prayed it wasn’t doing the same to the rest of me. “Legends aren’t real. They’re made up by men who are looking to entertain themselves and control others.”

  He continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “Quicksilver is one of many small towns in the country that have been targeted by the Hunt. They ride each night between midnight and three. They take anyone who sees them, any dog who crosses beneath them, any horse left in the fields. It’s for our own safety that we remain inside, doors locked, and curtains closed.”

  I wanted to laugh, but he looked so serious. Relaxing back in his chair, he brushed his hands through his hair. “If you don’t believe me, pick up the newspaper when you get home.”

  “I will,” I said, taking the last bite of my doughnut and getting to my feet. He threw me a set of keys.

  “It’s a piece of crap, but it drives. I’ll see you in twenty four hours.”

  I took his ancient Renault to headquarters by following his own GPS system, wondering if he’d named it, and also wondering if I’d ruined any chance of a romance between us. He was utterly scrumptious. The no-nonsense British voice of male persuasion took me to a nondescript black glass building with a postage stamp parking lot lit very well by floodlights.

  Right inside the front doors, a mousy brunette receptionist gave me a welcoming smile. She was a tiny thing, engulfed by the round wooden desk behind which she perched, her neck craned to see me over the counter. Only the high, teased section of hair on top of her head was visible from the door. Her dress suit was bright red, as was her lipstick. Not a look I could ever pull off, but she looked very Jackie O. “Can I help you?”

  I dangled Brett’s keys. “I’m Vale Avari. Do I leave the car keys with you?”

  “Oh! Vale! It’s so nice to meet you! I’m Katherine!” She stood, reaching across the counter to shake my hand. She had a chirpy, bird-like voice. I instinctively liked her. “Yes, you leave the keys for the next shift with me. Just sign the log right here, and you’re good to go!”

  As she settled back down, I scrawled my name on the dotted line and dropped the keys in the basket, where mine were waiting. My Hello Kitty charm smiled benignly up at me. I bet Jordan loved it. “Thanks.”

  “How was your first night?” Katherine inquired, squeaking back into her chair, the sound loud enough to make my ears bleed. She smoothed her fitted suit skirt to her bottom before sitting, a show of feminine decorum that I never would have practiced in my life.

  “It was interesting,” I answered honestly with a grim smile, hula-hooping my keys around a finger and turning to leave. “Thanks.” Katherine nodded politely, her vacant smile making me think there wasn’t a whole lot going on behind her pale green eyes.

  I’ve been known to be wrong.

  Chapter 3

  The newspaper was waiting on my stoop when I got home. I thought of Brett’s story when I picked it up, whimsical nonsense about the Wild Hunt being real. Having parents prone to flights of fancy had given me too logical of an outlook on life, despite the tale of my founding, which could rub shoulders with the best of myths.

  The story my parents tell is that I was sound asleep on a bed of ferns and pine needles about a mile from their front door, like some kind of faery child. They were health nuts long before it was the “cool” thing to do, so every night after dinner, they took the same path through the forest for an hour’s walk. Theresa swears a single spotlight of sun bursting through the canopy above led them to stray a few steps from the path to find me. Dane says I looked like an angel, a mop of fluffy black hair with tiny fingers and dark green booties on my feet.

  Addie met me at the door with a rumbling purr. I stooped to pick her up, cradling her little fluffy body to my chest. “Hello, sweetheart, did you miss me?” I kicked the door closed behind me, flipping the lock with my elbow.

  I felt bad, because Addie had been mine back home, and in the move she’d lost her best friend and partner in crime, Theresa’s beagle, Molly. Leaving her home alone for seven hours made my heart hurt.

  “What if I got a dog?” I asked her, dropping her to the kitchen counter, where she perched and watched me pull eggs and bacon from the fridge. “Would you like a friend?”

  She purred in response, her normal answer to anything I ask. Addie doesn’t have a large store of vocabulary from which to pull. While the skillet was heating, I pulled the newspaper from its bag and opened it up. On the front page, staring out at me with sad, soulful eyes was a little girl in pigtails and pink overalls.

  The Wild Hunt Takes Another was the headline, and for a brief moment, I wondered if Brent had planted this on my doorstep, but that was just me being illogical. It was staring me in the face—she was staring me in the face. Annie Walker, age 9, had been found dead in her backyard. She was the eighth victim this year, but the first local to be taken in the past four years.

  I scoured the article as if it held the meaning of life. The Wild Hunt had been haunting Quicksilver for almost fifty years, wrote the journalist. Between twelve and fifteen are taken a year, and they’re mainly drifters and tourists that come through the town unaware of the danger. It listed several other small towns with a similar problem.

  By the time I’d finished the article, I was sitting on my kitchen floor, the olive oil sizzling in the pan above my head. I let the paper fall to the floor, pulling my knees up to my chest. Addie curled against me, her tail flicking on the hardwood.

  In a matter of seconds, I went from shocked to angry. I could’ve died. I swept to my feet like a vengeful demon and fled upstairs to snatch the phone from my bed.

  “Why didn’t someone mention this little issue of the Wild Hunt?” I snarled down the line to my father when he answered, not bothering to say hello. I ripped open the door to my closet so hard it broke the top hinge. Oops.

  “I thought Edward would tell you upon meeting you. It just didn’t come up. I didn’t want to worry you.” His voice was soothing, but I was pissed.

  “Worry me? According to the paper it could have killed me! Did you know a girl died last night? A nine year old. Plus, I don’t believe this shit about a mythical hunting band. Is there a damn killer running around here? There has to be! And he could have got me when I left home last night.”

  Dane was suitably humbled in the wake of my rant. Silence took over the phone as I held it between my ear and shoulder to shimmy out of my blue jeans. I heard him take a deep breath and release it and imagined I could hear him counting in his head. The phone bleeped in my ear, the sound of it dying. “I’m sorry, sweet pea. I should have told you.”

  “Damn right,” I grumbled irritably. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  After hanging up, I slipped into some comfy sweats a size too big for me and finished cooking my eggs and bacon as the sun was coming up out my kitchen window. Dew speckled the grass of the backyard, shining in the rose colored rays that splashed the lawn. Addie butted my elbow with her head, gazing intently at my plate. I took a bite and gave her a small piece of egg. She picked at it daintily.

  So, these people really believed the Wild Hunt to be real. I wondered about the state of the body they found, what marks may have marred her skin. Could it just be a murder? Was the city so paranoid it placed supernatural blame on a very real killer? I thought of my couple years of community college, what limited training I managed to sit through in criminal justice. The Wild Hunt would be just the thing for a serial killer to hide behind; illogical fear in a mass
of populace. Catching Addie’s yellow eyes, I knew I was going to take a trip to the library.

  The sun had crested the horizon when my Coop pulled into the gravel parking lot of the miniscule Town Hall that housed the public records. I’d been meaning to make my way over to check out what the library had to offer, and I found it disturbing that a little girl had to die for me to get on with it.

  Town Hall was a little red brick building reminiscent of an American Revolution school house. It had an A shaped roof complete with bell tower, four perfectly spaced windows with egg white shutters, and an equally bright door. I slipped from the artificial heat in my car to the biting fall air and shivered in my sweats. I’ve never been a fan of cold weather…that’s why I moved to England, of course. I live to be a contradiction.

  As old as it looked, the little door didn’t make a sound when I pushed it open, beyond the creaking of the knob. It was hushed inside; not the kind of empty silence of the Temple, but the respectful silence of an occupied library. I let the door shut quietly behind me, heading for reception in the right corner, my sneakers squeaking on the hardwood floors.

  The ceiling soared above my head, and I could see straight up the tower, empty of whatever bell it may once have held. On either side of the open room, arched doorways led into well-lit rooms of floor to ceiling bookshelves, full to bursting. The information desk was round and industrial, when I was expecting wooden and scarred. A door rose behind it, black letters claiming “Office.”

  The receptionist wore a bright yellow nametag that labeled her Emily, Head Librarian. She was a tall, thin woman in a black cotton dress that did nothing to flatter her. Her skin was milky, her face covered in fine lines and wrinkles. Her white hair was pulled back in a loose bun and she looked at me over her gold spectacles with vivid blue eyes. Despite her schoolmarm attire, her smile was warm. “May I help you?”

  “Hi, I was interested in getting my hands on some old newspapers. Do you have an archives room?” I gave her my best down-home-country-girl smile.