by Lizzy Ford
“I’m sorry, Mama,” she murmured.
“Darlin’, you’ve done what you could. It’s in God’s hands,” Mama said gently. “We need to concentrate on taking care of your sis, too.”
Emma nodded. Her appetite fled at the thought of her tormented sister. She pushed the plate away.
“Have you called into work?” Mama continued.
“I told them a few days ago I’d be gone a month. They won’t call for another week and a half or so,” Emma said.
“You’re not getting paid, though.”
“Don’t worry about it, Mama. I’m good enough with my money.”
“Well, if it gets to be too hard on you to send me money, stop doing it,” Mama said firmly. “You sacrifice too much sometimes.”
“No, Mama,” Emma assured her. “I’ve got the money. I make more than enough, and it’s just me and my car. I’m able to save quite a bit.” And I can sell the car next month, when I’m totally broke.
“All right,” Mama said, unconvinced. “My old boss called and said the admin support staff should only have a few more weeks on furlough. I know he can’t type, so I wonder who’s been writing his memos for him.”
“That’s good, Mama. Fortunately, no one is willing to lay off a computer tech, or I’d be worried about mine.”
She finished eating and changed into sweatpants and a T-shirt, brushed her hair and teeth, and tied her hair in a ponytail at the base of her neck. It wasn’t even six-thirty yet, and her tired body was ready for bed. Mama was in the chair watching a movie when she returned to the family room. Emma plopped down on her side on the couch. Isolde stood beside the kitchen for a long moment, sniffed, and made her way to Sissy’s room. She nudged her way in, and Emma turned her attention to the movie.
* * *
Tristan left Isolde with the sleeping girl and stepped into the living room a couple hours after dark, surprised to see Emma sound asleep on the couch and Mama dozing in her chair. His movement caused Mama to stir. The matriarch of the family rose and smiled before shaking her daughter awake.
“Emma!”
Emma grumbled. Tristan gazed at the sleeping woman, once more caught by her classic features and the pure aura. Her curvy shape was clad in running pants and a T-shirt. Her long, silken hair was captured at her neck. His eyes drank her in, and he felt a stirring in his loins as he realized she was the prize for this job.
Mama succeeded in rousing Emma at last. Emma swung her legs over the side of the couch with a sigh and rubbed her face.
“I’m up, I’m up,” she muttered.
“I made up the front bedroom for you both,” Mama told Tristan.
“He gets the couch, Mama,” Emma said with a pointed-- if drowsy-- look at him.
“Nonsense.” Mama eyed her. “He’s a guest, and I don’t have a problem if you share a room.”
“What? It’s against all your Biblical principles!” Emma argued.
“Emma, I’ve watched enough TV to know how things are.”
“Mama, TV has nothing to do with this,” she objected. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“If Mama doesn’t mind, it’s not a problem with me,” Tristan ventured.
“I know you’re an adult,” Mama said and started down the opposite hallway.
“Shall we keep up appearances?” he challenged as he stepped beside the stubborn woman. Emma frowned but rose. She crossed her arms and strode forward, out of his reach.
“I know you like pillows, Emma,” Mama said from the hallway, voice muffled as she dug through a linen closet. “Here are two more.”
“Thanks, Mama,” Emma said grudgingly and accepted them.
“Sleep well, stubborn one,” Mama said and kissed her cheek. Emma mumbled in response and marched into the guest bedroom. “You, too,” Mama told Tristan with a gentle squeeze of his arm.
“Thank you, Mama,” Tristan said with a small smile. He followed Emma and closed the door. She glared at him from the opposite corner of the room.
“You get the floor,” she snapped.
“You get the floor,” he replied. He removed a pillow from the bed and tossed it to her. “We made a deal. I won’t break my word, even if you’re lying beside me.”
Her jaw clenched. She stayed where she was, staring at him with beautiful, large green eyes, then snatched a blanket and tossed it on the floor.
“I sleep with the lights on,” she informed him crisply.
“I don’t,” he countered and flicked off the switch.
She swore, and he smiled, sensing her unease. Tristan stripped to his boxers and slid under the covers, not at all tired. His mind swam with awareness of the sultry siren a few feet away. He could smell her, the musky scent of warm honey water and amber, the scent of a woman with a body he would gladly plunder once this was over.
He forced his thoughts to Sissy, to the source of darkness. He needed some information and suspected Emma would be his last resource. He feared releasing his shadows into her to learn the truth. He didn’t like dealing with his darkness anymore than he had to. Perhaps a secondary approach would work with her, a subtler one, through Mama and Amber. They, too, might know what he needed to learn about Emma’s history and when her first brush with darkness had been. The shadows in Sissy’s room might tell him if he asked, but shadows knew only what their creator told them, not the entire story.
She tossed and turned. He sensed her negative energy: fear, anger, anxiety. It was more than him that caused it; it was the darkness itself.
Em and Sissy are both afraid of the dark.
Tristan sensed no threat aside from that within him. He sat and crawled to the foot of the bed, seeing her as plainly as he would during daylight. She was curled in a ball on her side, surrounded by a small fort of protective pillows. Her eyes were open, staring, her body far too tense for sleep.
It was not a natural fear, he assessed, but one caused by trauma. She appeared no older than a child huddled in the dark against the threat of an elusive boogeyman. Only Emma was too old for fanciful fears or boogeymen, and something about her drew both the man and shadows within him. He sensed her passion, buried with her emotions.
In her toes, he recalled overhearing with some amusement. She was the kind of woman a man didn’t let go.
Mine. The sense was natural, applauded by the darkness and human parts of him as well.
“Beware the monsters under the bed,” he whispered.
Emma jerked and looked up at him, raw terror crossing her face. He knew what she saw when she looked at him in the dark: the gleam of demon eyes and nothing but shadows.
“Son of a bitch!” she swore. Anger and apprehension warred, but anger won out, and Tristan drew back to lie down as she rose. “I swear, Tristan, if you’re … Christ, I don’t even know what you are, but if you hurt anyone in my family-- ”
“Rest, Emma.”
She paced. Tristan relaxed and folded his hands behind his head, letting her fume and debate over what was the lesser of two evils: the boogeyman under the bed or the one in it.
Finally, Emma slung a pillow at him and climbed onto the far side of the bed. Tristan watched in amusement as she created a small wall of pillows between them and then curled up into a tight ball once more. He waited until she stilled before summoning the shadows and commanding her to sleep. Her body responded, unfolding like a flower. He rolled to face her, disassembled her fort, and hugged a pillow, content.
Chapter Three
He woke up before she did and left her in peace to join Mama at the small dining table. Mama was reading a book, her toast forgotten on a paper plate in front of her.
“Why is Emma afraid of the dark?” he asked as he sat down opposite her.
Smiling, Mama set her book aside and stretched to reach the counter, pulling a box of cereal off of it to place on the table.
“Strangely enough, Emma’s only been afraid of the dark since she’s been an adult. She was mugged in a back alley one night, not that it stops her from walking i
n them, so that might not really make a difference. I don’t know,” she replied.
“Do you know when she started turning on lights everywhere she went?”
“Maybe a few summers ago. I thought it was kind of cute. She leaves a trail of light behind her.”
“Her fear seems unusually strong,” he commented. “Almost phobic. Aside from kids, I’ve never seen an adult like that.”
“Are you a counselor or something?”
“I do occult consulting and routinely run across phobias or paranoia people mistake for supernatural issues.”
“Well,” Mama said thoughtfully, “a couple of years ago she was seeing a boy named Adam. Well, not a boy, a man, I suppose, though y’all are all kids to me. Don’t remember his last name. Never met him. Never knew she dated him until she broke up with him, as usual. She’s real private like that. The only thing she said about him was that he was a jackass. I guess that was about the time she started turning on lights. You’re the first boy she’s dated since then. Where are you from? Your accent is so pretty.”
“My mother is Italian, but I grew up in France,” he answered.
“Emma likes to travel. She goes places alone, all over the world.” Mama frowned. “I don’t care for that. I’m old-fashioned; a lady should always have an escort, especially overseas, but Em has her own mind.”
“That she does,” he agreed. “You don’t know what might have caused her fear of the dark?”
“Have you asked her?”
“Not yet.”
“She won’t tell me,” Mama admitted. “I’ve asked, and her response is always vague. She likes light, or light keeps her awake, or something like that. I’ve gotta call Sissy’s doc in about ten minutes. We can chat later, if you want.”
Mama swept up her dirty dishes and retreated to the kitchen. Tristan puzzled over her words, unable to piece together the information he was missing. After a dozen years alone in his attic, it had taken only a couple of days for him to feel at home with people who seemed to accept him where no one else ever had. He liked the feeling of being around a normal family.
He took a shower before retreating to Sissy’s room. Amber, he knew, would not stir for another day entirely, but Emma would be up soon enough. Tristan entered and then closed the door to the little girl’s room, his gaze sweeping around before resting on her.
Her color was already improving. Satisfied, he opened himself to the shadows and focused on controlling them.
* * *
Emma awoke surprisingly refreshed and set about avoiding Tristan with determination. She was relieved to see the door to Sissy’s room closed. Gratified for a chance to escape, Emma waved to Mama, grabbed a banana, and left. Isolde followed her.
She breathed the clear, warm air of autumn deeply, content to find some time alone. She bypassed her car and walked through the maze of apartment buildings to the main gate. The road leading to the 7-Eleven on the corner was narrow, undivided, and normally traveled by drivers going far too fast. Fortunately, most were at work this time of the morning. She strolled down the blacktop.
Isolde’s paws clicked rhythmically as they walked, the massive dog’s head swinging back and forth. Emma rifled through her purse for sunglasses and placed them atop the bridge of her nose.
“It’s a pretty day, angel,” she murmured, comforted by the rustling of trees and cheerful songs of birds.
She walked to the corner and crossed the street into a sleepy downtown of three-story brick buildings, mom-n-pop owned shops, and antique stores at every corner. She’d visited her sister’s many times before without giving the downtown more than a glance.
She hadn’t walked far into the downtown area when she sensed someone following her. She looked around. No one was on the street but her and Isolde. She shook off the feeling and continued, heading toward a sign pointing down a set of stairs to a used book store in the basement of one of the antique dealers. Isolde followed, and Emma waited for her at the bottom of the stairs before tugging open the heavy door. A bell jingled, and coldness washed over her.
She dismissed it as an overambitious air conditioning system and shivered as she entered. A direct stare made the hair on the back of her neck prickle, and she turned to greet the clerk, her smile freezing in place. A freak worthy of Wooster, Maryland, in black with a powdered face, fake contact lenses giving him golden cat eyes, and a black dyed Mohawk. His look was borderline hostile, his frame tensed as if to spring on her should she consider shoplifting.
“Okay, then,” she muttered and turned away.
He watched her, and it took polite perusing of the nearest shelf to convince her the AC was not the only discomfort in the small shop. It was cold-- familiar, bone chillingly cold, like standing by the ocean during winter, or maybe like …
… entering Sissy’s room. Emma tightened her grip on Isolde and glanced around. There were no signs of shadows. The shop was bright and decorated for Halloween. Just the creepy clerk stood out.
“Thank you,” she called and made her way back to the door.
No response, only an eerie catlike stare. Emma ran up the stairs and awaited Isolde, shuddering. Her phone rang. She tugged it free and looked at the display, vaguely recognizing Tristan’s number. She frowned and tucked the phone away, resumed her grip on Isolde’s neck, and walked away from the shop. The sense of being watched returned, and she glanced back over her shoulder, unnerved to see the clerk standing on the sidewalk in front of the stairs, staring after her. She turned a corner, and he was gone from view. When he didn’t reappear, she tried to tell herself it was a freak incident and continued with Isolde.
Half an hour of walking calmed her nerves once again. She stopped to peer into several antique stores before arriving at one whose windows were already decorated for Christmas. The owner had used Depression glassware to create the outline of a tree. Fascinated by the creative display, she leaned forward to study a small pink plate, puzzled by two black spots on it until they blinked. Emma jerked back, startled, and the man peering at her through the translucent plate straightened.
Another freak, this one with normal hair, dark clothes, a nose piercing, and eyes as black and hostile as a night in hell.
Isolde growled. Emma stepped back and moved on, pausing half a block away to see him step from the shop and stare after her.
She never noticed the freak population of her sister’s town to be so high! Emma turned back in the direction she came and crossed the street again. Her pleasant walk was too much like strolling down Demon’s Alley. She dug through her purse for her debit card, determined to stop for food somewhere before retreating home in defeat.
Isolde growled again, and Emma glanced up, stumbling as she sought to avoid a form in her path.
“Excuse me,” she muttered.
“No problem.” The man’s voice was cold and monotonous. Emma looked up as she passed him. He was a vision of winter with pale skin, gold-white hair, slate gray suit, and cold gray eyes the color of snow clouds.
“You dropped this,” he said and bent to retrieve something from the ground. Isolde bared her teeth, and Emma snatched the dog’s scruff.
“Keep it, it’s okay,” she said as he showed her a five-dollar bill. She turned away, walking quickly. She felt it again, the sense of someone behind her watching her. Cat-eyes stood by Mr. Winter while the man with the black eyes looked after her from the corner across from them. All watched her with intensity too black to be human.
Emma quelled her rising panic long enough to go another two blocks. She ran when she was out of sight of the freaks, the Great Dane loping beside her. She went a few blocks before resuming her path toward home.
A freak on the corner distracted her. He started to cross, as if to intercept her. She began to feel threatened by the watchers and glanced at the McDonald’s across the street. She crossed the street and paused by the door.
“Stay, Isolde,” she said.
The dog sat. Emma entered. The crew behind the counter was bles
sedly normal. She stood at the register for a long moment, staring at the employee gazing at her while her thoughts were on the men following her.
“Four cheeseburgers,” she said finally and pulled free her debit card with a shaking hand. She paid and exited, leading Isolde to a seat in the outdoor dining area overlooking the street. All four of the freaks following her stood across the street. Emma shuddered.
“Well, angel, we’re holed up here for a while.”
“Excuse me?” the young man holding a tray beside her table asked.
“Sorry. Talking to my dog,” she murmured.
He gave Isolde a pat and deposited the cheeseburgers onto the table in a small pile. Emma unwrapped a cheeseburger for Isolde before freeing one for herself. She stayed for two hours with the freaks watching her like crows a weakling field mouse. They didn’t try to approach her again, and she assumed they were there only to watch her. Two hours seemed to be their limit. She watched them disburse into four different directions and waited until all of them were out of sight before she rose.
Elated but suspicious, she ventured out of the dining area. They didn’t reappear. She leaned over the railing and spotted the 7-Eleven on the corner two blocks down.
“Okay, Isolde, our goal is there,” she told the dog. Relieved she thought to wear sneakers instead of sandals, she tapped the dog on the back of the neck and moved into the middle of the empty street. “Let’s go!”
She sprinted down the street, fear and exhilaration drowning out all sounds but that of her heart, her breath, and the clicking paws of Isolde. She reached the final intersection and snatched Isolde’s scruff when the dog failed to stop. Two cars whipped past, and Emma dragged the dog forward again, pausing at the other side to turn around.
Her watchers lingered on the other side but made no move to follow. Fear slithered through her. Emma moved forward at a slow trot down the narrow, undivided road. Two cars passed her, and she kept one hand on the trotting dog to prevent it from wandering too far into the road. As she heard the third car approach she gazed around her, soothed by the calm forest lining one side of the road. The scents of earth and trees were pleasant along this stretch and she shook out the tension in her shoulder.
