by Dee Willson
Tears well, blurring the view.
Our time here, our very existence, is so limited. A lifetime is nothing but the tiniest of blips in mankind’s storyline. For all our endeavors, all our accomplishments, what will be remembered? What do we know about Mesopotamian lovers, Sumerian geniuses, or Minoan trailblazers? History is a fickle beast, mutating with changes in culture, politics, and religion. What’s it all for? Why do we exist? What is our purpose, and do we even have one?
A steward hovers to my left, smiling. Her twisted skirt and stained blouse confess to hours of doting on the impatient and nauseated. “Miss, you and your daughter will need to raise your seats. We’ll be landing soon.”
Life, this is why we don’t know and don’t care about our history, our purpose. We are swallowed by the mere effort it takes to get through everyday tasks, to survive. We breathe, eat, work, sleep, who has time to contemplate why?
I unfurl Abby’s blanket and dab her chin with my shirtsleeve.
“Abby, baby, we’re home.”
Abby approaches consciousness gradually, reassembling body parts from disjointed positions.
The landing is uneventful, and before long we’re stretching in front of a circular baggage belt. My simple black case marked by a bright orange ribbon tumbles down the chute followed by Abby’s Barbie suitcase. We extend the handles, steady the wheels, and take off in search of a cab heading west. We’re following taxi icons through a maze of hallways, bodies, and luggage, when I navigate to the left and behold a different kind of sign.
I stop short.
“Thought you might need a lift,” says Bryce, thrusting his fists into jean pockets. His coat is on the floor, propped against the wall, and his hair is slightly disheveled. Something foreign lingers in his eyes, something that worries me immensely.
“We were about to catch a cab.”
“Well, now you don’t have to.” His gaze pans to Abby.
Something is wrong and whatever it is, it’s not for Abby’s ears.
“All right,” I say, my reluctance visible. “Thanks.”
Bryce takes our suitcases and leads the way to the underground parking garage. He is a catalog of tense body parts, so I follow a few steps behind holding tight to Abby’s hand. In my head I rekindle thoughts that have plagued me for days.
New Year’s Eve, after crawling into bed exhausted, I lay staring at the ceiling. I should have felt anxious, confused, maybe even afraid, but I didn’t feel any of those things. In fact, every inch of me was overwhelmed with a sense of relief. Everything was clear, as if I’d discovered a reclusive part of myself, a knowledge I’d always known existed but didn’t accept or understand. My whole life I’ve seen unusual things. More so since Meyer’s death. I’ve always pushed these things from rational thought. To do that, to ignore reality, was a lot of work. Discovering that my visions might have substance, that I’m not delusional, that I am not my mother, took a huge weight from my shoulders, and I slept like the dead.
The following morning was a whole different story. The full night of rest gave my common sense a chance to recoup. I recalled Bryce’s words: myths, ancient souls, lost souls. But what are these things exactly? And this man, or soul, or whatever I saw—was he dangerous? And if he was, what was he doing to that woman? Was that woman Sonia? Why could I see them when others, obviously, could not? And why wasn’t I scared? Or was I?
By breakfast, pandemonium overwhelmed logic, igniting an innate need to bolt. Abby and I were in Florida by noon.
“Are you getting in?” Bryce says, pulling me from my head.
I stand, lost in a stare of total appreciation while Bryce holds the door to a Porsche Panamera, a stunning four-door turbo with glowing aluminum rims and sleek headlights that scream, get the hell out of my way. If this is the car Bryce drove on New Year’s Eve, I was either too drunk or too shocked to notice. I climb in.
This car doesn’t drive; it soars.
The velvety texture of the leather seat and console distracts me while we ease onto the highway, but the allure dies when I’m hit with Bryce’s tension, suffocating me like an avalanche.
“Are you okay?”
New Year’s Day it was liberating to have someone know the inner rumblings of my psyche and not think I need medical care, but I fret about Bryce’s sanity. How does he know these things? What more could he possibly tell me, and should I believe him? All the unusual things I’ve noticed about Bryce have filtered through my brain, fostering more questions. If those weren’t optical illusions and mental lapses generated by my overstressed wits, what does that make him? Not normal, that’s for sure. And should I trust him? My heart tugs from the inside out, insisting I should, but my head says run like hell.
“I didn’t know you were leaving for Florida,” says Bryce.
“Yet you managed to meet us at the airport, just as our flight landed.”
I lower the window in spite of the brisk January bite, and the remainder of the thirty-minute drive is conducted in a charged silence.
At a fork in the road, just before the Carlisle Corner Store, Bryce turns left instead of right. Before I get the chance to protest he addresses Abby in the back seat. “Hey, kiddo, what do you say about a sleepover at my place with Sofia?”
Abby tosses the books aside, thrilled with the idea.
I’m livid.
“Excuse me, but I don’t think you—”
“Please trust me,” Bryce says softly. “Abby will have fun with Sofia and Nanna, and I’ve asked Clause to stay so they’re not alone. You can collect Abby whenever you wish, but you need to believe me when I say she is better off at my house tonight.”
Something about his expression scares me.
“Where is Thomas?”
“Out.”
I look at my daughter, a restless ball of anticipation bouncing around the back seat.
“Okay,” I say, and Abby squeals.
I trust Bryce. For some deeply embedded reason I can’t peg, my entire being believes he has Abby’s best interest in mind.
Bryce pulls Abby’s suitcase from the trunk while I walk her to the front door. Nanna introduces herself, obviously expecting our arrival, and Sofia locks arms with Abby, brimming with excitement. Nanna is older than I expected, almost Grams’s age. She speaks with a heavy accent layered in obscure adjectives but her smile is infectious and she hugs me smelling of apple pie and cinnamon. I love her in an instant.
I plant a wet kiss on Abby’s cheek. “I’ll be back to get you first thing in the morning.”
Abby tugs Sofia into the house before I can change my mind, and Nanna assures me my daughter is in good hands. Of this I have no doubt.
“I waited at the airport over six hours yesterday and five hours today.” These are the first words out of Bryce’s mouth when I sink back into the leather seat of his Porsche.
“Why?” My heart drums so loud it echoes in my ears.
“I didn’t know when your flight came in. I didn’t know this because I had no clue you’d left. I only found out when I dropped by your house to talk and discovered you were gone.” His grip tightens around the steering wheel. “Karen said you took Abby to visit Meyer’s grandparents, so I stalked every flight returning from Florida.”
“Why would you do that? And why are you acting so strange?”
The car stops in my driveway and Bryce kills the engine before turning to speak to me, his stare aimed everywhere but my face. “I called you the morning after the party. I hoped you were able to get a reasonable night’s sleep and would want to speak with me. You didn’t return my calls.”
“I didn’t get the travel package on my cell.”
He ignores me. “I stopped by your house to make sure you were okay. You weren’t home. I knew this because the front door was ajar, and worried about your safety, I went inside.”
“Why would the door be open? I locked it and Karen—”
“Someone has broken into your house, Tess. It’s quite a mess. And there’s something
else . . .”
It takes four heartbeats to process his words. I leap from the car taking the walkway at a full run and skid to a halt at the front steps. Bryce is already there.
“How the hell did you—”
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, opening the door.
I gasp, dizzy, and step inside.
My living room couch is flipped onto its side and the coffee table is broken into several pieces, some strewn about the stairs. The Christmas tree Abby and I painstakingly decorated with precious ornaments lies flush with the floor, most of the decorations broken and scattered around the perimeter.
I’m numb from head to toe. The scene before me is incomprehensible, surreal. My body gravitates to the tree and I drop, groping for pieces of my life. The top half of my purple ballerina is crushed.
“Who would do this?” I mutter.
I stand in the center of my living room, turning in circles. Decorative pillows have been torn open. White feathers float on every surface, making the entire setting a demented outdoor wonderland. Plants are tipped over, dark soil offering a drastic contrast to the pristine down, and chips of pottery jut at odd angles. Pictures have been thrown about the room leaving broken glass in their wake and every wall naked. A cold breeze whips past. The window to my left is broken, a small puddle of melted snow curdling a semicircle of hardwood flooring and window trim.
I peer into the adjacent room. Food, dishes, and appliances have been pulled out of every cupboard, smashed, and abandoned across the floor. Chairs are toppled over and several have streaks of what looks like mustard and salsa across them. There is no odor. It’s too cold.
Bryce stands a few feet away, hunched. His every feature screams sorrow and concern as he watches me take in the destruction.
It is difficult to find the words to say or a train of thought to hold on to. I’m angry. I feel violated. I feel as if someone has ripped open my insides leaving me exposed and raw.
“What the hell happened here? It doesn’t even look like anything was stolen. Who would do this? And where’s Maxi?” I inhale sharply. The door to the mudroom hangs by a top hinge.
The mudroom. Where Maxi sleeps.
“Tess.” Bryce stops me mid-lunge.
After a moment’s hesitation, I rest a quivering hand in his, and he leads me through the chaos, toward the stairs. A glimpse of gold fur peeks out from behind the loveseat. My knees buckle and I sidestep until I hit the stairway and fall, clutching the railing with both hands.
“Is she . . .?”
“I’m so sorry.”
The tears flow, fast and hot. I can’t believe this.
“Poor Maxi. My baby girl, Abby,” I whisper. I taste salt on my lips.
“I knew you wouldn’t want her to see this.”
“No. Absolutely not.” Bryce backs away, giving me room to breathe. “What kind of person would do this?” I mutter, moving toward Maxi, to hold her.
Bryce stops me again, running a nervous hand through his hair like Thomas does.
“It could’ve been kids, restless teenagers out to cause trouble.”
His eyes say something altogether different.
“But you don’t think so.”
“Might have been random, but no, I don’t think it was kids.”
I study his face, my confusion escalating. “I don’t understand.”
Bryce sucks in a mouthful of air, his cheeks bulging like a chipmunk stuffed with nuts. The air finally escapes in a forced whistle.
“You keep running out on me,” he says.
My stomach gathers into a tight ball and breathing becomes laborious. My body is preparing for an aftershock.
“I don’t—”
“You are not ready for this, but you keep walking out on me and danger is close, so I have no choice.” He rubs day-old stubble. “I can’t help you, can’t explain what you need to know, when you don’t trust me.”
“Danger? What danger? Should I be worried about the person or people who broke into my house? Will they come back?” I’m panicking now. “Is Abby safe?”
“Abby is fine.” Bryce nods but looks away.
“Then what, what is it?”
“I think this break in has something to do with the lost soul you saw at the coffee shop. The man who made you think vampire.”
I shiver. “I don’t even believe what I saw was—”
“Yes, you do. I know you do. I know you feel it.”
“What makes you think this,” I scan the room, “was done by that same man, lost soul, whatever? And why? What would he want with me?”
“I think you piqued his interest at the café. I think he noticed your reaction and sought you out. I bet he’s anxious to know what you really saw in him.”
“Why would he care what I—”
“I think the woman you saw, the old soul with him, was Sonia MacKinnen.”
I freeze, every muscle in my body trying to summon the energy to deny truth to his statement. But I can’t. Bile inches up my chest and the room spins, throwing equilibrium to the wind. I drop to the floor with a thud.
“Oh my God.”
“New Year’s Eve I was troubled,” says Bryce, stepping close. “I was stressed because the police came to speak with me. Again. They had questions about Sonia’s death they thought I could answer. They showed me photos of her injuries: severe malnutrition and dehydration, broken bones, burns, and bite marks. I couldn’t identify Sonia but I recognized the cause of death.”
I know exactly how Sonia died, without the graphics. I know it like I was there, beside her, feeling her pain.
“Lost souls have various issues, scars from multiple pasts that manifest in many ways. But the lost soul you described, the man with aquatic-like tattoos, they thrive by seducing, controlling, and slowly stealing a person’s free will. It starts innocently, the victim blinded by lust. Soon they lose themselves in pleasure, no longer eating, sleeping. The stronger the victim’s will, the longer the game lasts, until the victim becomes catatonic and the lost soul becomes bored, restless, and loses control.”
“He. Killed. Her.” I say between sobs.
Bryce looks at me, anguished.
I spring upright. “I could have saved her. At the café. Maybe I could’ve—”
“No. Listen to me. You saw his soul, a memory, obviously recent, but in the past. Tess, there is nothing you could have done.”
I should be relieved but I’m not. He killed her!
“I know you’re scared. And I know this is a lot for you. But there are things I must tell you, things you need to understand.”
“He was here, in my home.” I scramble to standing. “He touched our things. He killed Maxi!”
Bryce reaches out for me but I back away.
“Tess, try to stay calm. I swear we’ll figure this out, we’ll find him. Thomas is looking—”
“I don’t want Thomas to find this man. He killed Sonia. He could hurt Thomas. Oh my God, what if we’d been home when he came here? Abby could’ve been killed!”
Bryce steps close to embrace me but I push him away.
“What if he comes back?”
“Listen, Tess, I can better explain what we’re dealing with. But you need to know what you are, what you see. I can tell you but you won’t believe me, so I have to show you. Tess,” he says, waving a hand past my eyes, “please, pay attention.”
“Pay attention? To what? How?” I feel dazed, drugged, like something foreign floats within my brain, something that won’t allow me to think logically.
Bryce moves closer to the couch. “Watch me.” With one hand he picks up the entire three-seat sofa as if weightless. He flips it like a penny then sets it down, upright, without so much as a sound.
“What the hell was that?” I shout. Every strange thing I’ve seen, all my suspicions about Bryce, jump to the forefront. “How did you do that? Are you a magician? Was that real or an illusion? What else can you do?”
Bryce shifts his weight and looks to the ceiling. T
he lights flicker before going out.
“I did that,” he says, matter-of-factly. “I need you to focus on me and only me. Now look. Really look at me.”
Only moonlight pours over the mess and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dark. I try to focus but it’s hard when the guy before me just lifted my sofa with one hand. Questions claw the backs of my teeth, dying to get out, and for a fleeting moment I wonder if I’ve missed something. But I blink and my vision shifts, Bryce blurring.
Something squawks where Bryce stood and I jump. My heart pounds as my brain registers what it’s seeing.
Standing in front of me is a bird, a large bird. A falcon, or some sort of eagle. Its feathers are dense, glossy, layered in various shades of black and gray. Massive feet rise and fall, nails tapping the floor in an anxious dance. I shiver and it squawks again. Instinct has me freaking, but I calm when I catch a glimpse of silver spark in the bird’s eyes, an inhuman but tranquil illumination that looks strange yet familiar.
“It can’t possibly be . . .” I lean forward to get a better look at those silver eyes, the thumping in my skull unbearably loud. The bird spreads its wings, the span covering a massive distance, and finding the breeze it flaps its wings and takes off, disappearing into the dark.
“Bryce, did you see that?”
When I look back, Bryce is standing stock still. He’s in the very spot he was before, where the bird stood. He looks worried, maybe frightened. Frightened of me.
“What did you see?” he says.
I’m in shock. “A bird. An eagle, I think.”
“An eagle? Really?”
“Was it real? Shit, Bryce, the thing had your eyes!”
Bryce starts to pace, hands gripping the back of his neck. The slow, nervous gait looks alien on him. He doesn’t try to convince me that what I saw is a figment of my imagination. He doesn’t deny the fact that he stood before me as something other than a man.
“Tess, you saw my soul.”
“No! Are you kidding me? How is that even possible? You’re a bird?”
Lucidity jumps ship and the room sways at an unnatural angle, forcing me to grab hold of a chair.
“Relax, please, try to stay calm,” whispers Bryce, crouching before me. “I am not a bird. What you saw was a very important experience from a distant time, another life, when my soul could absorb energy to change into another living form, any animal, any living creature.” His eyes flicker. “It is an ancient talent seldom necessary in this century. There was a time we needed to work in what you’d call the wild, and the ability to shape shift served a purpose. But what is really important, is that you can see it.”
