by Lisa Morgan
As he pulled me, I glanced at the object resting between the hood of the car and the dashboard, surrounded by shattered glass. It was dark, long, and shaped like …
“Is that a body?” I choked out, recognizing the figure for what it was; a battered, unconscious man.
Michel didn’t answer me. Instead, he rummaged through the pockets of the body’s leather jacket. “There,” he said, a slight satisfaction to his tone and the hint of a smirk playing on his lips as he jiggled a set of keys. “Can you run?”
“Run? Don’t you think we should call—”
My words were cut off by a high-pitched shriek that came from somewhere deep in the trees. Chills raced through me as the howls continued, moving even closer to us.
“Maggie?” Michel asked in urgency, but I couldn’t pull my gaze from the darkness. As scared as I was of that sound, another part of me was drawn to it.
I squinted my eyes against the dark as I peered toward the woods and another shrieking call echoed. From out of nowhere, two glowing yellow lights appeared, floating above the forest floor and shining directly at me. Another sound, carried on the breeze, rushed for me. It was low, three different voices at once, and I could understand the word it called out.
“MAAGEEE …”
“Yeah.” I nodded, turning to Michel, my curiosity having ended and my throat gone dry. “I can run.”
Michel pulled me by the hand and we ran toward the road. As we reached the pavement, my foot caught on a loose rock. My feet left the ground and the hand not clutching Michel’s reached forward to brace my body for the impending collision with the concrete, but before I could slam to the ground, Michel had scooped me up and thrown me over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.
He ran with me folded over him; so fast, the world around me appeared to blur. I took a chance and looked behind us. The two glowing orbs remained at the tree line, watching us.
Michel came to an abrupt stop and put me back on the ground.
“Michel,” I yelled, pointing to the yellow lights behind us, “its right there!”
“I know!” he yelled back, looking in the bushes on the roadside. Spotting what he was searching for, he grabbed my hand again, forcing me with him.
Behind one of the bushes was a motorcycle. It wasn’t the one Michel had given me my ride home on. This was sleeker, built more for racing. Using the keys he’d taken from the body, he jammed them into the ignition. With a twist, the bike roared to life. “Get on!” he commanded.
I jumped on behind him, holding tight around his waist. Michel gunned the engine, and throwing debris behind us, pushed the bike forward on to the road. As we sped away, the floating yellow lights stayed trained on our escape.
Eight
Michel didn’t slow the motorcycle. He kept the throttle fully open and drove masterfully through the dark night without touching the brake, tipping into the curves and leaning forward against the current.
My mind was spinning, trying to comprehend everything that had just happened. Michel said that the woman hadn’t been my mother, and as silly as it seemed, my gut told me to trust him, which made even less sense than thinking my mother was some sort of monster. I’d spent ten years being teased, living a nightmare because of what my father had done. I was the queen of knowing the truth and making do; trust didn’t come to me as easily as it did others.
But I’d trusted him this afternoon, I thought to myself.
None of the puzzle pieces fit together. It was all round holes and square pegs, and it made my head hurt worse trying to force them together.
The bike began to slow as the world racing past us opened up. Michel made a left turn onto a long, unpaved driveway. I looked around, attempting to determine where exactly we were.
The shadow of a house grew large before me as we continued down the driveway. It looked to be an old Victorian, like so many that lay abandoned and disheveled around this area. Unlike those, however, was the obvious electricity still on and maintained lawn.
Light posts spread out on either side of the driveway in equal intervals, illuminating the grounds and the path we traveled. Several types of flowering plants dotted the yard, each offering a different scent to tease my nose.
Michel brought the bike to a stop in front of the large, antebellum-styled porch that lead to a huge leaded glass doors. Coach lamps, shining a soft blue light, glowed to welcomed visitors. Turning the key, the motorcycle’s engine quieted to a purr before shutting off.
“We’ll be safe here,” Michel offered over his shoulder as he climbed off the bike.
I swung my leg off the motorcycle, my feet finding solid ground again. My head thrummed harder in the sudden quiet around, the only noise provided by unseen insects chirping in the grass.
I felt sick to my stomach, and my legs were like jelly after the ride. Without warning, the world began to distort and shift. Absently, I reached out for something to steady me and my feet left the ground, swept into the air. I could feel my body cradled against something cool and hard.
I looked up, trying to find the source, but my view was obstructed by black. The sensation of something soft, like feathers, tickled my cheek. Calm washed over me, and I became very drowsy. I hunkered into the hard form holding me, and without meaning to, let the world slide away.
***
When my eyes opened, I had no idea where I was. I blinked a few times, rubbing my face to help wake me up, and discovered my head was laying on what I was sure was the softest pillow ever invented. I turned, lifting my head and shoulders. I was lying in a bed that could have been made of pure clouds and the sheets covering me were luxuriously silky. I’d never felt anything even close to it before. Looking to the nightstand, I saw a crystal goblet filled with clear liquid and a small silver tray holding a bottle of aspirin.
I sat up and was immediately greeted by a stabbing pain behind my eyes. My memories of last night’s events rushed back to me. A cold realization hit me like a pail of water.
Where was my mother? Where the hell was I?
Michel. He’d brought me to this house, on a motorcycle he found stashed behind some bushes. I remembered the ride, the front door. The rest was gone.
The bony hand reaching for me …
I shuddered, remembering that hand, the face that had belonged to my mother, suddenly appearing to be mangled and twisted. Each memory to come back to me was making it harder for me to breath. I grabbed my chest, trying to hit it as if that would keep my heart going or force air to fill my lungs.
A soft knock rapped on the door, startling me. My eyes moved toward the sound’s origin, waiting for those bones to rip through the wood and come for me. The door opened slowly, and a girl’s head snuck around the jamb.
“May I enter?” she asked. Her voice was like a song, so sweet and light. She walked toward me carefully, and I was able to fully take her in. She was small, much shorter than me. Her hair was a dark cherry wood color, and she moved with the grace of something other worldly, each step a dance as she seemed to glide to the bedside.
“I’m hoping you are well this morning, Maggie,” she sang to me, twisting the cap off the aspirin and gently nudging two into her petite hand. With her other, she lifted the goblet, offering both the pills and drink to me. “The healers say that these will lessen the pain.”
“Are you trying to kill me?” I asked nervously in a hushed voice while taking the goblet and smelling the contents. I’d never smelled poison, but I was really hoping that if my morning drink was tainted, my nose would find a trace and warn me. Not only was there no hint of anything malicious, the goblet’s liquid smelled so fresh, almost like a spring rain. My question seemed to amuse the girl, and a tender smile, full of kindness, overtook her face.
“No, Maggie,” she giggled, the joy reaching her eyes, “we’re not trying to kill you.”
Calm washed over me as I tentatively took a sip from the glass. It was delicious. It looked like water, but the taste—a hint of minty chocolate that I had not
expected.
“Oh my gosh!” I exclaimed, staring at the goblet wide eyed. “What is this?”
The dainty female sitting beside me frowned, looking disappointed. “Are you not pleased? I am sorry. I know chocolate is something the girls your age normally enjoy. I was hoping—”
“It’s great,” I remarked honestly, lifting the glass to eye level to better examine the fluid. I sniffed the contents again, but still couldn’t smell anything.
“Just water,” the girl went on, her smile returning.
“But the flavors,” I told her, studying the glass as if it would tell me how I’d gotten mint chocolate chip flavored water. The girl was even more pleased by my reaction. She turned and walked toward a single door on the side of the room.
“Where am I?” I asked, swallowing the pills she’d offered and hoping I could get some answers from this female who seemed to want to help me. Even the aspirin tastes like chocolate.
“This is the home of The Trust,” she explained as if that would mean something to me. I watched her move as she pried open the door and stepped into a closet filled with clothes. I thought of Stephanie and how she’d love a closet like that. A hint of regret tainted my thoughts.
“Maggie, are you okay?” the girl asked, stepping back into the room and reading my expression.
I wiped the thoughts of my friend from my mind, not sure if she could also be a target for whatever nefarious thing was going on. “I hit my head last night, and it really …”
My words trailed off. My head had hurt when I’d awakened, like a drum corps banging away inside my skull. Now the pain was entirely gone. The girl watched me, cocking her head to the side, offering a smile of reassurance.
“The pain,” I said, confused. I reached up to touch my forehead, but couldn’t even feel the beginning of a scab. I pulled the blankets back and made my way to a mirror that hung on the wall to examine myself. “I hit my head last night. I woke up and my head was killing me, now … nothing.” I took in my reflection. There was no mark or bruise on my forehead. I ran my hand over the area, pressing harder and blinking my eyes, waiting for it to appear.
“If Autumn did well, there will be no reminder. She’ll be pleased that the water and pills tasted of chocolate. The last time she used her magicks on medication, Liam threw up. I mean, really? Making cough medicine taste like toadstools?”
The girl had a short fit of giggles as she laid clothes onto the bed. I watched, feeling like either I could trust this waif of a girl, or that she was completely insane. More possibly, a mixture of both.
“Where did you say I was?” I asked, coming to stand with her near the bed.
“This is The Trust,” she answered as amusement tickled the edges of her voice and she tried to assume an air of importance. “We all stay here together, to learn and train.”
“Michel, he brought me here last night?”
The girl nodded, looking at me from under her lashes. “When you two got into trouble, he made his way here. Luc will be so upset that he had to walk. Michel is sleeping.”
“Luc?”
“Michel’s brother,” the girl explained, smoothing her hand over the T-shirt on the bed. A hint of sadness played over her face, and she sighed. “One day, I hope I can have a shirt like this.”
I examined it more closely. Maybe there was a hidden speaker or something I’d missed? Nope. It was just an ordinary black T-shirt, cut to be form fitting. I was about to bend closer to examine the tag to see if it was some sort of name brand designer, but paused when a man’s voice spoke.
“Seatha, I will take Maggie from here,” the deep voice gently commanded. The girl, Seatha, I guess, bowed gracefully to me as the bedroom door opened wider.
A tall man with long greying hair hanging limp around his face made his way into the room. He sort of reminded me of Gandalf in the Lord of the Rings movies, but without the magical staff and floppy wide hat. He wore a dark purple robe that lacked any decoration, and his hands were well worn with age.
“Good morning, Margaret,” he said kindly.
The girl bowed to him, and when she did, I understood why she had wished she could have the black fitted tee. On her back, tucked like those of a bird, were wings. They were beautiful and …
Wings? No flippin’ way!
My confusion must have been blatantly apparent as the man walked further into the room. “Seatha is a fairy, Margaret,” he informed me.
I stated firmly, “I don’t know what you guys are pulling, feeding me drugs and kidnapping me, but I swear to God—”
“I am Liam,” he said, bending at the waist before standing straight again. With a swipe of his hand in front of his face, I saw his features change. Instead of the man who’d entered my room, he was now … wait, what?
“Checker guy?” I gasped, remembering the man before me now from Sunnybrook, offering me little round black and red pieces of a board game to snack on. He waved his hand again, and the old man in purple robes was back.
He sat beside me on the bed and calmly stated, “As I was saying, I am Liam, and I am your grandfather.”
Nine
“That’s ridiculous!” I blatantly laughed at the man. He watched as I rose and paced away from him. My spine was rigid.
“No, Maggie,” he said, just as practical as he’d been when he’d began this conversation. “I am your father’s father, your grandfather.”
I turned on my heel and raced toward him, my pointing finger stopping just inches from his pronounced nose. “No! You’re that crazy old fart at the insane asylum who drools and eats checker pieces!”
He watched my tirade, stone faced, letting me get all of my words out as I lashed out at him. He didn’t make a move to stop me. I went on, tapping my head to illustrate my point.
“You live at that place because there’s something wrong with your mind, just like my father’s!”
“No!” he finally retaliated, rising to his feet and giving me pause. I took a step backward, fully prepared to run. He kept walking toward me. I took another step, followed by yet another, until I couldn’t move my feet any more, having backed myself into the dresser.
“John Henning is a great man who wanted nothing more than to keep his child safe from the monsters he knew would come for her,” he went on, less force behind his words.
“He killed people in a church!” I yelled back, my words filled with more bravery than I actually felt. “He burst in the doors and threw bottles full of gasoline and rags. He set them on fire and burned the building down. Eight people! He killed eight people!”
I crumbled to the floor, all my energy spent, and frustrated tears streaming down my face. My body shook violently as all of the stories about my father and his crime flashed through my mind like photos from some evil picture book. I knew right then that I had finally broken. I’d snapped and gone as mad as my father.
Liam walked to me, offering his hand to help me stand up, and stared, patiently waiting for me to accept it.
“Why?” I asked in a whisper, staring at the outstretched wrinkled hand. “Why would anyone lie about something that terrible? Why would my father kill those people? Why are you telling me these lies? Why am I going crazy, too?”
The old man’s expression softened; a look of regret on his face. “You aren’t going crazy, Margaret. There was no other way to protect you at that time. You were so young and fragile … defenseless. The bargain had to be struck to make sure you’d remain safe and protected. However, you’re older now, sixteen years, and the terms of the contract have come to an end.”
“The contract?” I asked, confused and wiping my tear stained cheeks of the moisture. “None of what you say makes any sense.”
I stood and carefully side-stepped my way toward the door. The old man watched, but made no attempt to stop me. Adrenaline, mixed with the taste of bile, filled my mouth. “None of this could possibly be true!”
“I assure you, Margaret, it’s all true.”
It’s all t
rue …
The first three words written on the letter from Sunnybrook. Between this Liam’s declaration and my father’s outburst, all six of the unexplained words had been uttered to me. Nevertheless, coincidence alone wasn’t proof that either of these men were doing anything other than feeding me a delusion that threatened to rob the last fiber of sanity from me.
“Yeah? Prove it!” I challenged him. “If you’re my grandfather like you claim, where have you been for the last sixteen years?”
“Watching,” he answered simply as he sat on the bed once more.
“Watching?” I repeated sarcastically. Like one little word explained it all.
“Watching you, Margaret Anne Henning,” he went on, using my middle name.
“Okay, lucky guess on the middle name,” I taunted, looking for some way to disprove the elderly man. “So, you say you’re my grandfather?”
“I do.”
“Well then …” It struck me. I knew how to revive myself from the delusion and restore my fragmented sanity. “How did I—”
“Get your middle name?” he interrupted, gesturing to the open space on the blankets beside him.
“I’ll stand here, thanks,” I responded, folding my arms over my chest.
“As you wish. Your middle name, Anne, is from a candy. Queen Anne chocolate covered cherries, as a matter of fact.”
My mouth fell open in disbelief. I knew that was, in fact, were my middle name had been derived. I’d seen the tale written in my baby book.
The story from inside the pages came to life through Liam’s voice. “While your mother carried you in her womb, she’d craved them. Those candies, my young one, were not readily available during the months of your mother’s pregnancy.
“Your father tried to satisfy her cravings by making his own chocolate covered cherries. He spent one morning, while your mother saw her doctor, melting chocolates and hand-dipping the fruit. What he could not accomplish was—”
“The creamy filling that surrounded the cherry,” we both said together, my voice a hushed whisper under Liam’s.
The man offered a kind smile. “Yes, the cream. He tried to search for the recipe in books your mother kept. He called friends, he even called me trying to find out how to do this, but no one could help him.
