by J. R. Rain
Mostly, he would play on his Gameboy or pretend to read a book. I knew he was pretending because he never actually turned the pages. Sometimes, he would come in and talk, usually about nothing important. He would ramble. Other times, he would come in and sit quietly, staring down at his hands. I asked him if there was anything I could do for him, or help him with, or if he wanted to do something together, and the answer was invariably “no.”
That is, until this evening, when I found him sitting in my office, holding a book he didn’t bother trying to read. The title was Beautiful Creatures, which might have been a movie, too, although we hadn’t seen it. I was pretty sure that was his sister’s book.
As I shut down my computer, I asked if he wanted to go to boxing with me and, wonder of wonders, he had perked up immediately. I smiled, relieved that I had finally, finally found something that interested him.
Now, I almost regretted it.
Almost.
Then again, maybe my son did need to know how to fight. Maybe being who he is—the strongest kid in his school—would prompt older boys to test him, to prove their own worth, to show that a younger kid wasn’t tougher than them.
I hoped my son wouldn’t use his growing strength for ill. I hoped I wasn’t creating a supervillain here, although that thought nearly made me giggle.
My son had a good heart, and he was a boy hurting and lost, and looking for someone to connect with. For a while, I had been that someone. Boy, had I been. From following me out to the laundry room, to sitting with me in the office.
Now, as I watched my son, something curious was happening: he wasn’t looking at me. No, Jacky had his full attention. And, more amazingly, he had Jacky’s full attention, too.
I saw something even stranger, something I wasn’t prepared for: as they moved together in this boxing dance of theirs, as Anthony delivered slow-motion punches and as Jacky corrected his technique, I saw their two auras do something I had rarely, if ever, seen.
Their auras had somehow connected. Where Anthony’s aura ended and Jacky’s began, I didn’t know. Never had I seen this before. The auras looked, at least to my eyes, to be one big aura.
What the devil?
I sat forward in one of the many plastic chairs that lined the perimeter of the gym and actually rubbed my eyes, but there was no rubbing away this strange display.
Yes, I could see auras. From what I understood, all vampires could see auras. Auras were the energy field that surrounded our bodies. And not just the energy, but, some claimed, our souls themselves, which were too big to be contained by flesh and bones.
I knew Jacky had lost his own son years ago to a drug overdose, and I always suspected that he coached and trained these kids here to fill a void. My suspicions were confirmed with my son. Their connection was tangible. Hell, spiritual.
What’s happening? I wondered.
I didn’t know, but with my own trainer long gone—in fact, I’d seen him slip out the front door with nary a glance back—I suspected that Jacky just might have found himself a new protégé.
And, as Jacky reached over and mussed my son’s hair—with Anthony grinning from ear to ear, his first grin in months—I suspected Jacky had found much more.
They both had.
Chapter Sixteen
I was with the Librarian, a man who might not be a man, and a man who might not really exist, at least in this physical world.
Who he was remained a mystery. That he had once been an ordinary human, I had no doubt. How he existed now, I didn’t know, although his knowledge of alchemy might explain a lot. What it explained, I didn’t know, since I didn’t know much about alchemy, other than a book I’d read years ago by Paulo Coelho, a book that, at the time, had been meaningless to me.
“Paulo touched on real truths,” said the Librarian.
Although Maximus, aka the Librarian, was immortal, he and I had an open telepathic line of communication. Not so much with other immortals, who were closed off to me. With that said, Max and I generally spoke aloud, rather than communicate telepathically. I liked speaking aloud. Call me old fashioned, but speaking aloud was what normal people did. I needed to do what normal people did, as often as possible.
He continued, “Some books you are ready for, some you are not. You were not ready for The Alchemist, although it laid the groundwork to open your mind.”
“What do you mean?”
“You had not awakened, Sam. You were closed, asleep. Life was as it was expected to be, with little questioning on your end. Now you question much and seek deeper answers.”
“And The Alchemist helped do that?”
“That, along with your attack many years ago. But not everyone needs to be rendered immortal to awaken. There are many paths to greater truths.”
“And why should we seek greater truths?”
“There’s no ‘shoulds’ in this world, Sam. There is only following your heart, your own truths, and explore where they lead you.”
“Well, they led me here, to talk to you.”
“And so they have. You have a question for me, I see.”
“I do. It’s about my son.”
Max nodded once, long and slow, from behind his “help desk” counter within the Occult Reading Room, itself filled with hundreds, if not thousands, of very old and very strange-looking books, many of which were, if you asked me, downright dangerous.
The Occult Reading Room was a secret room located on the third floor of Cal State Fullerton’s epic library, a room that few knew about, and even fewer actually saw. Secret may not have been the correct word. There were, after all, actual books in this reading room, books that were even referenced in the library’s computer database.
“Although referenced,” he said, “few would think to look for them, and fewer still have heard of them.”
“But if they have heard of them, and they look for it...”
“Then I am always here.”
“Always?”
“A figure of speech. But more or less, yes. You can mostly find me here.”
That such a young-looking guy could be so wise was still something I was getting used to. I said, “The emerald medallion was used to give my son back his humanity, correct?”
“Correct.”
“But he also retained some of his supernatural traits.”
“This appears to be so.”
“He seems to have retained all the good supernatural traits,” I said. “And none of the bad.”
“Again, yes.”
The Librarian watched me through eyes that never judged and were always kind. I was reminded of a newborn’s eyes, full of wonder and peace and joy. I was not used to such eyes. His were a pleasant change of pace, and if I wasn’t careful, I could get lost in those eyes.
I asked, “Then how is the diamond medallion any different?”
“It’s not, Sam, although it is obvious now that even I cannot predict the reaction each person will have to the medallions.”
The four medallions were, of course, created by the Librarian, relics put into place to help creatures like me combat the things within. That all four of the relics had gravitated toward me was something I didn’t yet understand. They surely could have landed in the lap of other creatures of the night. In fact, I knew of one such vampire—an ancient vampire—who had spent quite a long time looking for the emerald medallion.
I gathered my thoughts, thinking them aloud. “The emerald medallion didn’t just give my son back his mortality, but enabled him to keep some of his immortal powers, too.”
“It appears so, Samantha,” said the Librarian. “But we cannot know that it was the medallion that gave him these gifts...or if it was something else.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure what I mean, Sam. Your son’s reaction to the medallion was unexpected.”
“And you suspect...something else might be involved?”
“In a word, yes.”
“And you are just telling me this
now?”
“I’ve only recently deduced this...and I knew you would be back sooner rather than later.”
“Should I be concerned?” I asked. “About my son?”
He shook his head and his kind eyes seemed to smile. “No, Sam. But there is something else at play here, something—or perhaps someone—who has helped your son greatly. This something or someone is beyond even my own perception.”
“That sounds frightening,” I said.
“It doesn’t have to be, Sam. Your son, it appears, is in good hands.”
“But whose hands?” I asked.
“That, as the old game show hosts used to say, is the million-dollar question. As of now, yes, the emerald medallion behaved very similarly to the diamond medallion, which not only returns your mortality, but also helps you retain all the perks, if you will. That is, all the perks of your choosing.”
“My choosing?”
“Yes.”
“I could retain...my great strength?”
“Yes, that, and more.”
“My psychic ability?”
“Yes.”
“More?” I asked.
“Much more, Sam.”
I thought about what could be much more...and gasped. “Flying?”
He nodded slowly. “Yes, Sam. You would retain that, as well.”
“And all this without the bloodsucking and sleeping during the day?”
“Yes, Sam. No more blood.”
“And I could finally see myself in the mirror and have normal nails again?”
“Yes, Sam.”
How Fang presently owned the fourth and final medallion was another story—a story I didn’t presently know. After all, how he came upon the diamond medallion, why he wore it, and what he even knew about it were all questions whose answers were unknown to me. A part of me wondered if he even knew what he had, if he understood the value of the relic that presently hung around his neck.
Maybe, maybe not. Either way, he and I were going to have a long talk...and soon.
“And what of the dark master within me?” I asked. “Does the diamond medallion eradicate her as well?”
He smiled down on me. “Completely.”
“And no such creature resides within my son?”
“No, Sam. The emerald medallion took care of that, as well.”
“This is all very weird.”
“It’s a weird universe, Samantha.”
I sighed and continued standing there. I found that I was hugging myself. After a moment, Maximus said, “But you didn’t come here today to talk about medallions, did you?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “My son...” But as soon as I began the sentence, the words got caught in my throat, and emotions poured out of me in tears, and the next thing I knew the Librarian had his arms around my shoulders, pulling me into his shoulder.
After a long moment of this, still unable to speak, the Librarian’s thoughts appeared in my head, just inside my ears.
Your son and the boxer remember each other on a soul level.
A soul level?
Many lifetimes ago, they were deeply connected as father and son, as they have been often in many lives, in many places.
But Anthony had a different dad...
In this lifetime, Sam. But the boxer, Jacky, and your son, Anthony, made an agreement to connect again, in this life, if your boy was ever lost or sad or lonely.
I wept harder into the Librarian’s shoulder and he squeezed me tighter.
There is deep love between them, Sam. Both need each other.
I nodded, and finally couldn’t even form words to think, let alone speak. Instead, I buried myself deeper into the young man’s shoulder. A young man who was, in fact, ancient, and wept for my son.
Chapter Seventeen
I was back at the ‘Bucks, as Tammy called it.
The evening shift would be rolling in soon, which was why I was here now. Jasmine Calcutta, who had, perhaps, the most exotic name I’d ever heard, would be here soon, and she was expecting me. We had planned on meeting fifteen minutes before her shift.
I had just sat down with a venti water on the rocks, when I saw a young girl appear at the entrance, blinking and looking around. She was wearing a green Starbucks apron. I waved to her and she nodded and came over.
“Can I get you a coffee?” I asked.
“Thanks, but I’m a little coffeed out,” said Jasmine Calcutta.
“Coffeed out,” I said. “The two words that keep Starbucks executives up at night. Well, that and their Sumatra Roast.”
She giggled and sat down opposite me. “That was kind of funny.”
“My kids don’t think I’m funny. They think I’m embarrassing.”
She giggled again, and I think we were hitting it off. Hitting it off with a witness is always a good thing. Much better than the alternative. Jasmine Calcutta was maybe twenty-five. Her eyes, I think, were violet, which surprised the hell out of me. The girl with the most exotic name might also have had the most exotic eyes I’d ever seen. Some girls got all the breaks.
“You’re a private investigator,” she said.
“I am. But you can call me Sam.”
“A real private investigator?”
“In the flesh,” I said.
“Do you have, like, a license or something?”
“I do.”
“Can I, like, see it?”
She wanted to see it out of curiosity’s sake, not because she doubted me. I didn’t need to be a mind reader to see that. I produced it from my purse and she oohed and ahed at it for a few seconds before handing it back.
“So cool,” she said. “I want to do something like that.”
I pointed to my license photo, in which I might have been wearing too much makeup. “You mean take great pictures?”
She giggled again. “No. Be a private detective. A real one, like you.”
“Well, here’s your chance to watch a real detective at work.”
She nodded enthusiastically.
I said, “I need you to do your best to remember everything you can about Lucy Gleason.”
“I’ll try, but it’s kind of getting fuzzier and fuzzier.”
“Real detectives don’t use words like fuzzier,” I said.
“Okay, sorry.”
“I’m teasing, Jasmine.”
“Oh, right, sorry.”
“No need to be sorry,” I said. “Just give me your hands.”
“My hands?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It’s a super-secret interview trick I learned.”
“Wow, really?”
“Really.” I then directed this thought to her: It feels perfectly normal to give your hands to the nice, if not beautiful, lady and do whatever she asks.
She cocked her head to one side, and then nodded once.
I’m a monster, I thought. A monster who needed answers. I gestured for her hands and she presented them to me from across the table.
I slipped mine over hers and asked her to close her eyes and think back to the day Lucy disappeared. Luckily, most of the Starbuckians were too absorbed with their laptops and their own self-importance to notice two women holding hands in the coffee shop. Additionally, I had found a table that wasn’t in direct line with her fellow co-workers, who might wonder what we were doing.
I didn’t want to make a scene, so I held her hands discreetly, just like two friends visiting together, sharing a sweet moment. Or, heck, praying together. Why not?
We weren’t two friends and we most certainly weren’t praying; instead, I was employing the same technique I had used with Henry Gleason, my client. Except Henry’s memory had been fresh and vivid and full of charged emotion, which had heightened his remembrance.
Now, as I held her hands, I asked her to tell me anything that she could remember from that day. She nodded, her eyes still closed.
And just as she opened her mouth to speak, I was inside her mind, completely and th
oroughly...
* * *
“It was just like any other day, you know,” she began, and as she spoke those words, images appeared in her thoughts, images I was now privy to, as well. In her mind’s eye, I saw a very different scene in Starbucks. Yes, I was reliving these memories right along with her, without her knowing it. It’s good to be me.
Sometimes.
Yes, we were in this very same Starbucks but, instead of it being evening, the day was bright, at a time when I would have been just been getting up—a miserable, painful time of day for me. On this day, Jasmine had been working an earlier shift, and she distinctly remembered watching Lucy Gleason come in.
“We were busy, but not Starbucks busy,” she said.
“Starbucks is an adjective now?” I asked. “Never mind. It’s just a rhetorical question. Continue.”
She answered anyway. “Well, we have different levels of busy, at least here. Starbucks busy is our busiest, since it can get crazy in here, especially in the mornings and especially on the weekends.”
“So, it wasn’t Starbucks busy,” I said. “Got it.”
The scene continued in her mind, and I continued following it with much interest.
“You have to remember, Sam,” she said. “We have thousands and thousands of customers a week. Days go by in a blur. Heck, hours go by in a blur.”
“I can imagine,” I said. “Starbucks busy.”
“Right,” she said.
Luckily, she did remember some of that day. She had to, because she had been forced to recall what had happened, especially after being questioned repeatedly by the police. For her, it wasn’t just another day. For her, it stood out. Sadly, there were still missing chunks in her memory. That was not unexpected. Some claimed that the subconscious remembers everything a person sees. However, that hadn’t been my experience when I’d occasionally plumbed people for their memories. No, I didn’t go around doing this often. In fact, very little. But the few people I had done this with, I had seen whole chunks of missing memory. Empty spaces filled with nonsense.
That was what I was seeing here: people coming and going, their faces vague, their bodies amorphous, their orders blurring into the next order. Then Jasmine had a gap filled by other memories, other people, and other places and times. I saw who I suspected was her boyfriend. I saw things I really didn’t need to see. Then I saw a woman who was clearly her mother. She smiled often at her. All of these superfluous memories were interwoven with the main thread, which was that day in Starbucks.
