Seraph of Sorrow

by MaryJanice Davidson

  “Never mind my plan. At least it keeps me here, in this universe. Once you’re done with your adventure, how will you stay connected to the rest of us?”

  “I will keep my ties to the Quadrivium. If things go badly, Edmund should be able to reestablish a connection.”

  Skip shook his head. Quadrivium? The Crown? Edmund? Who were these people?

  The man’s laugh was not kind. “Sure. Edmund will wheel himself over the Mayan ruins searching for your ethereal corpse. Such a field trip! Shame he can’t climb any pyramids.”

  “Don’t mock him. Otto, I need your promise here.”

  “What, I’m not doing enough by coming down to a far corner of Mexico and agreeing to raise our child alone, at a moment’s notice?”

  “Promise you’ll arrange for Edmund Slider to come to Winoka, once you’ve settled in.”

  “Are you serious? He would never come. Not after what Mayor Seabright—”

  “Francis will need him. He can study with Edmund. With you and Edmund there, Francis will reach his full potential. Please, Otto.”

  There was a pause. “I’ll talk to Edmund. No guarantees.”

  “Thank you. One last favor.”

  The man sighed, but did not stop her.

  “I need you to give this to Francis.”

  There was a pause, and then the man chuckled. It was a bitter sound. “Lovely. What every teenaged boy wants from his mother, before she abandons him.”

  “He’ll want it, if he falls in love.”

  “And what would you know about falling in love, Dianna Wilson?”

  A chill settled over the entire hotel room. “I fell in love once,” she told the man. “Once.”

  Her thoughts turned to Skip again.

  You will fall in love, too. Don’t make my mistake, Francis. Don’t let it slip away. When you find it, hang on to it with—

  If you have to go, he fumed, then go.

  He could feel the residue of her sadness as she withdrew. “I have to go,” she said aloud.

  “Off you go, then,” the man snarled. “Give my regards to oblivion.”

  A door opened. Footsteps faded. A door closed. And then there was silence.

  It lasted for several minutes. The man in the other room did not make a sound—did not get up, did not shift in his seat, did not read a newspaper or clear his throat. Skip lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. His tears came steadily, though slowly enough that he could wink them away. Outside his window, there was plenty of noise. He heard chattering crowds and vehicles rumbling past with rusted mufflers. One of those engines, he realized, is carrying her away.

  “You’re awake, I assume.”

  The man’s voice startled Skip. He didn’t answer right away.

  “I am not experienced with children, much less teenagers,” the voice continued through the painted door. “But I know you are better off with me than where she is going.”

  Skip climbed out of bed and opened the door. The man resting on the cheap couch was certainly related—same chocolate hair, same blue-green eyes, same tall and lean frame.

  When the man stood up and stepped closer, Skip picked up two energies at once. First, the man held himself proudly and appeared calm. Second, that poise was nothing more than a façade, and something unstable lay underneath.

  “My name is Otto Saltin. I’m Dianna’s husband.” He did not offer a hand.

  “You’re my father.”

  Otto nodded and scanned the boy. Skip tried not to reveal any emotion. He did not want to be read as easily as he could read this man.

  “There’s no need to stay,” Otto said. “When you’re ready, we can leave for the States.”

  “Where did Mom go?” Skip asked evenly. “What did she find, after all these years?”

  His father blew his bangs away from his own forehead. “Your mother,” he answered, “went back to Palenque. She found a portal the eighth-century Mayan kings designed and built.”

  “A portal to where?”

  “I have no idea. Nowhere, I suspect.”

  “My mother didn’t think so.”

  “Your mother is obsessed. Possibly deranged. Frankly,” Otto said with a sniff, “I’d prefer not to talk about your mother anymore. I’m not sure why you want to discuss her.”

  He tossed the item Dianna had given him at his son, who caught it. It was a wooden necklace, with a carved emblem of a moon and falling leaves.

  “If I were you,” he told Skip, “I’d leave that in the hotel room garbage can.”

  “Everyone, this is Francis—”

  “Skip.”

  Ms. Graf squinted at the yellow transfer sheet. “Francis Wilson.”

  “Please, just Skip.” He sighed. Just what he needed. Hordes of teenagers giggling and calling him Francis. Who names their kid Francis? he asked himself hotly. The obvious answer only upset him further. His fingers worked the edges of his calculus text. Why was he in this biology class? In this school? This place had nothing to offer. What was his father thinking?

  “Skip’s family just moved here to Winoka from out of state. Right, Skip?”

  He shrugged. Whatever, old woman. Let me sit down.

  “Just have a seat over there.” Ms. Graf pointed to a desk.

  Skip hated this. He hated the boys who were sneering, and the ones too nerdy to look up from their textbooks. He hated the girls assessing him as the sort of freak they’d never talk to, and the ones regarding him with whatever passed for pity in this barrel full of teenaged crabs. He looked pointedly at each, silently giving these morons a message to treasure. Screw you. You, too. You, too, buddy. And hey, yes, you, too! And you . . . well, you look like an opossum died on your face. So screw you and the opossum, and the opossum’s mother. Then go screw yourself again.

  He paused when he saw the leg. The biggest kid in the class—dirty blond crew cut, gigantic shoulders, and probably as many pimples as I.Q. points—had actually stuck his thick, hairy leg across the aisle, barring Skip’s way.

  Face full of disdain, Skip stepped over the leg. Jumping up high enough for the dolt to miss him was no problem. He could have jumped twice as high if he had wanted. But then he wouldn’t have been able to smack the jerk across the face with his calculus book. Which he did. By the time everyone’s head whipped around in reaction to Bob’s bellow of pain, Skip was safely seated. No one had seen it.

  Except for her.

  This had to be Jennifer Scales. He knew it the second she caught his eye. She was right in front of him, and had turned to stare at him with shimmering silver irises, pretty cherry mouth hanging open. Good night, she’s incredible. Why didn’t Dad tell me she was a stone-cold fox?

  The bully’s rant distracted him. “You’re dead, Francis!”

  He spared a moment to blow off the jerk, which was too long. She faced the teacher again, some lecture on butterflies began, and he had lost his first chance to . . .

  To what? Smile at her? Talk to her? Kidnap her?

  This was so ridiculous. How did his brain trust of a father expect this to work? What girl in her right mind—especially one as hot as this one—would warm up to a strange new kid and consent to meet him alone at his house? Didn’t Otto Saltin know how many times schools gathered students in assembly halls and showed them instructional movies about how to avoid, escape, and/or cave in the genitals of kidnappers and other insidious criminals?

  Staring at the back of her honey head, Skip let his mind wander around the shape of this girl. She was destined to be something special, or so his father had told him. More special than his own mother had been? He would have doubted it before seeing her . . .

  Immediately, he chastised himself for his superficial assessment. What, she’s a babe, so she must have skills? As if there aren’t plenty of pretty girls who are a complete waste of space. This one probably is, too. All looks, no brains, no heart.

  Insulting her made it easier for him to think about his father’s plan. Get her to the house, Dad had told him. Tell her
any story you like. Of course, he wasn’t allowed to mention anything about how special Jennifer might be, nor was he to mention his father’s name. As for telling Skip what they would do with Jennifer once she was there, his father was silent.

  Did he mean to talk to her? Hurt her? Kill her?

  An index card suddenly flew at his head. He ducked and fumbled it in his hands. “Hey, whoa, easy!” Examining it, he saw an orange and black butterfly, with pins through its wings. “Lessee . . . mmmm . . . lunch.”

  She giggled at his lame joke but didn’t turn around.

  He caressed the soft scales of the insect with his fingertips, and then flipped the card over. The back read: Monarch Butterfly. Danaus plexippus. North America. He recalled seeing an enormous migrating swarm down in Mexico with his mother. She had told him at the time that several species of butterflies were the beautiful but devious servants of dragons, used to spy on their enemies.

  What about these here? he had asked her as he surveyed the cloud of dancing wings with apprehension. Are they spying on us?

  Her laugh had been medicine for his fears. Not these. They’re just bugs.

  Still stroking the insect’s wing gently, he realized he wanted to see more of these butterflies. Where’s the next one? He cleared his throat, waiting for this girl in front of him to get the hint. She didn’t seem to hear him, so he reached out to poke her with his finger—

  Her hand moved too fast for him to see. “Hey,” he muttered in surprise. She’s fast! “I just wondered if I could look at the next one. And, um, maybe have my finger back?”

  Her cherry smile as she let go was brief yet rewarding. “Sorry. Don’t poke me.”

  As he took the next butterfly, he nodded. “Sorry. Nice reflexes.”

  “Thanks.”

  The peacock butterfly on the second card was not as evocative to Skip as the monarch had been. He and his mother had never been to Ireland, where these lived . . .

  Suddenly, the girl’s back arched. “Cripes!” Then she shot up and dropped the third card.

  “Ms. Scales!” Skip noted Ms. Graf was not leaping out from behind her desk to help out. “What is the matter?”

  Jennifer Scales pointed down at the swordtail butterfly. “No one else hears that?”

  Hear it, Skip almost said in astonishment. Of course I can hear it! Who can’t? The sound the pinioned insect made was piercing and heartrending. He had half a mind to ask Ms. Graf what kind of sadist she was, nailing live butterflies to stiff paper. Then he looked around and realized no one else could hear the crying—and so he kept his mouth shut.

  “Ninth graders are never as funny as they think. Ms. Scales, please take your seat.”

  As the rest of the class tittered, oblivious, Skip watched in amazement as the butterfly on the floor kept sobbing. What is going on here?

  He wanted a closer look. Once Jennifer was seated, he immediately tried to get her attention. What on earth could he say, without revealing he could hear the screaming, too? “Um, if you’re sure that’s dead, could you pass it on back?”

  The resulting hiss reminded him that she didn’t like to be poked. Whoops. She reached down and picked up the card, but instead of handing it back, she held on to it. He watched her stare at the card, then at the windows, then at the card again . . .

  Cripes. Either kill it or hand it back! “Ummm . . .”

  “In a minute.”

  A minute later, Skip didn’t want the butterfly anymore. By that time, a mass of dragonflies had driven itself into the window, the class had scattered, screaming, and this girl Jennifer Scales had turned off the very chaos she had turned on, like a water faucet. He hadn’t known power like this since, since . . .

  When you find it, Francis, hang on to it.

  No, to hell with the butterfly. He didn’t want the damn thing anymore. He wanted her.

  “I got a call from school today.”

  Skip closed the front door and rolled his eyes. Hello to you, too, old man.

  “It seems there was a commotion today. A tornado of sorts, though the administrator on the other end of the line, a certain Mr. Mouton, couldn’t be more specific. Or wouldn’t.”

  “Whatever,” Skip mumbled as he wandered through the living room and into the kitchen.

  “I don’t suppose you saw it yourself?”

  Skip frowned as he tossed his backpack onto the counter and opened various cupboards. “You keep any snacks in this place?” His mother and he had always kept granola bars—usually chewy, ranging from peanut butter to strawberry yogurt—for their travels from city to city, month to month, hotel room to hotel room. Not every country had easy access to good snacks.

  “We can shop for groceries another time.” Otto was standing in the doorway to the kitchen. “Are you going to answer my question, or will you keep testing my patience?”

  “She called bugs.” He slammed the last cupboard closed. “Can I eat something now?”

  “You met her?”

  Fingertips tapping a rolling rhythm on the countertop, Skip weighed his options: (a) Yes, sir; (b) Duh, obviously; (c) Where are the fucking snacks?

  He opted for (b). Then he added (c) for good measure.

  The man squinted. “I think it’s time we set some rules around here.”

  Skip opened the refrigerator. There was a meticulously placed array of meats and vegetables within, but nothing bite-sized. “Great. I love rules.”

  “Rule number one, Francis, will be about your attitude.”

  “Actually, rule number one will be my name. No one calls me Francis.” Except Mom.

  Otto clenched his teeth. “If you want my respect, Francis, try showing some yourself.”

  “I don’t want to be here. I don’t think I should have to show shit, especially since I’m doing you a big favor by tracking down this Jennifer girl you care so much about. Because, what? You’re afraid of her? What are you anyway, some sort of warped pedoph—?”

  “Enough of your nihilistic, narcissistic crap! I should throw you onto the street and call the local authorities. Oh, they’d be very interested in you. You have no idea where you are or with whom you’re dealing, you disrespectful juvenile delinquent!”

  The veneer of poise had left the man. His carefully kept bangs slid over a wild sneer. This is the guy Mom married, Skip told himself. Sweet job, Mom.

  “I know enough.” Skip tried hard to keep his limbs from trembling. “I’m dealing with an angry, lonely man with bad temper control. What the hell did Mom see in you?”

  “Back,” the man whispered harshly with a tilt of his head, and something pushed Skip backward violently. The small of his back smashed into the edge of the kitchen sink.

  As he slid to his knees and winced in pain, Skip reached up, grabbed a butcher’s knife from the block by the stove, and whipped it back at his assailant. The blade missed his father’s left ear by about three inches, and then clattered against the far wall.

  “Does it make you feel good to do that to a kid?” he spat. “Mom would never use sorcery against someone who couldn’t fight back.”

  “Seems to me you can fight back fine.” Otto nodded with a nasty grin at the knife on the floor behind him. “Though your aim could use some work.”

  “Stand right there and I’ll work on it.” He clambered up and reached for another knife.

  “All right, easy. Easy!” Otto wiped his face with the back of his fist. “Let’s both calm down. We’ve each proven our point—I can hurt you, but I can’t stop knives from being thrown at me. We need to do better. That’s . . . that’s what your mother would want. Right?”

  Skip paused, second knife hanging from his hand.

  Otto pressed. “We need to live together, if we’re going to get anything done.”

  “I don’t care about you, and I don’t care about anything you’re trying to do.”

  “You should care.” The man’s tone was more conspiratorial now. His composure was healing, and he leaned against the counter. “The plans we hav
e are for your better future.”

  “We? Who’s we?”

  “Your mother, for one.”

  “That’s a lie. I heard her talking to you before she left. She said your plans—that stuff about the Ancient Furnace and Winoka’s sewer system—that stuff had nothing to do with her.”

  “We each have our side projects,” Otto acknowledged. “There’s a bigger picture here. What Dianna Wilson and I have begun with others will change the world, Skip.”

  Skip relaxed at the use of his nickname and set down the knife. “What will it do?”

  “For one, it will bring your mother back.”

  Hard as he might try not to show emotion, Skip knew his own façade was crumbling. His lower lip shuddered and he began to wink furiously. “How can you know that?”

  “You’re going to have to trust me. You’re going to have to trust that your mom’s coming back. That I can help you get there. And that by doing what I ask, you help me help you.”

  Skip paused. “What’s the deal with Jennifer Scales? Why is she so important?”

  “And so we come to rule number two,” Otto replied with a satisfied smile. He knew he had won his son’s cooperation, and that the boy would do what he was told. And Skip knew it, too. “Don’t question me, or my plans, or my orders. I can see you have a problem with authority figures. Tell you what—you can be as disrespectful to anyone in this town or in that school you want. I won’t care. Winoka and its people represent a festering wound on the face of this earth. When you come home, however, you will accept my authority and you will do what you’re told.”

  The hard edge to his father’s tone almost set Skip off again, before he remembered his mother’s face and voice. How could he say no to the chance to see her again?

  “Can I just ask—”

  “Ugh! You are so terrifically bad at this. Fine, ask one question!”

  “What you have in mind—it doesn’t involve murder, does it? Or pain? For her?”