First Sight: The Rune Sight Chronicles

by Boyd Craven III

  “Deal. I’ll head out now,” I said, and thumbed the end button when she said her byes.

  “Want backup?” Rose asked.

  “Maybe. I have a feeling this dead farmhand is something, though I don’t know what.”

  “You’re the one who can see the futures,” she reminded me.

  “Yeah, but not that far. Only a handful of seconds.”

  “Maybe it’s like a premonition?” she suggested, “like how some diviners and seers keep part of their brain open for danger?”

  I almost stopped walking toward my Jeep at hearing that, wondering how old this little fairy was and how much she really knew. She wouldn’t lie to me, but I kept finding out interesting tidbits by just talking to her. I’d seen bound Fae once, in a market in Spain. It had forever sworn me off the practice, but I also imagined that the process of being bound and acting as a servant made little time for small talk and conversation. Maybe my conversations with Rose were as much a relief to me as they were to her.

  “I don’t know. Think I should have asked if JJ wanted to come?” I asked her.

  “Naw, he found water coming out of one of the rocks up the slope while hunting. He said he was going to figure out a way to push one of those steel pipes in and see if he could get running water down to the shack to take a shower.”

  “Oh yeah, I have that food in the fridge he could have. He knows that…”

  “And so does the Sheriff, yet she’s inviting you out for home cooked food and pie…”

  “Don’t you try to play matchmaker again,” I cautioned, getting in the Jeep and firing it up.

  “I’m just saying, she’s willing.”

  “Yeah, the problem is, half the time I am too,” I told her.

  “But you won’t, which makes no sense. Humans. Don’t worry, if you suddenly find your libido and you actually aren’t a eunuch, I’ll poof back to the house. Then you don’t have to worry about me seeing you all vulnerable and stuff.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed, though I didn’t think she’d see that, ever.

  Rose was a silent and invisible presence, often sitting on my left shoulder or crawling around my back and holding onto my collar like I was some sort of horse and she was the cowboy. Cheryl finished cooking and then took her plate to go sit and eat at the table, giving us the sprawling front porch to us if we wanted. Cindy did.

  “Let’s go outside on the big porch and eat,” Cindy said, and ignored the saucy wink her mom gave her.

  “Sounds good to me, let me grab the beers,” I said balancing my plate, and then opened the fridge with my free hand and grabbed a six pack from the top shelf.

  I followed Cindy out and took a spot in a wicker chair with heavy cushions, across from her. I set the beers and plate down and tried to get comfortable but it was distracting, watching Cindy. She immediately started poking at her food with her fork, not meeting my gaze.

  “Listen,” I said, breaking the silence and reaching for a beer, “This doesn’t have to be weird, and you don’t even have to say anything. I get it, it was a weird thing that happened, and I seemed like the logical explanation.”

  “It’s not only about that,” she said softly and then reached over and got her own beer and cracked it open.

  I watched as she took a long swallow. I mimicked her actions and then saw as she looked up and really studied me. I closed my eyes before she saw too much, but I saw pain and hurt in her expression.

  “You really don’t trust me,” Cindy said.

  “I live in the middle of nowhere. I really have a hard time with trusting anybody. But if there’s anyone I do trust, it’s you,” I told her, meaning it.

  “So, I ran your name through the databases.”

  Oh. Oh, shit.

  “So, what’s the big deal?” I bluffed.

  “Thomas Wright was born 88 years ago.”

  “So, what’s weird about that?” I asked her, “Gramps was around during the Depression and World War Two, if you believe the stories.”

  “He had no kids.”

  I just sat there and took a swallow and then picked up my food and started cutting into my steak. She reached for my hand and I let her.

  “What is going on?” she asked.

  “I told you—”

  “Please don’t bullshit me,” she said softly. “I believe you didn’t kill that man, but you do not have a grandpa with the same name. I know you’re lying about that.”

  Her words were absolute. She continued. “Then I pulled your property records. Did you know that you owned the property here long before my parents did?”

  “Yeah,” I told her, “I bought it in 1988. Your family got this property near the road in 90. You didn’t look all that old.”

  “Son of a bitch,” she hissed and threw her fork on her plate. “I was ten. Ten years old,” she said looking at me, “and you were buying a big chunk of property? Until today, I had no idea how much you actually owned. I thought it was all part of the old copper mine and…”

  “You are just realizing that the plastic surgeon who does my Botox is a genius.”

  She snorted and almost blew the mouthful of beer all over me. I seemed to have that effect on her. I waited till she was more or less ok.

  “How old are you?” she asked me finally.

  “How old are you?” I repeated the question back at her.

  “I told you how old I was in 1990,” she said.

  Touché.

  “I was an adult then,” I told her.

  “Bullshit,” she retorted.

  “Here’s the thing: I am legally Thomas Wright. I own property here in Utah, as well as Nevada, Nebraska, Colorado, Wyoming and Idaho. I am a weird guy, so not everything is going to add up when it comes to me. I’m one of those doomsday prepper types, you know. Shrouded in mystery.”

  “There’s no way you’re in your fifties,” she said, probably after doing some mental gymnastics.

  “I know, and you’re right,” I agreed with her, knowing it was going to confuse her more, “I am not in my fifties.” I wasn’t lying, but I wasn’t telling the truth. I’ll call that the effect of Rose. Or the Rose effect.

  “Wait, maybe… Thomas Wright was a real person. You changed your name? You’re a distant relative?”

  “You sure you don’t want the name of the guy who does my Botox?” I asked her sweetly.

  That was when she used her fork to fling a scoop of mashed potatoes. It hit me right over my left eye and I sat there half a moment in shocked silence as Rose buried her tiny face onto my shoulder to hold back her snorts and giggles. It wasn’t audible to anybody else, but I was half tempted to shoo her away like a fly. I wiped the goo off with my hand and got a napkin out. I was about to wipe my face clean and come up with something witty when Cindy stepped over the small table separating us and wiped my face down gently with her own napkin.

  I tried scanning the futures as my instincts recoiled at being this close and then she straddled my legs, pushing me back into the chair, her body pressed close to mine.

  “I want to trust you, yet you still aren’t being straight with me,” she said softly, and then kissed me hard on the mouth.

  I heard a popping sound from Rose poofing just as Cindy put her arms around my neck and leaned in closer. My body… it had a mind of its own, and I was completely lost. I couldn’t scan the futures, I was completely taken in the moment, half wanting to flee, half wanting to—

  “Do you two want some ice cream with your pie?” Cheryl asked.

  Cindy pulled back and I could see her mother had cracked the door and was looking in our direction. She might have days where the dementia made her memory a little spotty, but there was nothing wrong with her eyesight.

  “Vanilla, two scoops,” I said in a squeaky voice.

  “One for me, Momma,” she said and then stood up, her face crimson.

  I sat there for a full minute after Cindy took her seat.

  “I shouldn’t have—”

  My own fork flashed
out, and my mashed potatoes hit her right on the nose, exactly where I’d aimed. This time, she wiped it off and flung it at me. I had gotten my wits back enough to know to dodge and the handful of mess splatted against the wood side of the house. I was grinning but Cindy had murder in her eyes and I scanned the future and saw I was just about to be tackled, and this time not in fun.

  “Wait,” I said putting a hand up, knowing that if I moved out of the way she was going to hit the wall, hurting herself, so instead I took the brunt of it as she leapt over the table, pouncing like a cat.

  She half cried, half laughed, and started punching me in the shoulders and chest. They weren’t heavy blows, but her voice cracked and I could hear her fighting back sobs. She calmed after a few moments and then sat crossways on my legs, her head on my shoulder.

  “Why don’t you trust me?” she asked me softly as I put my arms around her, holding her close.

  “I trust you with my life,” I whispered in her ear and started running my hands through her hair, suddenly scared, more scared than I could ever remember.

  Terrified, if I was being honest with myself.

  “Then why won’t you tell me what’s really going on?” she asked.

  “I would if I could,” I told her truthfully. She sat back, wiped her nose a little bit and then smiled and sat back down just as her mom came out with dessert plates piled with heavenly goodness.

  She handed each of us a plate and then looked at a point over my shoulder. I turned and saw the glob and splatter of mashed potatoes.

  “Got some on your shoulder,” Cheryl told me and then turned and walked back inside.

  Cindy smiled at me and I looked at my left shoulder, seeing she’d wiped herself clean on my shirt. Short stuff was going to love that. It was her favorite place to sit when she wasn’t flying around on her own.

  “I literally can’t,” I told her again as she got off my lap and picked up her plate.

  We ate in silence for a long time, and then Cindy took our empty plates and went inside. I opened another beer and pondered the kiss; what it meant, what the apology was she was intending to give. I heard voices murmuring softly inside and I sat back. I was reaching for another beer when the door opened and Cheryl came out, a small smile on her face. Instead of sitting down across from me, she sat next to me.

  “Is this going to be one of those uncomfortable conversations?” I asked her after a moment.

  “Oh no. I kept the windows open, I’m nosey like that.” Cheryl told me matter of factly and from somewhere I heard Rose snicker. “So I pretty much know what you know.”

  “So, this is going to be one of those uncomfortable conversations?” I asked again.

  “Gimme a beer,” she said suddenly, and I snaked one out of the cardboard holder and popped the top for her.

  We sat there for a while and she put her feet up on the table and leaned back.

  “My husband and I love the area out here. Always have. It’s our own piece of heaven.”

  “It is wonderful,” I agreed, wondering how much she had actually heard.

  “Before my husband died, he told me about you. About the quiet man who used to come around here, long before you officially showed up to build your cabin.”

  “What’d he have to say?” I asked her.

  “Said you knew things. Weird things, that people never should know. He believed in magic and the wonders of nature. He never told me how he knew, but I think he knew about you. That you aren’t like other people, the same way he wasn’t either.”

  I didn’t say anything, but thought about that. It was possible, but I didn’t recall or remember talking to him. Had her husband had a touch of magic? I could tell the world that Cheryl-made pies were divine intervention on mankind’s behalf, but then I thought about the way that Cindy seemed to always know when I was around, or how I’d pick up the phone when she called. Was it possible? No. The world just isn’t that small.

  “You’re just going to sit there and drink beer?” Cheryl asked me.

  I considered that. “I didn’t expect the kiss. I am usually pretty perceptive, but I wasn’t expecting that. I’m still trying to wrap my mind around it.”

  “My daughter doesn’t date, doesn’t moon over boys. Never has. I’ll tell you some things I believe, and you can either listen or don’t. I think my daughter has feelings for you and she never has had them before. It scares her because she doesn’t know what to expect. You keep everyone away, even though you pretend to be a friendly guy. You don’t want to get close, but you can’t help it. Last but not least, I know you’re not in your 50s, and you don’t have a grandpa named Thomas Wright.”

  With that she upended her bottle and killed it within moments and put the empty back in the cardboard container. Then she patted my leg and got up and headed inside. I sat there for another minute, wondering if I should say anything. Do anything. Was Cindy going to come back out? I pulled my phone out and left and thumbed a message to her. I thanked her for dinner, for believing in me, and asking her to excuse my behavior, because I was shocked, surprised and a guy. I mean, as far as excuses go, being a guy pretty much covers all fuckups. My phone chirped.

  Thank you, sorry I didn’t come back out, I’m not feeling that well all of a sudden. Call you tomorrow?

  Sure, I thumbed in reply.

  “You’re fucked,” Rose whispered in my ear.

  “I am fully aware of that,” I told her, turning onto the highway.

  “Do you want me to tell JJ where you’re going?” Rose asked, “I could make a series of poofs and catch up with him in a few minutes, though I don’t know if I’d catch back up with you.”

  “It’s up to you. I’m going on a pity party and you’re welcome to come watch me be a dumbass.”

  “Oh God, you’re not going to the strip club, are you?” Rose almost shrieked in my ear, making me jerk the wheel in surprise.

  “No,” I told her, trying to count to ten, calming my suddenly racing heart rate, “I’m just driving.”

  “Good, because the thought of you ogling all those mundane normals squicks me out.”

  “You—”

  I had been scanning the futures for danger, mostly to make sure I didn’t get blasted off the side of the mountain by hitting an elk or running over a deer, when something flashed. I got a vision of a sharp pain and then falling, before nothing. I slammed on the brakes, my left hand shooting out in a cupped shape in time to catch Rose from splatting on the inside of my windshield like a bug.

  The gunshot shattered the glass of my driver’s side window, inches in front of where my head would have been, and exited out through the passenger side. Shattered safety glass filled the Jeep, but I had my eyes closed and was already hitting the gas, just like I’d seen in the vision where I survived the attack. The 350 Chevy small block I had put in in place of the regular mild motor roared, and I nearly peeled rubber.

  “Boss!” Rose screamed as I pulled her back and let her grab onto the back of my collar near my neck.

  “I’m ok, you ok?” I asked her, shouting over the sound of the motor and the wind blowing through the fractured windows.

  “I’m ok, but somebody just shot at us!”

  “They missed,” I screamed back, and then grabbed the wheel with both hands and stood on the brake as I started into a ton of curves that made the switchbacks down the side of the mountain look like goat trails in comparison.

  On a good day, you could do 25 mph on these curves, I was going sixty and trying to slow fast.

  “Hold onto your ass,” I yelled and scanned the futures to see in which ones I survived the curves.

  Finding one that had the right amount of speed and the added bonus that we didn’t die, I followed the visions for almost ten seconds at a time, a new personal best for me. That was when I heard the buzzing whine. After a harrowing turn, I looked behind me in the rearview and saw a crotch rocket bearing down on me, topped by a slender figure who looked like they’d stepped right out of Biker Boys, i
n all black, form-fitting leather, helmet, and boots sans pearls… and they were following along almost twenty feet from my bumper.

  I cursed, trying to figure out who was after me and why. I focused on them for a second too long and didn’t keep scanning the futures ahead, and clipped a deer that bounded out in front of me. Now, my old Jeep Wrangler was perfectly restored. I had done extensive mechanical modifications to it, or paid to have it done. The motor was one thing, but the hardened frame and the off-road package was mild as this was mostly a daily driver… but I’d had a very heavy push bumper put on, otherwise known as brush guards. Unlike brush guards, this was solid steel and it was mounted to my improved frame.

  It still hurt.

  “Dammit, you dumb—”

  The deer didn’t go under the wheels, it hit the brush guard and flew up, barely clipping the top of the windshield, and then flew over and behind me. I looked at the rearview for a moment and saw the guy on the bike try to swerve. He overcompensated, started to fall, and that was when I heard Rose scream a warning.

  “WATCH THE ROA—”

  Another deer had wandered out and, without thinking, or watching, I jerked the wheel. I pulled hard to the right, towards the mountain side, and went through a section of wooden fence and started bouncing across the rocky hillside before hitting a stump of a downed tree and coming to a hard halt. Pain, lots of pain. I tasted copper. Had I been wearing a seat belt? Was I dead? Too much pain to be dead, I decided. I spat, and flecks of red came out in the saliva. Loose teeth? Broken nose?

  I heard a popping sound and saw a purple fog on my right side of my vision. Like a drunk, I looked to the right and then the left before focusing on the diminutive figure flying in front of me.

  “He’s coming,” she said, and then poofed out of my sight again.

  My head cleared as I saw the figure in all black down the incline from where I’d crashed, start walking in my direction. The leather was ripped and simply worn away in parts from road rash. It glistened round the legs as if it was wet. Bloody? I pawed at the door handle and got it open. I got out, facing the advancing figure, fifty feet separating us, yet he relentlessly marched up the hill. Him? Why was it a him? How did I know? Rose? Right.