The Blood of Seven
Page 32
“Yeah . . . sorry,” he said.
Maggie finished at Derrick’s grave. She always took a little more time at his.
“You ready to go?” Ann asked.
Maggie nodded and took Ann’s hand. The scars on her wrists from the ropes had faded to a silvery reminder of that night, just like the mark on her chest. Ann’s mark had also faded, but it still told her when Maggie was sad or angry or hurt.
Today was one of the days in which being Sophia was exhausting. Though they rarely spoke of that night, Maggie told Ann things, sometimes after her bedtime story when she was on the edge of sleep. She told Ann she could feel Sophia within her, though she’d never felt her before The Night.
Ann had called in Raghib’s body, but when the coroner arrived, Raghib was gone.
Ann had trouble sleeping most of the time. Knowing the Messengers of the Light were still out there, still looking for vengeance and for Maggie, troubled her thoughts. Some day they could all rise up again and come after her, even though their god was gone for good.
All she could do was keep Maggie safe, and by doing so, the world would be as peaceful as it could be.
Epilogue
Six months after The Night
Eight months ago, when Teresa had awoken in a hospital with a severe concussion, most of the memories of what had happened were gone. She knew she’d done something terribly wrong. The police guarding her hospital room door had told her a few things.
“Your husband is dead. Your daughter is in protective custody.”
“Tiffany?” Teresa had said. “When can I see her?”
The officer had shaken his head. “No, Maggie.”
“She’s not my daughter,” Teresa had said. “She’s Derrick’s daughter.” She’d looked out the window at the familiar view of the Rocky Mountains. “Where am I?”
“Mountain View,” the officer had told her.
Teresa now sat in a rocking chair in the common room, gazing out the window. An old leather-bound book, called The Divine Messenger, lay in her lap. She didn’t know who sent it, only that it had been wrapped in paper with her name scrawled in black marker on the top. A red ribbon marked a page two-thirds in. Teresa opened the book and trailed her finger down the page. She’d read the inscription so many times, she had it memorized.
The seven mortal shells shall seek their souls and hunt the one who stole. And in their time of rest, they shall lay down upon the earth to be near to their master.
The page had a crude illustration of a pit with the ‘mortal shells’ laying inside. An image from that night flashed in her mind, forever burned there. The Sheriff and—she squeezed her eyes shut—Derrick laying on top of Louise’s dead cats.
They really had chased her. Or, as the text said, hunted her. And they were in the pit resting, because that was as close as they could get to Yaldabaoth without crossing the barrier and burning up. That had to be it. She would tell her psychiatrist in a few minutes during their session. Her mind was clearer than it had been since they brought her here. Since The Night Yaldabaoth betrayed her.
A nurse came and guided Teresa to the therapy room.
“I’m ready to tell you the truth,” she said to her therapist, her smile stretching her chapped lips.
The doctor turned on his digital recorder and nodded at her.
She began by telling him about Mother’s desire to teach her to be a good wife, a good mother, and how social pressures got the best of her. Social pressures and Teresa’s desire to be the perfect wife and mother and how the loss of her child was more than she could handle.
Dr. Andrews nodded, his eyes shining and hopeful.
“When my child came to me and told me we could be happy again, I promised her I would do anything it took.” She nodded. “I stole their souls and gave them to a powerful being named Yaldabaoth. He would bring us all together again. We would be happy.” Her words drifted off when the doctor’s lips tensed. His eyes shifted to the notepad on his desk. A sharp exhale came from his nose as he jotted down notes.
He put the pen down and tented his fingers on the desk. “Is it possible,” he started, his voice tense and a little short. A voice Derrick would have used on her. He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Is it possible you imagined any of this? Maybe you only thought they were chasing you because you were afraid of getting caught?”
Teresa didn’t answer right away. She absorbed his suggestion. What it implied. She’d told him everything she learned from Louise, about the secret organizations, and Maggie’s book. Louise torturing Bram in her basement. She was the town looney, not Teresa.
And still, he didn’t believe her. She looked over his shoulder out the window at the rain clouds gathering in the west.
“Yes,” she said. Her voice hitched. “Yes, that—that must be it.” She lifted her hand and wiped a tear away with her fingertips.
But, the dead did chase her. Her baby came to her. Yaldabaoth promised her life back. Yaldabaoth used her body and her mind. He betrayed her.
Her hand dropped from her cheek and came to rest on her swollen belly. One of the babies inside pushed against her palm.
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Acknowledgements
Just as it takes a group of individuals with special skills to survive a zombie apocalypse, so, too, does it take such a team to produce a book. This book would not have made it into the world without my team:
Angela Alsaleem, who witnessed the first spark of this idea back in 2007 when I titled it The She, in my attempt to write about the “she” in the song “She’ll Be Comin’ ‘Round the Mountain.” I was so not ready to write a novel back then!
Lisa Baker, my brutal project manager and second #1 fan. Without threats from "The Baker" I may not have finished this book ever. Thank you for your encouragement, excitement, and love of my writing.
Pat Carroll, who read this in pieces while I wrote the first draft of this version a few years ago, and who read several subsequent drafts without complaint. Hey Pat! See you next Tuesday!
Michael F. Haspil, author of Graveyard Shift, for years of support, encouragement, and amusing conversations about random topics, which lead to very strange places. You are a true storyteller to your core my friend!
My deepest gratitude goes to my beta readers, who read the "final" version and gave me valuable feedback and even more valuable encouragement and butt-loads of excitement. In addition to Lisa and Pat: Melissa McMurphy, Janice Hodge, Jennifer Baldovinos, Vicki Mullen, Andy Betsch, Amanda Keil, Rachel Whetzel, and Jill Hahn.
Another shout out to Melissa McMurphy, my Universe twin, inspirational goddess, comic relief, cohort in creativity, and so much more! We’re doin’ it! (that’s what she said).
Thank you to Rebecca Rowley of Bexly for giving me permission to be my own target reader and for being with me when I came up with my “horror and more-er” author brand.
The Because Magic OG critique group: Michael F. Haspil, Nicole Green, Vicki Pierce, Chris Scena, Deirdre Byerly, LS Hawker (aka Uluru. Author of The Drowning Game, The Throwaways and other titles), Laura Main, and Marc Graham (author of Song of Songs and other titles). Without these people, I wouldn't be even a quarter of the writer I am today! You guys rock! Everyone should buy their books posthaste. Yes, I said posthaste.
A huge thank you to my editors, Jennifer Chesak of Wandering in the Words Press, and Michael Mann, developmental editor extraordinaire. These two took what I thought was a decentl
y edited final draft of this book and tightened it, chopped it, reorganized it, pointed out its flaws, flogged it, stomped on it, and left it out in the rain like a cake, all while also making sure I knew I had something good here. Your balance of encouragement and red-line beatings pushed me to make this the best damn book it could be!
Another huge thank you to my cover designer and formatter, Michelle Argyle of MW Designs, who took the painting I did for a fake cover and used her mad skills to make it look like a real book cover. I cried when she sent me "The One."
And, of course, my family. My in-laws, Noreen and Daniel Fishback. Thank you for giving me your son. Without his love and support, this wouldn’t have been possible. My parents, May and Barry Brouhard, who never stifled my creative spirit, but fostered it and let it grow and fester into the weeping flesh wound it is today (that’s a good thing, in case you couldn’t tell). My brother, James, for helping me add to my bone collection. Thank you for the cat skull and thank you for putting it on the ant hill to clean the residual flesh from it. And thank you for being weird.
My twin, Melissa “Wissa” Sirevog, who has always been my #1 fan. She pushed me to take this story from what it originally was and develop it into something that would knock her socks off. Thank you for always being by my side, even when we are apart. WTP!
Belle, my muse in the shape of a pit bull mix. Thank you for the long walks and for listening quietly as I explain why I’m stuck. Thank you for silently sending ideas and revelations and ah-ha moments with but a look. Even if that look said, “You are crazy, but I love you.”
And last, but most important, my husband, Tim. My life wouldn’t be what it is without you. You fill it with love, passion, excitement, adventure, and so much support. You understand that 50% of the time (or more) I don’t live in this world. I couldn’t have done this without you, and I wouldn’t be who I am without you. Or alive for that matter.
About the Author
Claire L. Fishback lives in Morrison, Colorado with her loving husband, Tim, and their pit bull mix, Belle. Writing has been her passion since age six. When she isn’t writing, she enjoys mountain biking, hiking, running, baking, and adding to her bone collection, though she would rather be stretched out on the couch with a good book (or poking dead things with sticks).
She can be reached at info@clairelfishback.com for questioning.
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