by Eliza Grace
“No, this is different. It’s like—” Hoyt is startled into silence as the hawk-like creature descends once more, this time crashing into the hood of the car. The impact is so great that the front end dips down and the rear end pops upwards. Jon, who’s not wearing a seatbelt, hits the ceiling and yelps. Somehow Archie, who’s seated between the two in the backseat, continues to breathe gently as he sleeps.
“What the heck…” I trail off as Jen comes to a screeching halt. The bird is now triple… no, five times its original size. Its back is to us, broad and covered in dark brown feathers dipped in a mesmerizing cobalt blue. Its head is held low so that we can only see the tip of a feather crown.
“Harpy,” Jon breathes out. “You need to drive, Jen. Fast.”
“It’s on the freaking hood!” Jen whisper-screams. “What do I do? Hit the gas and hope it falls off?” She leans forward, looking down at the great beast’s talons. “The claws are sunk into the metal. Jesus Christ.”
A sharp metallic crunch brought all eyes to the harpy. It was yanking its feet upwards, releasing them from their hold on the hood. It turns, slowly, its face eventually coming into view. As we watch, the sunflower yellow beak melts forward and downward, creating a chin of sorts. The eyes grow larger and more angled, sprouting black lashes. Along its chest… her chest… are two rows of breasts covered in thin orange feathers. “Whereeeeeee ammmmmm IIIIIIIIIIIIII?” The harpy drags the words out, they are almost a reptilian hiss instead of a birds whistle.
We are all too scared to answer.
“Whooooooooooooooooooooo caaaaaged meeeeeeeeeeeeeeee?” She asks a new question and shifts her body to point down the road, exactly in the direction of Jen’s house.
“You are free now, harpy. Why concern yourself with the past?” It’s Jon’s voice. I hear the pull of a door handle, the swing of hinges. Jon’s getting out.
“Get back in here,” I try and reach for him over the seat, but he’s too fast.
He leans back in, gives us one of his smiles. “I’ll distract it. You get back to the house with Archie. Take care of him and figure out our next move. I’ll meet you there when I can.”
“But Jon,” I try to reason with him, but he closes the door fast.
“Come on, Harpy.” Jon’s voice is muffled now with the door closed. “You’re a hunter. How about a little chase.”
“Youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu?” The harpy moves in a predatory way, cocking her head left and right, assessing Jon. “Youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu areeeeeeeeeeeee nooooooooooooooooo chaaaaaalleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeenge.”
“Then catching and eating me will be a piece of cake.” Jon shrugs, turns his head to wink at me, and then takes off in a flash. The harpy screams like a banshee, head back and eyes closed. Then she too takes off, wings flapping angrily.
Jen starts driving, but I’m ripping the dash for dear life looking at where Jon has disappeared.
“He’ll be okay, Tilda,” Jen says in a hollow voice.
“Promises, promises,” I whisper one of Jon’s sayings. You better be okay, you idiot.
A vampire versus a harpy? No problem. The witchfinder is teasing me and I wish he was real again, with a body that I can hurt. As it stands, I cannot hurt him really… because he is me for all intents and purposes.
Just shut up. Shut up and leave me alone for a while.
As you wish. Amazingly, he falls silent.
I see movement behind some houses on the way out of town, but nothing like the harpy appears to impeded our journey home. And when we pull in behind the house, parking near the giant oak, I can breathe a little easier, though my worry for Jon is acid in my stomach.
The house looks no worse than when we left this morning, though I cringe again to see the damage the shadow beasts did to the beautiful building. Cracks run the exterior; I can see the shimmering magic put in place by the fairies. I wonder if the others can. Maybe Jen, since she too is a witch.
Hoyt brings the wheelchair to me first before helping the unconscious police officer.
“I really don’t know how I’m going to explain this to the insurance company,” Jen muses as she helps Hoyt support Archie. “Hi, yes. I’ve got major structural damage. How, you ask? Oh… you know… shadow creatures put the squeeze on the building. Monsters tend to be pretty strong it seems.”
I laugh, a startled bird sound. “I wish that were the biggest problem we had, Jen.”
“Me too,” she says bleakly, all humor gone.
You know, the house will be fixed too. No worries for poor Aunt Jen who took in the cripple and invited so much trouble. All you have to do is trust me and keep your end of the deal, little witch.
Trusting you… is easier said than done, witchfinder. His words hurt though. So very much.
Reality Check
I need to shower, really badly, I realize after we’ve set Archie up in the studio. The couch isn’t bad, Jen’s napped on it plenty of times. He’s bandaged and snoozing under an ancient quilt, his head tucked atop a humorous throw pillow and a ragged stuffed rabbit.
“I’m going to go clean up,” I say. “Then we can talk about what’s next.”
“And you’ll consider all options? Not just doggedly stick to the ‘let’s go out into the danger-filled murder forest’?” Jen eyeballs me meaningfully.
“Yes, I will listen. We can talk about a plan. But if you and Hoyt can’t come up with something better than ‘trust the evil dude in my head who has answers’ plan, then you guys have to shut up and let me do what I think is right.” I return Jen’s gaze. She doesn’t flinch. There’s no way in heck she’s going to let me go through with what she thinks is a crazy idea.
“You want to shower?” Jen calls after me as I’m wheeling myself from the kitchen.
“Yeah.”
“I’ll come help.”
“No, I think I can do it. If I need you, I’ll yell.”
I get a change of clothes, an oversized silky tunic, a pair of stretchy leggings, and underwear. I push my way into the bathroom, getting the door closed behind me and setting the outfit on the sink. There are shower caps and medical tape in the bottom cabinet drawer to wrap up the collection bag, but I need to empty it first. Again, I face the fact that it’s time for a new bag altogether and a doctor’s eye on the set-up to make sure everything’s copasetic, but the last thing I have time for right now is the nuances of paraplegia health.
When I’m undressed, which takes me longer than I care to admit, I empty the collection bag and rinse it out well with hot soapy water before putting it back in place. Technically, I don’t have to wear it in the shower. But I also don’t want to… go on myself while I’m trying to get clean.
The plastic showering cap goes on next. They were Jen’s idea, and kind of brilliant. They fit well over the bag and then I just tape the top together. Regardless, as soon as I’m done showering, I’ll remove the plastic and make sure the bag doesn’t need to be dried, make sure the seal is okay. Spastic bladder is… totally awesome. Not. The doctor had tried me on a bladder relaxing medication at one point. Holy dry mouth. I’d hated the stuff.
Of course, all of this was the easy part. The hardest bit? Transferring from the wheelchair to the shower bench. It stuck out a little from the shower and the armrest didn’t extend the entire width, so I could grab it and slide my butt onto the edge for some stability. But I still had to navigate past the wheelchair arms, not snag my collection bag, not fall. I wonder for a second if it wouldn’t be simpler to just call Jen and have her help me.
No, try first. You’re not incapable of doing this, Tilda.
So I try. I really give it my gosh darn all.
And I end up stuck on the floor between the wheelchair and the bathtub.
I stay there for a while, sobbing my heart out, wishing my life was different. My tears only stop flowing when I hear a gentle voice on the other side of the door. “Tilda, sweetheart. I’m going to come in now, okay?”
I never lock the door to the bathroom.
Becau
se something like this might happen.
That doesn’t make it any less mortifying when Jen enters, a look of understanding on her face. I’ve no way to cover myself. Just me, her naked crying niece, stuck on the floor like the broken bird she is. “I thought I could do it,” I whisper weakly. “I’ve got to be able to do stuff for myself.”
“You do a lot for yourself, Tilda. This is a big thing here. You’ve not practiced it on your own. Do you remember how long it took you to figure out how to get in and out of bed?”
“Dozens of tries, dozens of falls.” My voice shakes as Jen picks up a towel and places it over my body and then hooks her arms under my own arms and begins to lift me, knees bent to take the weight like the therapists have taught her.
“Dozens of tries. Dozens of falls,” she repeats. “And now you can do it, no problem. I don’t even worry about you falling anymore.”
More tears fall from my eyes. I can’t stop them. “I feel worse than useless sometimes, Jen. I feel like it’s not worth living in this body if I can’t learn to do everything myself. I can’t rely on you the rest of my life.”
“You won’t need to,” Jen comforts, now helping me shift into the tub and slide onto the bench there. “Before all this happened and you disappeared, Hoyt said you guys made progress. That you felt something in your legs. Right?”
I nod.
“Then there’s hope. And while there’s hope, then there’s a reason to stay in this body. And listen, kid. Even if that hope is one hundred percent gone, you listen to me when I say you make this world better. You’re going to do something amazing, and it might be because your life has led you to this body.” She repositions the towel around me and then makes sure the shampoo and conditioner and soap are within reach. “Hey, do you understand what I’m saying?”
I nod again. “I love you, Aunt Jen.”
She smiles, “I know, Tilda. Now shower. I’m ready to talk you out of your insane plan and if you wait too long, I’m going to have an even longer list of reasons why your idea is terrible.”
When she’s gone, I breathe deeply before turning on the water.
Can I do something amazing with my life? Will this body be the key to wonderful things?
I don’t think so, but I love Jen for her view of the world.
***
“Coffee?” Hoyt asks, offering me a mug of steaming, pale liquid.
“No,” I offer no explanation. I don’t even say thanks. I could have said that. ‘Thanks, Hoyt, but no thanks.’ But I don’t, because Jon still hasn’t arrived at the house. He’s still out there somewhere, possibly hurt, maybe dead. Because he led the harpy away to keep us safe. That aligned with everything I knew about the vampire boy. That he was a jerk sometimes, broody, acting like he didn’t care about anyone but himself. Yet, when push came to shove, Jon gives himself over to kindness and the act of doing good.
“I’m sure he’ll be here any minute,” Hoyt says, setting the mug in front of me. He’s read my mind. He doesn’t sound angry. Resigned maybe.
“I don’t want any coffee, Hoyt.” I push the cup away, the ceramic so hot that it feels like my fingertips are singed after pulling them back to cradle in my lap.
“Fine,” Hoy says as he walks away to lean against the counter. “Then let’s talk about how an evil dude has set up shop in your brain and he’s trying to convince you to go skipping off into the woods.”
“I’m ready to talk,” Jen says cheerfully, sitting down at the table across from me and flipping open a notebook that looks completely riddled with red writing in bullet form. “I’m up to twenty reasons and counting about why doing anything the witchfinder suggests is super dumb.”
“You guys aren’t going to give me a chance, are you?” Fighting a smile, because it’s almost endearing how prepared Jen is, as if she’s studying for an important exam or something. “Fine. Let’s talk.”
“Great! I’ll go first,” Jen begins, but I hold up a hand to stop her.
“No, listen. I’m the one with a sadistic witch murderer in my head. Let me talk.” I sit up a little straighter and prepare to give the most convincing argument of my life. It’s absolutely going to rock the perceptions of everyone in the room.
I open my mouth to speak, and something slams into the backdoor so hard that it splits down the middle.
“Holy crap,” Hoyt breathes, stepping away from the busted door quickly.
“A little help,” a quiet, but familiar voice says hoarsely. “I did save you from the big bad harpy after all.”
“Jon!” I say excitedly, trying to mentally ignore the fact that he sounds like he’s been beaten to death. I’m so glad that I am sitting in the wheelchair. Typically, I’d have transferred into a proper chair to practice, but I’d been worried and frustrated and I’d just shoved one of the chairs out of the way instead and pulled up to the table. I back away so quickly that I catch the hem of the tunic in the wheels and have to move forward again to loosen it. I tuck the extra material between my legs and try again. Hoyt and Jen are already at the door, pulling the impact-ravaged entrance open.
Jon is crumpled just outside, his legs stretched down the ramp, his face bloody.
“Oh my gosh,” I breathe out as Hoyt and Jen lift him up and drag him inwards.
“What, never seen a supernatural, unstoppable, crazy-strong vampire bleed?” He gives me a cock-eyed smile that makes his bruised, battered face look way worse.
“Don’t smile,” I say automatically.
“Dang, that hurts, Tilda. Didn’t think you were cruel.”
“No, I mean it’s got to hurt. What in the world happened?” I have to roll out of the way as Jon is brought deeper into the kitchen. Jen lets go to reclose the door and Hoyt finishes the journey to the table, helping Jon sit down.
I grab the plaid kitchen towel and soak it down with cool water. Nothing is easy for me now, not turning on the water or turning it off or wringing out the towel in the sink so it’s not dripping everywhere. I do it though. I can keep doing things and fighting for normalcy.
At Jon’s side, I lift the folded wet towel to swipe away the dirt and blood from his face and neck. At first, he leans away quickly, not wanting to be touched. He quirks an eyebrow, starts to say something and then stops, yet then he leans towards me and nods almost shyly. I wipe his cheek; the first touch only serves to further smear and streak the muckiness. I must look worried, because Jon smiles again. “Hey, I’m okay. Most of the blood isn’t mine. Harpy and deer.”
“Deer?” The reason there’s animal blood on him should be obvious, but I’m being dense.
“I got pretty hurt. Feeding helps that.”
“You ate a…” My voice trails off.
“No, I drank a…” he lets his voice trail off.
I grimace and I keep wiping until all I see is pale skin that doesn’t look as if it’s had even a moment’s sun in decades.
“It might have been quicker to shower,” Hoyt grumbles. He’s stayed still and quiet as I’d worked on Jon. I turn to look at him and there’s a shadow over his eyes, like his own sun is setting and he wonders if it will rise again. I’m hurting him by caring for Jon. I don’t know how to explain that Jon isn’t his rival. I have feelings for him, but they are not the same. If love can be measured, scales and weights, Hoyt is touching the very bottom of my heart, yanked down by that kiss in the meadow, the triumphant moments of progress in therapy, and the stories he’s told me of his life before we’d met.
“Probably,” I shrug, feeling a little dumb.
“Not nearly as nice though,” Jon says teasingly, which only causes the shadows to grow deeper over Hoyt’s face.
“Stop,” I push back from him, dropping the now-filthy towel into my lap.
“I think I’ve got some clothes that will fit him,” Jen’s voice calls me to her. She’s in the doorway, arms crossed, looking at me like I’m an alien. “Come on, Tilda. You can help me pick something. I’m sure there’s a box of your dad’s stuff up in the attic.
I’ll pull it down.”
“You need me for that?” I question suspiciously.
“Yep,” she nods and turns around.
I look from Hoyt to Jon, biting my lower lip, considering whether it’s smart to leave them alone in the same room. “Be nice, okay?” I direct the command to both of them.
“I will if he will,” Hoyt says, going to pour another cup of coffee for himself. Jon just does his Jon thing—a noncommittal shrug, all the niceness zapped away now that I’m leaving and he has no one to put his show on for. How can he be so two-spirited? Full of vinegar and cockiness one second, then throwing himself in the way of danger to save people the next. That was another reason I couldn’t love him like I loved Hoyt. Love should be a constant thing with a person you understand, a person that completes you. Love with Jon wouldn’t be boring… but it wouldn’t be steady either.
Slowly, feeling like I was rolling towards my doom, I follow Jen to her room. It’s slightly bigger than my own, but feels smaller because of all the finished canvases leaning against every surface. She’s already got the attic access pulled down. Her yellow shoes are on nearly the top rung as she pushes boxes around and searches for the one she wants. “Ah, here it is,” she says triumphantly, her voice muffled by the ceiling. “I knew I’d kept those clothes your folks left here. I always said I’d mail them back and I never did.”
She comes down with a sizeable box.
“When did they leave that much clothing?” I ask, curiously.
“When you guys moved away, they stored some boxes here. This one was missed in the shuffle.” She grabs a pallet knife from the end table, why it is there is anyone’s guess, and she slices open the tape.
“Nope, nope, nope,” she says as she yanks out clothing. “Maybe,” she tosses a white button up into a new pile. Then a blue shirt. Then a pair of shorts.
“I don’t really see Jon as a shorts guy,” I comment off hand, taking those back out of the pile and adding them to the rejects. “Any pants?”