Dark Vigil

by Gary Piserchio

  “Wow, I can really be stupid,” she said out loud. She’d been so pissed at Mom and the trip really didn’t seem like a big deal. And maybe some other time it wouldn’t have been, but right then, it was a dick move on her part. Classic Calico self-absorption—how else would Mom and Dad see it?

  She pulled out her phone and opened her Uber app, even though her ride to the airport was still right behind her.

  “Callie!” It was Maggie and Stephanie.

  Oh, crap. It would have been so much easier if she hadn’t run into anyone. They scurried across multiple lanes, their carry-ons hissing over the concrete. They did a group hug on the sidewalk.

  “I am so excited!” said Maggie.

  “This is going to be great.”

  Calico gave a horrible fake smile. “Awesome.”

  And then the bottom fell out of her world. Across one of the lanes of traffic stood Cait Sidhe, outlined in purple, gold eyes glowing, tail twitching. Calico shivered and her heart raced. Something was horribly wrong.

  Maggie frowned. “What’s the matter?”

  “You’re shaking like a leaf,” said Stephanie.

  “I—I have to go.”

  Both girls yelped, “What?” at the same time.

  Calico grabbed her carry-on and ran out into traffic, causing an SUV to slam on its brakes. She ran to the line of taxis, not wanting to waste even a minute for an Uber to show up.

  “Where are you going?” yelled Maggie.

  She didn’t look back or answer, pushing a guy out of the way as he opened the back door to a taxi. She leaped in and shouted for the cabbie to drive. The man stood gaping at her, but he shut the door and the cab took off. She heard her friends’ muffled shouts.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  It was a thirty-five-minute ride out to the Lakewood suburb from DIA. The young man driving tried several conversation starters, but Calico ignored him. It took him ten minutes to finally shut up. Calico had her phone out and pressed the call button for Mom, then for Dad. Repeat. They didn’t answer. After several minutes she texted them both CALL ME!!! and returned to trying to call.

  As the driver pulled up to Mom and Dad’s house, she threw her entire cash-gambling money into the front seat and leaped from the cab before it came to a stop, the driver yelling at her. She stumbled, found her footing, and ran across the lawn. Oh, fuck. The front door was ajar a couple of inches.

  She pushed it open and shouted, “Mom? Dad?”

  The lights were on downstairs, so it wasn’t that they were asleep and had turned off their phones. Then her heart stopped. It’s strange what the brain registers as it tries to parse something unexpected. The first thing she saw was the overturned coffee table across the room. One of the three lamps in the living room was on the floor, the shade smashed flat. The couch upside down, the bottom ripped open.

  It was only after she registered the disarray that she noticed the blood.

  It stained the living room carpet, glistening wetly. Then she saw a large splatter of blood across the couch, hitting the wall behind it. A trail of blood led to the stairs.

  “Oh, no,” she whispered.

  Someone had walked through so much blood that they left a clearly defined footprint on each carpeted riser—except the footprints were coming down the stairs.

  Behind her, someone said, “Holy fuck!”

  She whirled and lashed out, driving her fist into a man’s face. He sprawled backward onto the front porch. It was the taxi driver holding five one-hundred-dollar bills.

  She turned and ran up the stairs, avoided as best she could the still-wet blood. The trail turned the corner at the top and headed down the hallway to Mom and Dad’s room. She stumbled and fell when she saw their closed door. In the middle of its white paint was a single bloody dripping handprint.

  She crawled to the door and opened it. Something was wrong with her eyesight. Why had everything turned red? Blinking, her mind couldn’t process. Wouldn’t process. It took several moments.

  There was blood.

  Everywhere.

  On the walls, the ceiling, the floor. The room was painted in it. She tried to breathe, but her lungs wouldn’t work.

  She didn’t see Mom and Dad at first. Then they came into focus, lying on the bed at her eye level. Mom was on her back, her head lolling over the edge, her throat torn open. Her dead eyes, still glistening, burned into Calico’s and seared straight through her. Dad was on the other side of the bed, his own head at an impossible angle. They’d both nearly been decapitated.

  Calico shook uncontrollably. A sound from deep within her chest pushed up through her throat. Not quite a groan or a scream or anything she’d ever heard come out of her before.

  It was the sound of her heart breaking.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Calico sat in the back of an ambulance parked in the middle of the street in front of her parents’ house. They checked her out, made sure the blood they found on her wasn’t hers, then draped a blanket over her shoulders. A bottle of water found its way into her hand. She was told a detective would see her shortly.

  From her angle she could see the front yard, lit up in flashing red, white, and blue lights. She stared at one of Dad’s flowerbeds at the edge of the yard next to the street. Lovingly tended, a host of blooming flowers cast disjointed shadows as the lights strobed across the yard.

  A lot of police went in and out of the house. The street was a parking lot of police cars and SUVs, two of them with Crime Laboratory on the sides. There was also the medical examiner’s vehicle. The taxi driver had called the cops. He held a cold compress to his face as he talked to a man with a police ID hanging from his neck.

  A plainclothes policewoman approached and sat next to Calico. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’m Detective Martinez of the Lakewood Police Department. Are you okay to answer some questions? It can wait until tomorrow.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Calico cleared her throat and spoke more loudly. “Go ahead.” Just ask your fucking questions already.

  After covering the basics, like what time she’d gotten there, Detective Martinez asked, “Do you know anyone who would want to do this to your parents?”

  Calico shook her head. You mean other than the dark creatures who are out in the night right now probably watching us?

  “You have no idea who might have done this?”

  She shook her head again.

  “They tore the house apart,” said the detective. “Maybe looking for something. Did your parents have anything valuable—outside of their everyday belongings?”

  “Calico?” It was a man’s voice.

  She looked up and it took her a moment. “Winston? What are you doing here?”

  “I saw your parents’ house on the news, and I rushed over. Are you okay?” He wore a white long-sleeve t-shirt and jeans.

  She was surprised to feel happy about seeing him. No, happy wasn’t the right word. She put out her arms as he stepped closer. He held her for a moment mumbling about being sorry.

  “And you are?” asked the detective.

  He backed away from Calico and the ambulance. “Uh, I’m Winston Doyle. I kinda work for the Meaghers.”

  “Worked,” muttered Calico without thinking.

  Winston went quiet for a moment. “Yeah.” He looked between the women. “How’d it—who did this?”

  Martinez said, “Can I ask you a few questions?”

  “Of course.”

  The detective glanced at Calico. “Let’s talk over here.”

  The two walked off a dozen yards.

  Calico didn’t know how long she sat in the back of the ambulance before Winston came back. “Won’t ask how you’re doing, but do you want a lift home? I can swing by your place in the morning and we can come get your car then.”

  She blinked at him a few times before the words registered. “I took a taxi.”

  He stood there a few more moments before he held a hand out.
“The detective said you could go.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Now? Yeah, okay.”

  He pulled her gently to her feet and walked beside her to his car, an older model two-door Mazda. She got in and smelled stale French fries, then saw three Goodtimes burger bags around her feet.

  Thankfully, he didn’t try to talk to her. She didn’t remember much of the ride home.

  She blinked at him as he stood next to her, the car door open. He held out his hand. She looked at him, confused. Why had they stopped? Then she saw her townhouse behind him. How’d they get there so fast? She let him help her out and up to the front door.

  She stared at the door. Someone stood next to her. Was she supposed to go in? Her thoughts tumbled slowly without any coherence. She winced and sucked air as images of her parents’ bedroom—of her parents—cycled through her damaged mind.

  The man next to her reached for the doorknob. “It’s locked,” he said.

  Of course it was locked. Shouldn’t it have been locked? She squinted at him for a moment or two. Winston. That was his name.

  “The keys are in your hand,” he said softly.

  She looked down. Sure enough. It took her mind another moment to figure why she needed the keys, then she managed to isolate her front door key and get it into the deadbolt, turning it. As she reached for the doorknob, the keys fell. She started reaching for them and Winston swooped down and grabbed them, put them back into her hand. He opened the door.

  “There you go,” he said, stepping back.

  Frowning, she stepped into her small foyer.

  “Excuse me,” said Winston.

  She turned back.

  He smiled sadly at her. “Is it okay if I come in? Help you get settled?”

  She looked at him for a while, then finally nodded. “Yeah. Come in.”

  He stepped inside and closed the door. Calico walked through the living room and dropped her keys and purse on the dining room table. She turned to her black buffet against the wall and grabbed the tall elegant St-Germain bottle of pale-yellow liqueur. It was three-quarters full. She drained it to halfway before turning back to Winston, holding it out to him.

  He shook his head. “No, thanks.”

  The taste of the alcohol and the simple act of swallowing helped clear her head a bit. She looked at Winston, standing awkwardly in her living room. She said, “This—this must be tough on you, too.”

  Winston sighed and half shrugged. “It’s not easy. When I met your folks—”

  Her brief moment of clarity evaporated, and she wandered toward the kitchen with the bottle in hand. She didn’t really care. No, that wasn’t right. She couldn’t care. Not right then.

  She wondered if she’d ever care again. About anything. She didn’t see how she ever could.

  Standing at the sink, she stared at her faded reflection in the window overlooking her small backyard. Was that even her? It felt like looking at a stranger.

  “Are you okay?”

  She jumped and dropped the bottle. It bounced inside the stainless-steel sink but didn’t break. She’d forgotten Winston was even there.

  She put a hand to her chest and looked at him. “Fuck.”

  “I’m—I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine what you must be going through.”

  “Don’t try.” She fished the bottle out of the sink. It was almost empty. She finished it and plodded past Winston back to the buffet and the rest of her booze.

  Winston followed. He was beginning to irritate her, now that she remembered he was there.

  He said, “I hate to have to ask you this, but it’s kinda urgent.”

  “What?”

  “The books, we need to make sure they’re safe. Did you see them when you were inside earlier? I mean, they hadn’t been stolen, had they?”

  She frowned, looking for the bottle of vodka. She still had some vodka, didn’t she?

  He grabbed her arm rather hard. “Are you listening to me? We need to make sure—”

  She stared at his hand. He let go.

  “Who did that to my parents? Did you see all the blood? So much fucking blood. Everywhere. Was the killer angry at them? Is that why he was so brutal?”

  Winston looked helpless. Her mind briefly rose above dark dark waters. She shivered and rubbed a clammy hand over her face. “Sorry. You were saying?”

  “Do you know for sure that your family books are safe?”

  She shrugged.

  “It’s important. They weren’t in their usual place when I got there. If your mom had time to hide them, any idea where that would be?”

  Calico shrugged.

  “Please think. Concentrate. Where might she hide them?”

  “No idea.”

  Winston’s shoulders sagged. “Well, you’re no fucking help.”

  Calico smiled at his distress. “Sorry.” She almost giggled. Okay, that had to be from the shock. Or the alcohol. Or a nervous breakdown. That would be a marked improvement over the current situation.

  Winston’s smile disappeared and he punched her in the face. She sprawled backward on the floor, pain blooming. She was stunned, pissed, and—thankful? The intense pain was a welcome break from the thoughts twisting inside her head.

  He kicked her viciously, mostly connecting with her chest. She covered her breasts and cried out, instinctively rolling away from him. It’d been a solid kick and hurt like a bitch. Now she was just pissed.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  He kicked her in the back, about where her left kidney was. More pain.

  “Where the fuck are the books!” he yelled. “Where are they?”

  She rolled away on the hardwood floor toward the kitchen, but not fast enough. During one revolution she saw him take a few steps and then whip his leg forward like he was kicking a soccer ball. She tried to jerk out of the way and he only managed a glancing blow that still hurt like hell.

  She rolled up onto her hands and knees and crawled as fast as she could into the kitchen, blood from her nose and mouth streaming to the floor in solid lines of red.

  She pulled herself to her feet and grabbed the first knife she touched in the wood block on the counter. It was a thin blade about eight inches long. She whirled and slashed, in case he was right behind her, but the asshole was out of range.

  His face was a mask of rage. “He told me to find those books. Don’t you understand?”

  “Stay away!” She breathed in ragged gulps and grimaced at the pain.

  He glared, then moved forward, feinting right and then slipping to his left. How could he be so fast? It was like fighting Tabby. She couldn’t move the knife that quickly. But even still, as he grabbed for the knife, she managed to slice open his left arm. He didn’t flinch, grabbing her forearm and prizing the knife from her grip.

  The five-inch gash on his arm welled with blood. He tossed the knife behind him. She struck at his chin with her free hand while bringing a knee up sharply into his groin. He grunted, but that was I, as he grabbed her long hair and pulled her head back. Jesus, he fucking snarled at her—and she couldn’t help but notice the four monstrously sharp canines.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “Okay, okay, okay, okay,” said Calico.

  Winston held her tight to his body and sniffed her, nuzzling her neck with his nose and mouth, but not biting. His breath smelled like the dead mouse she’d found in her basement, its little corpse bloated and fresh enough to reek.

  He whispered, “Yes?”

  “I’ll tell you where the books are.” She tried to pull away from his mouth and those teeth, but his hand was around the back of her neck, pressing her forward.

  “So tell me.”

  “They’re here, in my townhouse.”

  “Keep going.”

  “I hid them in the basement. I’ll—I’ll have to show you.”

  Winston stepped back and Calico relaxed ever so slightly before he used the hand behind her neck to fling her across the kitchen.

  Her abdomen crunched in
to the edge of the kitchen island. She cartwheeled to the hardwood floor and through the hall doorway. Had something snapped inside her when she hit the counter? A rib or two? Pain was everywhere so she wasn’t sure. Breathing hurt. A moan escaped her lips without permission.

  She crawled as best she could while Winston cocked his leg back to kick again. She held a hand up and pushed herself shakily to her feet. There was a definite hitch in her side. Hell, she was surprised that shattered ribs weren’t jutting through her skin.

  Instead of kicking, Winston grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him. He was so strong. Pain jangled inside her, making her lightheaded. The hall floor rolled like the storm-tossed deck of a ship. Her stomach clenched, her ribs sending out spikes of pain, and she swallowed in an attempt not to throw up.

  “Where’s the basement?”

  She put a hand on the wall to steady herself and blinked blearily at him.

  He shook her. “Don’t you pass out!”

  “Ow,” she managed to whisper with a hoarse voice. Her head stopped twirling and she said, “There. That closed door.”

  He opened the door, tugging her along. The basement stairs disappeared down into darkness. He flung her into the maw. She screamed and flailed for the handrails. Her hand slapped against and then gripped the rail, stopping her from tumbling down the stairs.

  “Fuck, if you break my neck I can’t—”

  He took two steps down the stairs and kicked her in the side, near her broken ribs. She couldn’t even scream from the pain and somersaulted the rest of the way down.

  Calico woke from dreams of earthquakes and destruction, squinting against the blinding overhead basement lights. Taking a deep breath, she winced, then heard the destruction she’d been dreaming about.

  Winston overturned another of her worktables. Plastic trays flipped in the air, fell, and exploded against the concrete floor, spraying small bits of metal and glass and wood. He stopped and turned slowly, his eyes searching. He’d ransacked everything that wasn’t bolted down. The floor looked to be a foot deep in debris.