by Karen Glista
Why did we have to be the ones to move? Why not him and his precious little princess. Grrr!
She fought her tears and then, out of the wild blue, it occurred to her that Grandma Anna had an extra bedroom. She heaved a raspy breath.
I’ll call her as soon as we get to the new house. She’ll come get me.
“Grandma,” she whispered, flooded by memories.
Anna Nolan was born to poor Chippewa parents and raised somewhere in Ontario. That fact was a given, but everything else about her life was a mystery, taboo, not something anyone talked about, at least not openly. What little she had heard, Donja learned at a young age by eavesdropping on her parents and even that was a bit foggy. What really stuck in her mind was that Anna and her grandfather, Ardrey Bellanger, got married at a young age, ran away from their Chippewa families, and never returned.
She recalled her father telling her mother that growing up, he was forbidden to talk about Chippewas or Canada and was taught from a young age to lie and say his family originated from Oklahoma. That puzzled Donja and it must have bothered her father as well, for she remembered a Sunday dinner when her grandma and her dad got into a heated argument, first over Chippewas and then over a proposed trip her father was planning to Canada. Aunt Leigh, her father’s younger sister was present that day and thinking back, that was the one and only time she ever attended a family gathering. When the argument escalated, Leigh picked up her plate of food and threw it at Anna. She stormed out of the dining room but not before screaming at both her parents. “You need to stop living a lie and tell your precious son the truth about his heritage,” whatever that meant. The argument turned violent and Donja watched as her grandfather ran after Leigh. They struggled as Donja’s mom dragged her to the safety of the kitchen, but Leigh’s parting words were still burned in her mind. “Just because he’s a fucking man doesn’t mean he gets a pardon. He has a daughter and someday she’ll face the same hell I’ve lived with my entire life!”
They finished out the meal after Leigh’s dramatic departure and when Donja’s dad, in a near whisper, asked what Leigh was talking about, Grandpa Bellanger said it was the booze talking and it might have been, after all Leigh was an alcoholic. Everyone knew it, and though Donja didn’t quite understand at the time, she recalled hearing that Leigh lived man to man, bar to tavern, walking the streets of Benton Harbor.
Shortly after the incident with Aunt Leigh, Donja was helping her dad grill burgers in the backyard of their home while her mother sunbathed on a quilt. She heard her Dad tell her mom that Grandpa Bellanger had bailed Leigh out of jail and brought her home to get her off the streets. The next morning, Leigh had robbed them blind; jewelry, money, guns, the TV, anything she could hock. Four days later, while watching ‘The Price is Right,’ Donja heard the phone and then her dad’s painful moans. Ardrey Bellanger was found in the garage, dead after a massive heart attack. Donja recalled the pain and thinking back, that was about the time when her life first began to unravel. Grandma Anna was shattered, but the worst was yet to come. Six weeks to the day after Ardrey died, Donja’s father, caught in a wrong place, wrong time scenario, fell prey to a terrorist car bombing.
Donja remembered her grandma’s tears and though her mom tried to console her, she was just as lost, pacing the floors, night and day, crying. Eventually Anna recovered, as much as humanly possible, and for the next six years lived only for Donja and Frankie. Now, with her son and husband dead and a daughter ostracized by lies, thievery, prostitution, and alcoholism, the last two constants of her troubled life, her grandkids, were ripped away, thanks to Carson Hampton.
“Wow!” Frankie mused, his face pressed to the tinted windows.
Drawn from a tempest of emotions, Donja glanced out the window and saw a great body of water which she assumed was Lake Superior. Begot by the enchanting sight she unbuckled her seat belt and slid over, spooning Frankie’s body. She felt herself soften, taking in the rolling hills as the Suburban sped past towering trees with sporadic meadows of verdant green. Traversing a winding passage, the St. Mary’s river was suddenly revealed. Silence found them, all eyes on the majestic forest bordering the rocky coastline, and as they rounded a sharp curve, a picturesque lighthouse atop a rocked dome stood like an ethereal guardian of the sparkling depths.
“It’s beautiful,” Donja breathed, surprised by her own words.
“That’s why I couldn’t leave it,” Carson said. “Though I would have if your mother had insisted, but thankfully,” he mused with a loving glance to Lisa, “she fell in love with it too.” Donja watched as her mom leaned over and kissed his waiting cheek. “I do love it here,” she said. “Almost as much as you.”
Donja turned back to gaze upon a tug boat, a barge and several smaller vessels navigating the river.
“Donja, do you feel the power of the land?” her mom asked.
“What do mean?” Donja asked without looking.
“Just that you have Chippewa blood and this is the home of your ancestors.”
“Do you mean Grandma and Grandpa Bellanger?” Donja asked as she met her inquisitive gaze.
“Yes, your bloodlines run deep on the Canadian as well as the U.S. side of Sault Ste. Marie—”
“Which is called ‘the Soo’, by both Americans and Canadians,” Carson interrupted.
“Soo?” Donja questioned with spiked brows.
“Just like it sounds,” he said.
“Hmmm.” She glanced back to her mom. “It’s beautiful, I’ll give it that but no, I don’t really feel anything, but then my Chippewa blood is weak, isn’t it?”
“Your father was full blood Chippewa and although my father was German, my mother was half French and Chippewa, so I have a little.”
“So, Frankie and I are slightly over half?
“Yes.”
“I guess I never thought about it and though I heard Grandma and Grandpa talk about it when they thought I wasn’t listening, it seemed to be taboo.”
“A good choice of words,” Lisa mused. “After your father and I married, it became clear that Chippewas, or anything to do with their heritage was off limits for discussion.”
“Why?” Donja frowned.
“I have no idea, but after Frankie was born, your father suggested getting in touch with the family members in this area and your grandma went ballistic. Your grandfather took your dad aside and they had words. Long story short, your dad let it go. After your grandpa died, your dad informed me that he was planning a trip here, unbeknownst to Anna, but unfortunately…” her words trailed off.
“Dad was killed.” Donja whispered.
“Yes.”
Suddenly, a little uncomfortable talking about her dad in front of Carson, Donja grabbed her earphones.
Maestro began to whine.
The Council
Torin, barefoot and shirtless in loose fitting Nike workout shorts, stepped past double glass doors onto the cedar balcony of his secluded home. Nestled on eighty acres overlooking Lake Huron, it was his escape from reality. He set his stride, muscled calves rippling, and finding the bannister, leaned forward with his washboard abs glistening with sweat. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, his breathing still ebbing from an intense work out. The rash of recent murders played in his mind.
I have got to stop this bastard…it’s almost time for him to feed.
With two fingers, he smoothed his thin mustache, wiped the sweat on his shorts, then gripped the railing his eyes on the shimmering waves of Lake Huron. He spied a monster tugboat breaching the liquid horizon. A plume of smoke rose from its stack and for a moment, it was a welcome distraction. He spun like a well-oiled machine and stretched his arms, biceps complaining after his workout which was, this day, far more intense than his norm. He dropped his head, the pain—no that’s too simple a word, the agonizing misery of a promise now nearing two hundred plus years forcing his jaw tight. He’d promised to protect them. His head jerked up.
It’s not over.
Jus
t off his bedroom, which encompassed the entire third floor, he stepped into a glassed bathroom. The room, done in Italian tiles, hosted a sauna, hot tub, massage table, an indoor exercise pool and a shower with jets that pounded his skin mercilessly. He lathered his body, unable to escape the faces of the murder victims. He closed his eyes recalling the congealed blood, broken nails, decaying semen, the scent of death.
He turned off the water and reached for a towel, swinging his head, water droplets flying. He brushed his teeth then combed his hair, olive skin contrasted by a white towel tied around his narrow waist. He splashed on ‘Creed Aventis’ cologne which sold for over one hundred dollars an ounce, but it was one of the few that could mask his potent scent.
He sighed. Being an Iridescent had its price.
He leaned into the mirror and checked his beard, which was short and smooth, just as he liked it. He unknotted the towel. It slid from his waist, and like a muscled Adonis, headed toward an adjoining closet. He entered the thirty by twenty-foot room, automated lights illuminating organized perfection. He chose Patagonia briefs, tucking himself in nicely and then walked an aisle of suits with boots and shoes to match. He chose Italian black slacks that hugged his body like second skin. He slid his arms into a white silk shirt, open mid chest, topped by a tight black vest that narrowed to his waist, boots to match. He turned to a wall of mirrors his image displayed. It would do. He grabbed his Rolex and took his leave. “Lights,” he said as he left his quarters, darkness falling behind.
~~~
Torin, while navigating a ribbon of highway, snaking itself through a primeval forest, noticed sunlight riveting off his sleek, black Ferrari. He eyed the abandoned stretch through ‘Bentley Platinum’ sunglasses, a Christmas gift from Val, his best friend of three hundred and eighty years. Zooming with the pedal to the metal at one hundred fifty miles per hour, his mind wandered.
Gonna be a tough meeting. Three deaths and no clue as to the predator’s identity.
He bounced his hand upon the steering column.
How the hell am I gonna explain this?
Sixty miles later with picturesque views of Lake Huron visible between breaks in the dense forest, Torin slowed the Ferrari and took a sharp right, easing into a scenic overview. He noticed a black Mercedes, a silver Jaguar and a navy blue Porsche. He parked and got out, the scent of spruce and honeysuckle wafting, but the scent that held his attention was that of ten Iridescents, immortals who like himself, were known to his lineage as Affiliates. He set his path, aware of their eyes, and though they were out of sight he could visualize each of them by their scent. Down a set of steep wooden steps, he crisscrossed the forested hillside to a rocky overview. His stride faltered, Lake Huron before him. Magnificent. He took a breath, crisp and fresh and just offshore spied a yacht, one of the more expensive ones. Like a queen to the throne, she rode the swells, a Canadian flag her crowning glory. He took a deep breath, the scents of Affiliates and Council members aboard the yacht adrift in the breeze. At the shoreline, he stepped into an aluminum craft, a two-seater and after a brief glance to the Affiliate behind the wheel, sat down. The Affiliate fired the engine and the craft lunged, waves splashing as it cut a path toward the yacht.
On board, Torin was immediately frisked by two dark skinned Affiliates. They escorted him amid shared utterances in French, below deck.
“Merci,” Torin said as he bypassed a door with heavy muscled guards. He entered the hull of the yacht which was large, with an expansive table that monopolized one end. Six rows of velvet padded chairs spanned the breadth of the room. He smoothed his vest and a cursory glance to the wall revealed hulking Affiliates, killers, a needed necessity should tempers flare. He took note of a small bar with six barstools and a bartender in solid black, tall and lean. En route to the chairs, he noticed two Council members, better known as Siruns, seated at the table and though his pulse quickened, as it always did in their presence, he forced it to slow, a physiological ability he had mastered over the years. The Siruns, who were, the supreme elites of all Radiant Iridescents, eyed him aggressively as he took a seat at the back. He leaned back in the chair, eyes steady, hopeful of an auspicious meeting, though truth be known, the palpable tension warned of impending angst. He scanned their faces.
Only two Siruns, there’s usually five. Wonder where the other three might be?
“Torin,” said one of the Siruns, a polished man, dressed to kill in a three-piece suit. “We appreciate you arriving on time,” he remarked sarcastically.
Torin dipped his head respectively then locked eyes with the Sirun as an Affiliate, tray in hand served him, as well as the Sirun at his side, a cocktail. He was a hulking man, with dark, ebony skin, often referred to as ‘Garret the Great,’ a title used disparagingly by Lesser Iridescents who either feared or despised him. He had an air of superiority, demanding of attention, though Torin doubted it was worthy. Rumors circulated that he was a scoundrel, a womanizer and that he frequented brothels worldwide, devouring females like candy. Gossip of late depicted him to also have a fancy for oriental boys, young boys, ten and under, not for sex but male blood not yet tainted by testosterone. It was a strange delicacy and the thought made Torin’s skin crawl, but he didn’t dare show disrespect, none would, for death would surely follow.
Garret sipped his drink, ice cubes clinking. “Before your untimely arrival,” he said, “I was hearing from the Michigan Peacekeeper, that to his knowledge, you have not yet apprehended the rogue Iridescent.”
“That’s true,” Torin said.
“Disappointing,” Garret replied, his shaved skull reflecting the overhead lights. He finished off his martini.
“Do you have any leads?” Antonio, the second Sirun asked.
Torin met his gentle eyes, thick brown curly hair trailing his back, and noticed his jaw which twitched, but it wasn’t nerves, nor fear. This Sirun, weighing in at no more than one hundred twenty pounds was by far the most powerful U.S. Iridescent alive. He was a true elder, the ‘Grand Sirun,’ rumored at eight hundred and ninety years of age, though others argued he was much older.
Torin dipped his head out of true respect, then slowly raised his chin to meet his gaze, carefully choosing his words. “I have his body scent, thick with pheromones as well as the sour waft of his semen. I have imprinted his teeth marks which he left to taunt me on his victim’s skin. I have his hair color which is as golden—”
“You have one of his hairs?” Antonio interrupted.
“Yes, thanks to my associate Gage and I assure you, sir, that by this evidence alone I will know him on sight.”
“And this hair you speak of, did it lend evidence to his lineage?” Antonio asked with a tilt of his head.
“Regrettably no, just that he is old. Very old.”
“Well,” Antonio said with a haunting tone. “I must agree with Garret. This is disappointing.”
Torin blinked warily. “I understand your feelings, sir, but this has a been a challenge and just so that you’re aware, I was only called for the second and third victims. Adam, the Michigan Peacekeeper investigated the first,” he said, with a fleeting glance to a dark-haired man seated to his side.
“He’s correct,” Adam Mason, a full blood Chippewa, seated not two feet from Torin’s side spoke up. “As I told you earlier, I, along with detective Moyle examined the first victim near the International Bridge in Michigan and Torin the second, outside a nightclub in Ontario. I believe the third was in the heart of downtown.”
“Correct,” Torin said.
“Interesting,” Garret said, “he obviously roams both countries, killing at will.”
“For now,” Torin said, “but this evening, I will be out and about the Canadian Soo and if he makes the night scene, I will find him.”
“I have no doubt that you will, Mr. Mancini,” Antonio said as he quaffed his cocktail and placed the glass on the table.
“Come now, Antonio, you give him far too much credit,” Garret countered. He raised his empty glass to
the waiter, motioning for refills.
Antonio stood up and smoothed his dark suit. Ignoring Garret’s comment, he eased around the table and marched toward Torin.
Torin rose to his feet as Antonio extended his hand. “Always a pleasure,” Antonio said.
“The pleasure is mine,” Torin said, towering over him as they shook hands. Antonio leaned in. “As a Peacekeeper, I know you understand the delicate nature of this situation, Mr. Mancini. Take care of it—quickly. We can’t have a rabid dog drawing attention to our kind, now can we?”
“I will do my best, sir.”
Antonio gripped his upper arm. “I know that you will and now, if you don’t mind, my daughters waiting.”
“How is she? Torin asked. “I haven’t seen her in forever.”
“She’s well,” he said. “I didn’t realize you knew her.”
“Only by scent, we’ve never formally met, but I have seen her out and about the Soo.”
“Ahhh. Marie does love shopping. She has a new beau, dropped that bombshell on me last night, so we’re jetting off to Geneva to meet him.”
“Have a good trip.”
“Thank you,” he said as he took his leave. Nearing the door, he paused, turned his head to one side and spoke over his shoulder. “Keep me informed of your progress, Mr. Mancini.”
“Yes, sir,” Torin said. He watched his departure, then sensing Garret’s eyes upon him, spun to face him. “Anything else, sir?”
“Find the sonofabitch and bring him to me, alive.” Garret sneered.
“Yes sir.” He headed for the door.
“Don’t disappointment me!” Garret called out. “And he best be alive. I want his nuts in my hand, do you hear me, Mancini?”
Torin turned and bowed. “Loud and clear, sir. Loud and clear.”
Hampton Manor
When the Suburban turned off I-75 onto River Ridge Road which was heavily forested, not a house in sight, Donja grimaced. She had hoped for a home in the city, some semblance of society with cable TV and internet access. Minutes later Carson slowed and took a sharp left past twin rock pillars topped with century old statues of lion heads. “We’re home,” he beamed.