by Eli Constant
Ouch. The truth stings.
I unzip and riffle about in my duffel bag until I find my phone. I hit the side button and it comes to life. Princess Cop had insisted we all silence our phones. And, indeed, Liam had texted. Twice. “Oh. You did text.” I keep the phone in my hand, and dig around to also find the keys.
“Indeed, I did,” Liam still sounds as smug as possible.
“Fine. You want to talk. Talk. What do you want?” This is at least the third time he’s deflected my wish to talk about what I’d seen in his head. The child with the mahogany eyes. I step away from the fence and walk around him to get to the trunk of the black car. I open it, tossing the gym bag in without care for its contents. It makes a dull thud as it hits the dark carpeting.
When I close the trunk and stand up right, Liam has turned to face me. The cockiness has drained from his expression. “Victoria, I have not been leaving you just to leave you. The Prince of the Dark Court has told Oran where you are. The Light Prince will already have people looking for you. I am trying to deflect their advances. Set them other clues.”
“Oh,” I say, my brain racing and my heart thumping wildly. He’s been protecting me.
Everything I do is to protect you, my Queen.
“Stop,” I mutter angrily. And he knows what I mean. Stay out of my head. If you won’t even talk about what I saw in yours, then stay out of mine.
“If you recall, you were the one who pulled back. You were the one who did not want to see such things.”
“Yeah, well. I’m a girl, Liam. Get used to the damn mixed signals.” I’m stood in front of him now, waiting for him to move away from the driver’s door. He doesn’t budge. And I know that I cannot move him even if I try with all my might. “Move.”
I watch emotions rush across his face like waves, as if now he is the one with mixed signals, pushing his body this way and that. It makes me want to touch his cheek with my fingers, trace along the line of his jaw, help him decide how he should be feeling at this moment.
Of course, he knows what I am thinking as I am thinking it.
He moves forward a few inches, bringing us so close that the skin of my stomach—once again exposed by the stupid shirt that had ridden up when I’d opened and closed the damn trunk—brushes softly against the long, perfectly-tailored coat he’s wearing over a blue button-up shirt. It is his fingers that reach to touch me instead now. They find the waistband of my stretchy yoga pants and then they gently slide across my skin. It causes my body to shake, my heart to race. I nearly drop the keys. They jangle softly against the cellphone I’m gripping for dear life. But my mind stays clear. I’m with Kyle. I don’t cheat. I won’t cheat.
“I know you are with him,” Liam murmurs. He leans over, lowering his head. His lips are the gentlest caress on my neck. “He’s not the one, Victoria. He’s never going to really be the one.”
That’s enough to pull me away from the spell that has my pulse rushing and my skin tingling.
“I decide who the one is, Liam. Not you. Not magic. And not fate. Move.”
And now he does. I open the driver’s side door, and I try not to look at him again. I can’t help myself though.
And now only one emotion arrests his face—hurt.
“Maybe if you’d really talk to me. Not say you’re protecting me. Not try to win my body over when my mind is clearly fighting. Maybe if you told me about…the future you see… maybe then we’d have a chance.”
“And Kyle does that with you? He talks to you about the future, about the ring he’s been carrying around?” The hurt is fading, replaced with a thin defiance.
“How did you know about the—”
He cuts me off before I can finish. “You’ve thought about it, and I know. He might ask you, Victoria. He might give you a clear and present picture of what tomorrow could be. But you are not destined for perfect plans and safe houses. You’re made for greater things. Darker things. Things that will excite and terrify you. He can’t give that to you, even if he is a giant bear prancing about in man skin.”
“Just stop it, Liam. He has a ring in his pocket and you have our child running around in your mind. Are either of those better than the other? Maybe I should leave you both behind and figure out what the hell my future should be. On my own.”
“Your voice says one thing, but your mind says something entirely different.” He presses, so sure of himself, so in tune with what he thinks I want. What my brain is saying.
But you know what? Thoughts are thoughts. And what the fuck you do with them is a totally different story. Bad shit pops into peoples’ minds all the time. If they follow the thoughts, and do the action, then they’re bad. Then they’re evil. If they question why they’re having the thoughts, but push them down and move forward to try and do good? To me… in my heart… that’s inherent goodness.
“Mixed signals, Liam. You can hear my thoughts, but my heart is another matter.”
I slam the driver’s door closed and toss my cell on the passenger seat. When I crank the engine, I wish the little sedan had the loud thrum of the Bronco. The sound the black car makes is too passive, to quiet. I want to roar away from Liam. I have to find a replacement, or a mechanic that won’t charge me an arm and a leg for the massive repairs. Braeden’s done some terrible things in the short time I’ve known he existed, but making me wreck my beloved Bronco topped the list.
I shift into reverse, and go to look at him one more time.
But he’s gone.
And I hate how that causes a lump to form in my throat.
Mixed signals, Tori. Mixed freaking signals.
Chapter Five
Terrance came to be with me when I burned Dominique and Marissa, the parents from the fire. He’d stepped out for air as we’d waited for the ashes to cool before grinding them down. He also rode with me over to the graveyard, following the hearse that carried the two painfully-small caskets. The concrete pourers wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow. But that was fine. The grave would be left uncovered, surrounded by antiquated warning signs about the risk of the dead. And we would pour the ashes now, instead of tomorrow with the concrete. They’d be closer to their children that way.
There’s a bite to the air, despite the trees blooming. I’m not dressed up, as I typically am for a funeral. Today, I am simply in a pair of dark jeans and I wear Adam’s jacket around me like a protective shield against the terrible truth of it all.
“I feel like we should have done an autopsy. We should have done more.” I say it off hand as we watch Dean lower the small caskets one-by-one into the grave that has been dug just a little wider than normal. I’m cradling the ashes, housed in a commercial urn. Nothing fancy. Nothing important. “It doesn’t seem right. You know? Murder victims get autopsies. You look for clues. But here,” I point, my finger lingering in the air longer than necessary. “I know all we’ll find is smoke inhalation. I know how they died. We even might know why they died. But how do we find out who did it, Terrance? How do we find that out when they’re bodies couldn’t give us evidence?”
He’s quiet for a while. The nearly inaudible hiss of the mechanism still lowering the second casket whines around us. “Nails,” he finally said. “If that was important enough to tell you, out of everything the ghost could have told you, then that’s what we concentrate on.”
“We focus on something that makes zero sense?” I question, walking forward to the grave. Staring down at the caskets, which look so very small surrounded by nearly-black, fertile earth, I fight back tears. There is little as saddening as a child-size casket. There’s an audible ‘pop’ of releasing pressure as I open the ashes. “I’m sorry this happened. I’m sorry you couldn’t live longer, happier lives.” I tip the container. There’s no wind. No rain. Just the normal overcast sky of Bonneau.
So the ashes fall straight down in a stream of monochrome. Gray, silver, white, tiny specks of black. It hits the light birch-hue of the caskets.
When the ashes are all spilled out, nestl
ed down in the bottom of the grave, I realize Terrance didn’t respond to my last question.
I look at him, recapping the container. “So that’s the plan? Focus on the nails.”
He nods slowly, his own eyes wetter than normal. “Yes. Because if I were a damn ghost and I came back to tell someone one thing, it would be something pretty damn important.”
“If you were a spirit,” I corrected, now that he’d said ‘ghost’ more than once.
“What?”
“Spirits and ghosts aren’t the same thing, Terrance. It’s—” I start to explain, and then I stop. “It’s not important.” I turn away from him, look at the exposed grave. “But they are. So let’s find out who killed them.”
***
We go back to the Victorian to get Terrance’s squad car. He wants me to go to the crime scene with him, see if I can pick up any vibrations. Again, I don’t bother to tell him that’s not exactly how it works. I’m not a psychic who can pick up an object and know its history. I’ve met people like that, who don’t even know what they’re doing. They’ll simply pick something up in an antique store and say something odd like ‘I feel like this has amazing history. Like… it was in a war or something’. And it’ll be a silver photo holder once carried by a solider, but the person had no idea that was true until they went to buy it and the shop keeper comments on it. Or they’ll get change from a vendor, touch the coins and just feel something wrong about them—like whoever once owned them wasn’t a good person, hadn’t done good things.
Liam says there are more ‘lost’ supernaturals than known nowadays. I can’t imagine growing up with a gift, and not realizing it. Or getting surprised with a power instead of being prepared for it like I was. Can you imagine turning 16, thinking you’re one hundred percent normal, and then suddenly shifting into a werewolf? Which, according to Liam, is an excruciatingly painful process the first time.
I know I would have sent myself to the loony house if I’d woken up to a dead person hovering over my bed one night. I was lucky to have had my grandmother and father.
When Terrance parks across the street from the Thai restaurant, I wonder what he thinks we’ll find. Yellow police tape is strung across all the busted windows, and the blackened door. The painted pale coral of the building’s brick is so dark in places that it looks nearly brown.
“Is it safe to go in?”
“Structurally, yes. But we still need to be careful.” Terrance turns off his squad car and opens his door.
“What are we looking for?” I exit the vehicle also, closing the door a little harder than I intend as I continue to stare at the ruin of a building. No one could have survived it. I can tell from even across the street that the inside of the structure is nothing but soaked debris. The fire department saved the shell, but nothing else. I’m amazed the family was in as good a condition as they’d been.
“Don’t know exactly,” Terrance shoves his hands in his pockets as he says it and rocks back on his heels a bit, considering the building. “But we’re going to look at anything, and everything, that might have had to do with nails.”
“Terrance, spirits have been known to screw up the details.” I come around to his side and lean against the squad car, crossing my arms and tilting my face a little so the soft breeze that’s just come to life can waft across my face. It gently musses my hair, sending mahogany strands to slightly obscure my vision. For an instant, my hair creates a purposeful window around my eyes. At least, that’s what it feels like. Like something stronger than the wind has taken control of my hair and is trying to show me something.
Like Terrance with his cop instinct, I listen. Because this isn’t a natural force at play. My hair blows in the ‘wind’ again, crossing over my face and leaving me a thin slit to stare through, only for a second. It’s higher than the restaurant, focused on the upper windows of the apartment.
“If it’s structurally fine, we can go up to the apartment first?” I question, pushing away from the car and striding across the street. I don’t even look to see if cars are coming, and I’m surprised Terrance doesn’t comment on my lack of care.
“Yeah,” he responds quietly, a hint of suspicion in his voice, as if he can tell something has just struck me.
I lead the way around to the back, not bothering with the front door that goes into the restaurant. Here are the exterior stairs that lead upwards to the apartment, though Terrance said on the drive over that there are also interior stairs that led to a dryer and washer—used jointly by the restaurant for linens and the apartment for daily needs.
The climb is a creaky one, and I don’t think that has anything to do with the fire. I wonder for a moment about the maintenance. This could have been an accident, if the condition of these stairs were any indication. But it wasn’t an accident. I remind myself mentally.
“We thought maybe it was a hate crime you know,” Terrance says behind me, his voice pitched only loud enough for us to hear. “I think that’s why it got to me so badly.”
I nod, but I don’t respond. I don’t know how to respond. In my own way, I know what hate is like—hate for being what you are, how you’re born—but at the same time, my condition is not his condition, and vice versa.
“I mean, the kids were bad enough. Dead kids always kill you. It’s like a piece of your damn soul dies when you have to deal with the homicide of a child. But when I thought it was a hate crime…” he lets his voice trail off. “But now I know it was some supernatural bullshit, and dammit I’m not sure that’s any better.”
Now, as I’m stood at the top of the landing waiting for Terrance to unlock the door, I do respond. “I don’t think supernatural is worse than hate, Terrance.” I can’t help the coolness in my voice.
“When it takes the lives of innocent humans? It’s at least as bad, Tori.”
We stare at one another for a moment. It’s the first rift we’ve experienced since I told Terrance what I am. And it was bound to happen. But I’m not dealing with it now.
I take a deep breath. “Let’s focus on what we’re here for.”
He doesn’t nod, but he pushes forward and unlocks the door, leaning a bit to swing it open and then falling back to let me enter first. He waits a moment after I enter. I think he still believes he might interfere with my gift.
As soon as I’m inside, I’m hit with an absence. Of things. Of life. Of warmth. Which is odd, considering the fire that raged below, the smoke that killed the family.
But this place is well and truly empty of energy.
“Help me,” I murmur, not sure who I’m talking to. My fingers tingle, feeling like they’re pushed back into the ether once again, which is not something I’ve experienced before. You have to focus, and really intend on reaching into those places, to access them. I scrunch up my hands, making uncomfortable fists, pushing the feeling back. “Help me, if you can.” I don’t want to yank the soul back to me. I just want to see. I want to experience.
The awfulness that transpired in this place.
The ‘wind’ that had prodded me outside of the domicile comes to life inside. I hear a gasp behind me as Terrance feels it. “What is that?” He moves a step closer to me, but I don’t answer. I can’t. I’m surrounded by smoke. I’m surrounded by heat. I’m dying again. And this time I’m not touching a body. I’m not calling the blood. I was reaching for vision, and instead I got the reality of darkness.
I lean over, choking on the nothingness that seems so real. I fall to my knees, and I can feel Terrance at my back, his hand touching my shoulder. He’s calling my name. He’s worried.
But I’m dying.
I’m dying again.
“Nailssssssssssssssssssssssss.” The voice is soft, almost inaudible, but it pushes me to move. I crawl across the floor, leaning further and further towards the charred wood planks, thinking that will save me. Smoke rises. Doesn’t smoke rise?
That wind arrives again, and it is not a comfort. It shoves against me, with more force than moving air
should have on its own. This is a hurricane wind, trapped inside a ruined shell. Suddenly, I feel myself lifted off the ground. The wind is no longer assaulting me, it is raising me inches off the floorboards. It is pushing into me. Absentmindedly, I wonder if this is what possession feels like. The sensation of being emptied without emptiness and being filled without space available to fill. Like a balloon twisted in the middle, slowly un-twisted to move air back and forth. But the shape never changes. It remains the matter it always was, yet it also doesn’t.
And then I have no thoughts, save for the fire and the terror. And rage. I feel rage.
My eyes are stinging. I need to find the children. I have to find the children. If I can only get the door open. If I can only get the window open. I hear crying. I hear my wife yelling for my daughter.
I find my son. He’s hidden under the table we found at the thrift store for five dollars. I pull him to my body and I crawl, dragging him along as gently as I can.
I find my wife. She is cradling my daughter’s body, which is so still. So very still. “I have to get to the window!” I yell. And it is me yelling, but also someone else. Who is in my mind?
I have to save my family.
“I can’t breathe,” I feel my mouth moving, I hear my real voice… hidden behind layers of smoke-choking memories that aren’t my own. “I need air.” Again, my words are muffled. But I know that I’m speaking. The window. I’ll go out the window.
I begin to frantically crawl. I hear Terrance’s worried voice, but I can’t focus on that. I have to save my family, save myself. I’m nearly there. I know exactly where I’m going, even though I can’t see and my eyes are watering and my face is hot as hell.
I raise my body into a kneeling position, and I blindly reach out with my hands to find the window sill. There it is. I have to go higher to get the latch.