“There are only three left in there,” he informed her.
“It’s true,” she said, pulling the sleeves of her shirt down below to be partially seen outside the cuff of her jacket.
“Aren’t you going to finish them?”
She looked at him, totally surprised by the question.
“No,” she answered. “I’ll take care of them tomorrow.”
“But there are only three in the box.”
“And there will be three in the box in the morning when I get here,” she said, shutting down her computer and coming around her desk to eye the man warily.
“There will be a lot more than three to do then, with all this new stuff,” he muttered, shaking his head in disappointment.
“I think I can handle it,” she said, heading for the door.
She stood at her door, waiting for the Records man to finish, before she pulled it closed behind him and locked it.
“See you tomorrow?” she called after him, as he walked away, singing another off-key tune at the top of his lungs. He’d put his earbuds back in.
The old elevator took forever, so she took the stairs, feeling her heartbeat race and her blood surge with the exercise. Like all the times when she used the stairs, she was reminded of the fact that she used to run and that maybe this might be something that she could get into again.
She’d used to do a lot of things, before . . .
Brenna thought of her son and how much her life had changed since his death. There was a time when just the thought of his not being in her world would have reduced her to a crying, quivering mess, but she’d become better with that, especially since coming back to work—
And since she’s started seeing him again in her dreams.
She knew it was crazy, but since the last case, when the world of the paranormal came crashing into hers, she’d been having visits with her baby boy in her dreams.
Brenna knew that it wasn’t normal, and maybe that it was a symptom of something larger, but it didn’t change the fact one bit that she was spending time with her dead son when she slept.
And she couldn’t have asked for anything better.
She came out onto the first floor, walking across the marble floor of the lobby, heading toward the door.
“Good night, Joe!” she called to the security guard.
“Hey!” he called to her, and she stopped. “There was a guy just here looking for you,” he said. “I buzzed your office, but you must’ve been on the way up.”
“Is he still here?” she asked.
“Went outside when I couldn’t get you,” the security guard said, pointing toward the plaza outside the doors.
“Okay, thanks, Joe,” she said, heading into the revolving door.
“Have a good night!” he called back, as she made her way around and outside the building.
Brenna scanned the area, not seeing anybody at all familiar. She was heading across the street for the parking garage where she had left her car when . . .
“Brenna,” somebody called to her.
She stopped, turned, and froze. It felt as though the ground beneath her feet had been pulled out from under her.
Brenna didn’t remember exactly when it was that she’d last seen the man before her.
She guessed that it was sometime after their son’s funeral, right before he dropped off the face of the Earth.
“Craig,” she said to the ex-husband she hadn’t seen in years.
“Hey,” he answered, walking toward where she stood. “I think we should talk.”
• • •
The little girl reached out to Theo’s arm, her fingers hovering over the tattooed flesh.
“Go ahead,” Theo said to her. “You can touch it.”
Cassie laid her three middle fingers on the black mark, smiling as she looked into Theo’s dark eyes.
“Feels tingly,” the little girl said. “Like it’s ’lectric.”
“That’s the magick that’s been put inside them,” Theo explained, as they sat at the kitchen table, having some cookies and milk.
“Is that why you aren’t dead?” Cassie asked.
“That’s why,” Theo answered her. “The magick in my tattoos protected me against the fire.”
She didn’t need to go any further than that, the little girl didn’t need to know about the nightmare things that resided inside her.
Theo could see that the child was processing her words, her little finger continuing to trace the arcane shapes put upon her flesh to control the demonic entities that possessed her.
“So if my mommy had these marks,” she began.
“Your mommy would never have these marks,” Theo explained. “I only have them because if I didn’t, I’d be very sick.”
Cassie looked at her, chocolate chip cookie midway to her mouth. “That’s too bad,” she said thoughtfully, finally bringing the cookie to her mouth and taking a bite.
“Yes, it is,” she said. Fearing that the questions might become more intense, Theo felt it best to change the subject to something a little more pleasant and distracting.
“Something tells me that you’re a little girl who likes books,” Theo said to her knowingly.
The child’s smile was beaming.
“How did you know?”
Theo smiled back, finding it impossible not to be charmed by the little girl.
“I can see it in your eyes,” Theo told her.
“You can?”
Theo nodded. “I really can.”
The child laughed, bringing her glass to her mouth and drinking more milk.
“How would you like to look at some of my books?” Theo asked.
“What kind of books?” Cassie wanted to know.
“Books that I had when I was a little girl that turned into my favorites.”
“Which ones?” Cassie wanted to know.
“Shall I take you into the den and show you?”
Cassie turned on her stool and looked at her father, who was leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee. Stephen stood to his left.
“Can I, Dad?” she asked.
“Sure, if it’s no bother,” her dad told her.
“It’s no bother,” Theo said, helping the little girl down from her chair. “Have you ever heard of a writer named Shel Silverstein?”
“No, does he write good books?”
“He really does, and lots of silly poems that I bet you’ll love,” Theo told her, as the two of them walked through the house, holding hands, to the study.
“I love silly poems,” Cassie said.
“I thought you might,” Theo said with a smile.
“Did you see that in my eyes, too?” the little girl asked.
“No, I just can’t imagine there’s anybody who doesn’t like silly poems.”
The little girl followed her to a special section of bookcase, where Theo proceeded to take some books down. She took down Where the Sidewalk Ends first, followed by A Light in the Attic, then took down The Giving Tree for good measure.
“Are these all by Shel Silverstein?” the little girl asked.
“Yes they are,” she answered her. “And not only did he write them, he drew all kinds of pictures to go with his poems and stories.”
“Pictures and silly poems?” Cassie asked. “These books sound great!”
Theo sat her down on the couch, the stack of books beside her. The child wasted no time grabbing Where the Sidewalk Ends and beginning to read.
“Oh, I love his drawings,” she said, eyes moving over the pages.
“See, your eyes told me that you would.”
The child smiled, momentarily distracted, before going back to the books.
“I’m going to go out to the kitchen to speak with your dad and Stephen,” she told th
e girl, who barely acknowledged the fact that she was leaving.
Theo guessed that it was all right with her.
Returning to the kitchen, she heard the men talking, Griffin talking about where he and his daughter would be spending the night.
“Well, there’s a Holiday Inn not too far from here,” Stephen said. “I could go to my office and call you in a reservation if that . . .”
“What’s this?” Theo said, entering the kitchen.
“The Holiday Inn,” Stephen said. “Griffin and Cassie are going to need a place to stay and . . .”
“They’ll stay here,” Theo said.
“Seriously?” Stephen asked. “Are you sure that’s okay?” The personal assistant looked nervous.
“After what happened today . . . to you, I’m not sure that we . . .” Griffin began.
“What happened here today was a total accident,” Theo explained. “Everything turned out perfectly fine. We’re best friends now, bonding over Shel Silverstein.”
“I love Shel Silverstein,” Stephen said.
“So, we’re all good,” Theo said. “We’ll make up one of the guest rooms, and there won’t be any problems.”
“Are you sure?” Griffin asked. He walked to the sink, turning the water on and rinsing his mug. “We wouldn’t want to cause you any more problems than we already have.”
“And I would think that not being here would cause you quite a bit of problem, wouldn’t it, Mr. Royce?” she asked pleasantly.
“I don’t understand,” he said, leaning back against the sink.
“Your employer, Elijah?” she asked him. “I don’t think he’d be too happy to learn that you’re not keeping an eye on me.”
“That’s not . . .”
“Let’s not lie to one another, Mr. Royce,” Theo said. “You’ve been sent to observe me,” she said.
Griffin folded his arms.
“He wants to know how you’re doing . . . how the tattoos are holding up.”
“And what have you observed?”
“They appear to be working just fine,” the man said.
“And so do I,” Theo said. “Feel free to call in your report.”
Griffin said nothing.
“But what if they didn’t?” Theo asked him.
“Excuse me?”
“What if the tattoos weren’t quite cutting it,” she asked. “What if there was the potential of the things inside me getting out?” Theo looked at him intensely.
“Then that problem would need to be dealt with,” Griffin answered coldly, efficiently.
She liked the answer, the fear that she felt every moment of every day that she might lose control was like a blade hanging over her head. It was nice to know that there was somebody else watching.
Just in case.
“Good,” she said simply. “I’ll see about making up that room now.”
4
Her name was Nicole. That’s all she would give John. Just Nicole.
And she could eat like nobody’s business.
“So are they with us now?” John asked before placing a french fry in his mouth.
She was holding a triple cheeseburger with both hands as she glanced around the casual, family restaurant.
“Oh yeah,” she said. “My gang and some others.”
John leaned back in the booth and winced at the twinge of pain in his neck and shoulder. They’d stopped on the way to the restaurant for some wound cleanser and bandages, and an old jacket he’d found in the car hid the blood on his shirt. “Is that because of your abilities?” he asked.
“No, not because of me at all,” she said around a large mouthful of her sandwich. “Some animal spirits just kinda hang around . . . they linger, especially when they have a bond to somebody.” She put her burger down and licked the grease from her fingers.
“Do they continue to linger or . . .”
“They eventually get the idea and move on,” Nicole said absently.
Her focus was suddenly on a family seated at the back of the restaurant. There were two children, a little boy and a baby girl in a high chair. The mother was feeding the little girl, while the dad was trying to convince his son to eat his hot dog.
“Like that one over there,” she continued, gesturing with her chin. “That pup’s not going anywhere for a while.”
John looked over. “Where’s the dog?” he asked.
Nicole picked up some napkins and wiped her face and hands. “He’s right beside the boy, resting his chin on the kid’s lap.”
John imagined the sight, feeling the tightness of emotion in his throat.
“They really do hate to leave us,” Nicole said dreamily, her eyes glassy with moisture. “But eventually, they see that everything is all right, and they move on.”
“And the ones that come to you?” John asked, leaning forward to pick up his burger—lettuce, tomato, pickle, and very little mayo.
She managed to pull her eyes from the family and returned to her meal. “I guess they just like me,” she said with a shrug before taking another huge bite of her burger.
“Do you know what it is you do for them?”
“I guess I let them feel,” Nicole responded slowly. “I give them the ability to interact with the world again. To touch it . . . to claw it . . . to bite it when it’s mean.” She smiled then, burger juice dripping from the corner of her mouth.
John motioned for her to wipe her face.
She grabbed a handful of napkins and rubbed at her mouth. “Beautiful again?” she asked.
“Perfection,” he responded with a laugh. “When did you notice that you had this talent?”
She thought for a moment, tapping her lower lip with a fry. “I’ve always seen them . . . the spirit animals,” she said. “When I was little, I think I just assumed everybody could.”
“But your ability to communicate with them? To command them?”
She knew the answer to that immediately. “Early teens,” she said with a nod, dunking three fries into a puddle of ketchup. “Right after my first period.” She smiled as she stuck the dripping fries into her mouth.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” he said simply, refusing to give her the reaction he knew she was looking for. “Many psychic abilities manifest more fully during puberty.”
“How about you?” she asked.
“How about me what?” He carefully ate the last bite of his burger.
“Abilities,” she asked. “Psychic stuff . . . got any?”
He shook his head. “Other than an affinity for memorizing ancient texts and maybe throwing a few spells around.”
“Spells?” she repeated, and began to laugh.
“What? You don’t believe in magick?”
“I didn’t,” she said, her eyes going to the covered jar that contained a tiny demon. “But now I’m not so sure.”
John reached over, exposing the demon for a moment. “Yeah, this is the kind of stuff that changes minds really fast,” he said.
“So he was responsible for that,” she said, motioning to the demon in the jar. “And the business at the garage?”
John nodded slowly as the waiter came to clear away their plates.
“He was responsible,” John said. “And his name, at least the name that I knew him by, is Fritz Gorham.”
“Fritz,” she repeated, wrinkling her nose. “Where’s he from, Germany or something?”
“I have no idea,” John said. “I’ve been looking for him since . . .” He stopped, not really wanting to talk about it.
“Since what?” Nicole prodded. “That shit that went down on the Halloween show?”
“I believe Fritz may have been responsible,” John said with a deep breath. “At the very least, I think he knows how and why it happened.”
“Wasn’t it like a g
as leak or something?”
John stared at her intensely. “Or something.”
She nodded, her look saying that she understood it was far more complicated.
“And you?” John asked. “What’s your connection? What brought you to the garage?”
The waiter came back and asked if they would like anything else. John looked at her.
“Dessert?”
Nicole shrugged. “Why the fuck not.”
The waiter left to get the dessert menus, allowing her to continue.
“I’ve got a score to settle with Mr. Fritz,” she said with a snarl.
John immediately felt a shift in the temperature around them, a cold breeze caressing his face and the back of his neck. “Am I in danger?” he asked. A napkin on the table started to shred, seemingly on its own.
“Sorry,” she said. “They pick up on the vibe and start to react.”
“What did he do to you?”
“Not me,” she said. “Daisy, and a few of the others.”
“Daisy is your . . .”
“Baby,” she finished.
John looked at her confused.
“Cat,” she clarified. “But I treated her like my child.” Nicole reached up to pat the air about her neck. “He killed her . . . I don’t know how exactly, but he killed her.”
The waiter dropped off the dessert menus, and she angrily snatched it up.
“Need some fucking chocolate,” she muttered.
“By all means,” John said.
“I was staying with some friends,” Nicole began, her eyes not leaving the menu. “Daisy was with me, my friends were cool with her, they had cats, too.” She closed the menu and slammed it down on the table. “Chocolate lava cake,” she announced.
“Are you sure?”
“I’ve never been so sure,” she said before continuing her story. “So one day, I couldn’t find Daisy. It wasn’t like her to just go missing. And some of my friend’s brood were missing as well.”
The waiter came back and took Nicole’s indulgent order and John’s request for coffee.
“I tried not to freak,” she said, taking a gulp of water. She held the glass in both hands, staring at the water for a few moments. “It was her spirit that found me,” she said softly. “And she led me back to this house in the neighborhood. A run-down shit hole, like the place we were just at. Her body . . . and the bodies of so many other animals were inside.”
Dark Exodus Page 7