At the hospital Dad went back into the room with him, only to come back out twenty minutes later with a somber look on his face. I didn’t need him to say the words.
When I was finally allowed in to see him, or the shell that used to be my grandfather, I didn’t know what to say or what to do. I’d never been that close to a dead body before. It didn’t feel as weird as I’d once thought it would, possibly because it was my grandfather. And I didn’t feel as sad as I thought I should, instead I was just pissed off. Because no matter what the doctors said or didn’t do, I know this was no accident.
The truth was in the shadows, the ones that appeared on my bedroom wall just before Pop Pop collapsed. I could be angry with Charon, because somewhere deep inside I know the shadows had done his bidding. Or I could be angry with the world I was living in, the one that demanded our power be kept secret; the one that crapped on people like me and my family all the time; the one that gave kids like Mateo and Pace a free pass to do whatever they wanted.
Good and evil went beyond the gods and demons and the Majestic, they were here, in Lincoln, Connecticut, and throughout the world in so many shapes and forms. Wouldn’t it be nice to have the upper hand, to have the power to do away with one or the other? The power that was right at my fingertips.
Now, standing in the hall at the hospital, so many thoughts and scenarios run through my mind, all of them beginning with the cruelty and unfairness of the world and ending with Pop Pop dying. Dead. Gone. Forever. My fingers clench and my temples throb. I feel nauseous and then I feel empowered, pushed to do something. I can’t believe they couldn’t do anything for him, couldn’t save him. Isn’t that what hospitals and doctors get paid for? The nurse said it was a massive heart attack. They have medication for that, or some such crap. Then why couldn’t they bring him back? I knew the answer but it didn’t stop the pain and fury now occupying every available crevice of my body. Pop Pop can’t be gone. He shouldn’t be gone. Because I still need him.
“Jake.” Dad calls my name and the tone of his voice matches that stupid doctor’s. I don’t want to hear whatever he’s getting ready to say. My head falls back against the wall and I close my eyes. Hopefully this will let him know I don’t want to hear any more.
His hand grips my shoulder. “Let’s go home, son. Nothing more we can do here.”
Nothing more we can do. Nothing we can do. Nothing. Nothing.
The words play over and over in my head like a scratched CD. I want to scream. I want to cry. No, I want to fight.
Against life.
Against death.
Against any and everything that has ever caused me pain. I want to cause them pain right back.
“I’m not going,” I say, pulling away from Dad’s grasp. To say he looks shocked is an understatement. Then he sighs and drags a hand down his face.
“Look, Jake. We can talk about this more at home. I’m tired, it’s raining buckets outside and I just lost my father, dammit!” The last statement comes out like a burst of air. I’ve never heard my father talk that loud or seen him look that serious. But it doesn’t change my stance.
“I can’t go back there,” I say, the words sticking in my chest, lodging right beside the lump of sorrow.
Dad walks toward me, reaches out and hugs me close to him. His embrace is tight and at first I resist. After all, we’re guys, we’re not supposed to cry, and definitely not in public. But I don’t think I can stop the tears from coming. I certainly can’t stop the pain from ripping through my chest. I want him to be alive, to be breathing, to say something. I want my grandfather back.
My arms go around Dad and the sobs come full force. I don’t care who sees or hears me, I don’t care what happens from this moment on. Without Pop Pop none of it matters to me anymore.
Two days later we’re standing in the cemetery, right next to Great-uncle William’s grave. There’s a six-foot hole there, with a coffin held up by what look like bungee cords, waiting to be lowered as soon as the last prayer is muttered.
Rev. Lawrence, from Krystal’s church, is standing at the top side of the casket on this green felt material that I don’t know if is meant to just look like grass or to help cover the still-damp ground. There are a couple rows of chairs behind me, but I don’t feel like sitting. Neither does Dad. So we’re both standing near the casket. It’s the color of cement with a slight gloss to it. I have no idea why I’m noticing something as trivial as the color of my grandfather’s casket. Especially when I’m feeling like my entire world has come to an end.
I know that sounds drastic. And yes, my dad, who has always been there for me and who has promised to stand by me no matter what, is right beside me. He’s living and breathing and doing what he does best. Still, I feel so lost, so alone in this world now.
I am here, Jake. Always.
The voice comforts me. It probably shouldn’t but it does.
The sky’s still a dusty gray, has been for the last four days now. Some people from Dad’s job showed up, and some older people who knew Pop Pop when he was of sound mind. I saw Sasha, Lindsey and Krystal at the church, but I haven’t spoken to any of them since I heard them talking about me that day after school. They’ve been calling me, but my cell phone is still on the desk in my room. Right where it was the night Pop Pop came in and collapsed.
I don’t have anything to say to them. They’re all against me for whatever reason. I did talk to Twan briefly as I was leaving the church, but he and his aunt just wanted to offer their condolences. Other than that my mouth has remained shut. Just like the rest of me.
I feel tingling in my biceps but I’m ignoring it. I don’t want the power right now. This is Pop Pop’s last day here on this Earth, at least for his body. I don’t want it marred by thoughts of anything else.
The reverend is finished talking and people are walking away. Dad drops a hand on my shoulder. “You coming?”
I shake my head, unable to move and refusing to take my eyes off the casket.
“I’ll wait in the car. Take your time,” he says. I nod and wait for him to walk away.
Only when I think I’m alone do I take a deep breath and move a step closer to the casket.
“I just want you to know that I listened to everything you said, Pop Pop. I heard every word.” Tears sting my eyes, but I try with all my might to hold them back.
“I’m not Great-uncle William. I will be better. I promise.”
And just as I speak those words I move to touch the casket one last time. Its surface is piping hot, singeing my fingers. I pull my hand back, cursing as the sky crackles with lightning. The wind picks up and I turn around.
The rest of the townspeople walking to their cars probably think we’re about to get another thunderstorm. But I know better.
To my right about five tombstones over I see Krystal, Lindsey and Sasha standing, watching me. To my left I hear the flap of wings and know exactly what’s coming.
“Run!” I try to warn them, but they don’t move, just keep watching me.
As a swarm of ravens descends from the gray sky, I turn to face them. Holding my arms open wide I stop them where they are. “Get back!” I yell.
They stand still with their wings flapping, staring intently.
Then I hear something, like a ripping sound, then a crash. As I look behind me my eyeballs almost fall out of their sockets. The ground is breaking open, old caskets surging upward, opening to allow zombie-like corpses to roam free.
A putrid stench floats on the wind as a low howling begins to sound. I look back and the ravens have broken their stance. As the zombies approach me from one end, the ravens fall to the ground, rising again as the black silhouettes I’d seen before. I’m in the middle of a battle. Dead versus deader.
I look around frantically for some sort of weapon and instead see Krystal, head bowed, lips moving like she’s chanting something. Sasha, who was once standing next to Krystal, is now right in front of me.
“You have to choose sides, Jake.
It’s us or them,” she says.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” I yell at her because the howling is so loud I don’t think if she was standing right next to me she could hear me.
“Fatima says—”
This time when I open my mouth there’s a roar that shakes the ground we’re standing on. I feel it then, the darkness. It’s inside me now, from the tips of my toes to the pricks of hair at the base of my neck. I’m full of darkness and rage, and Sasha’s in my way of total dominance.
“Don’t say her name! Don’t say anything to me!”
“Jake, he’s using you. He’ll kill you once he gets your power.”
“No!”
“Yes, Jake,” another female voice says, and I look over to see Fatima wearing all white, her red hair flying in rivulets behind her. “If he gets the Vortex the light will be swallowed and devoured. He will have all power, the world as you know it will be forever dark.”
“Just like an eclipse,” I say. “Styx creates the eclipse. She is the darkness and I am from her.”
“Styx controls the eclipse, she gave you your power to help you fight when the time came. Charon will take all that you have. He will kill you like he did your great-uncle and your mother. And your grandfather.”
There’s a vibration in my head, like two sides of a war going at it no holds barred. Around me the zombies are attacking the black silhouettes. I guess I’m feeling their battle internally. I hear so many voices, feel so much anguish and so much strength I don’t know what to do.
My head hurts, my skin burns as it feels like I’m literally splitting in two. The rage occupying one heated half of my body and the swirling coolness of the light holding up the other side.
“My uncle was a Vortex,” I hear myself mumbling.
“In Charon’s world there can only be one ruler. He believes it is his destiny to control all the worlds. He was collecting evil souls and demonic powers instead of delivering them to the Underworld as was his job. Styx found out and cursed him. He vowed vengeance in whatever world he could get it. Here is where he’s trying to gain control. You are the only defense on this plane, Styx cannot interfere here.”
I almost sighed but for the chaos going on around me—finally I was getting some answers. But was it too late?
I hear screaming, like something’s tearing the very soul from someone. A glance to my right shows me it’s Lindsey as she falls to the ground holding her forehead and her stomach. The look on her face is one of anguish or uncontrolled pain. Sasha runs to her side just as I tear my gaze away.
“Listen to what I say, Jake. My message comes to you this time from not only Styx but from your mother.”
“Mom?” I can’t help but turn my attention to Fatima at this moment.
“She died so that you could live to choose. Her light could not cover you forever, but she tried. And when Charon came for her she sent you a Guardian to prepare you for this moment.”
“Pop Pop is gone,” I cry falling to my knees. “He’s gone. Forever! And nobody cares!”
Somebody touches my shoulder. I think it’s Fatima because the touch brings a coolness to that side of my body that was burning with heat.
“I care, Jake,” a familiar voice says as another touch goes to my opposite shoulder.
The coolness spreads through my body as I look up to see Krystal. She’s no longer chanting but standing beside me, just like Fatima.
“I care what you choose.”
Lowering my head I feel the rage swirling in the pit of my stomach. It’s too late. What they’re saying is too late. Fatima giving me answers is too late. I want to scream my outrage.
But when I look up again I see her.
“Your friend called. She said you needed me so I came. Again.”
This is a voice I also know. One I’ve missed for the last ten years. As I look into her eyes I feel a clenching in my chest I’ve never felt before.
“Mom.”
“Yes, baby,” she whispers. “You’ve grown to be such a good boy, Jake. Good and strong. Now I need you to be strong enough to make the right choice. To fulfill your destiny.”
Overhead it seems the sky is so angry it’s breaking in two with bolts of lightning. The black silhouettes are everywhere, with even more ravens dropping from the sky. The heat is intense and pulls at me from every angle.
But as I look from my mother, to Krystal, to Fatima, the coolness overwhelms me. My mother’s light coupled with Krystal’s touch and Fatima’s knowledge cocoon me. My legs tremble as I begin to stand. The tingling in my biceps stops, but I feel confident nonetheless.
Looking up toward the raging sky with my eyes wide open I mutter the words that may seal my fate. No matter, it is as my mother and my grandfather said before, it is my destiny.
“I am the light. I am a Mystyx!”
As if I’d pulled an invisible plug, everything stops. The ravens and black silhouettes disappear, zombies creep back into coffins that fall seamlessly into the ground. The sky is quiet, the wind still. When I look to my mother she is a fading sight but she’s smiling and blowing me kisses. Like the six-year-old who boarded the bus as she watched from the curb her last day on Earth, I lift my hand, kissing my fingers then blowing toward her.
The ache in my chest is slightly lifted because I now know why she left me. Not of her choice but because it was time. I thought it wasn’t Pop Pop’s time, but looking over my shoulder I see that his casket too has descended into the ground just like the others in the cemetery. It was his time, as well.
And it was my time, to do what I had to do. To play my part in whatever this battle was. I stand strong and clasp the hand reaching out to mine, knowing that I did good. I did what I was supposed to do.
“Mine,” Krystal says, looking up to me with that gorgeous smile.
Lifting her hand to my lips I kiss her fingers. “Mine.”
“Yours,” Fatima’s voice interrupts just as Sasha and Lindsey come to stand near me and Krystal.
“The battle is yours, young Mystyx. Charon will not rest until he’s either won or lost with finality.”
“Does that mean he’ll be back?” Sasha asks with a frown.
Krystal sighs. “He will be back, and the next time he’s going to pull out all the stops. I’ve seen the battle, but I don’t know how it ends.”
“With pain,” Lindsey says. “With lots and lots of pain.”
nineteen
Two weeks after Pop Pop’s funeral Dad and I have an appointment with Principal Dumar and the two officers that came to my house. The minute I walk into the room I know things are not going to go my way.
I’m wearing slacks and a dress shirt. Thankfully I convinced Dad that a tie would be overkill. I hadn’t worn a tie since the funeral and before that it was my middle-school graduation. I actually hadn’t intended to put another one on until high-school graduation. Judging by the way Dumar’s staring at me, that’s probably not going to happen, not in Lincoln anyway.
“Why are they here?” Dad asks instantly, nodding toward the two cops.
Dad’s wearing slacks, a dress shirt and a tie. He looks distinguished, important. Even if it’s the same outfit he wore to the funeral.
“They have some questions,” Dumar says.
Now he’s the one who should be consulting a fashion magazine. His suit looks at least twenty years old and is this gray-and-yellow-looking tweed, I think you call it. It looks hot and itchy, and the puke-green shirt he’s wearing with it is just awful. I’m not even going to address the tie or the scuffed shoes. Let’s just say Dumar could use an extreme makeover.
“My son’s not answering any police questions without a lawyer,” Dad tells them.
Dumar holds up a hand. “Then I will be the only one asking questions.”
“That’s a lie,” I say, which earns a scowl from Dumar and a warning glare from Dad.
“No. I don’t see why they have to be here,” Dad tells them.
I’m proud of him. Not that I haven’t
been in the past, but in these last couple of weeks Dad and I have grown a little closer, talking a little more. He’s on my side. I know this now, not just because he’s been saying it over and over, but because I can feel it. Especially now as we stand off against Dumar and the cops.
Dumar looks from the cops to Dad. “Look, I want to get to the bottom of what’s going on just like you do, Mr. Kramer. There’s been a formal complaint filed against your son by two boys at the school. I couldn’t put the police out of this proceeding if I wanted to.”
“Then anything said here is off the record. And afterward,” Dad says, pointing to the cops, “I want to file an official complaint against those boys.”
Officer Butthead scowls, while Officer Mustache just gives a curt nod.
“Fine,” Dumar says and signals for the officers to take a seat. “This is Officer Colter,” he says, returning to Mustache, “and this is Officer Butler.”
The similarity in his real name and my made-up one for him is too funny.
“You think this is a laughing matter, kid?” Officer Butthead…I mean Butler, says.
“His name’s Jake,” Dad says.
When we’re all finally seated Dumar opens a file. I guess it’s a file on me but I’ve never seen it. “Mr. Kramer, since the first day of school there have been reports of incidents with your son and two other students.”
“Say their names,” Dad tells him. “If Jake has to sit here and be confronted by you and the cops you can say the other boys’ names.”
Dumar just nods. “The other students are Mateo Hunter and Pace Livingston. Now, these boys have stellar reputations in this school.”
“Yeah, because they’re jocks. Without them Settleman’s wouldn’t have a chance at the regionals,” I add. Because we’re the only high school in town, as far as school sports go, we compete directly with the schools in the next city instead of first competing in a local school district.
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