Out of the Shadows: Book One of the Velieri Uprising

by Tessa Van Wade

  “You too . . . sir?” I have no clue what to call him.

  He chuckles, “You can just call me Briston. I have someone here who would like to say hello.”

  In the corner of the room, a man with crossed legs sits reading a book. Briston calls for him and when he walks to me, my eyes widen. “Dr. Richards!” I cry out. “How are you . . . what?”

  The doctor smiles as he nears me. “Hi, Willow. It’s good to see you again.” He hugs me just as he did in the hospital on my last day there after the attack.

  “I don’t understand,” I answer honestly.

  “I’m actually Briston’s personal doctor. When everything happened to you, the government and—” he hesitates as though catching himself from saying more, “Briston put me on assignment. Just to keep an eye on you.”

  How did any of this make sense? “So, you were always a part of this?” I whisper.

  “I had to be, Willow. For your protection.” Dr. Richards puts a hand on my shoulder.

  Leigh interrupts, “I will get in contact with you when you are to have her back.”

  “Let’s go,” Arek says, “before Leigh changes his mind.”

  “We’ll see each other again soon.” Briston winks at me, so I smile. Yet the smile feels labored with questions.

  “Okay,” I say. Arek and Kilon lead me out of the room and back through the house. “Where do you plan on taking me?”

  “I haven’t yet decided.”

  By his tone I know that is all he wants to say. None of these people are to be argued with. I’m not sure whether it is the fact that they always speak with such confidence and intensity, or it could be that some of them are apparently thousands of years old; but whatever it is, I’m not going to argue.

  He takes off my handcuffs before we walk through the house. I pass a window through which I see Briston’s entourage trek through the snow under umbrellas. Several black sedans sit outside along the driveway. They wrap their arms around themselves to keep warm in the below-freezing temperatures. From under one of the umbrellas, Briston looks up and his eyes catch mine.

  “Where will they go?” I ask.

  “They will call a meeting of the Powers to determine what we should do with you.”

  “Oh, is that all?” I whisper as Arek grins.

  When night falls on the house, from the room where they let me stay, I can see very little beyond the black windows. Tender snowflakes still lightly drop on the ceiling—not enough to accumulate, but just enough to crystallize the edges. It has been three hours since they led me here to sleep, and two hours since I figured out that sleep will be nearly impossible.

  A natural wood dresser sits across the room and my bare feet pad the floor with a small ache in my arch. My shoulders feel tied to my ears and my calves are sore from my knees down, but I want to find something lighter to wear to bed. Should I open something of Arek’s without permission?

  I am worried about it until I open the first drawer. Every article of clothing belongs to a woman. My hands push through stacks of folded shirts and pants, colorful in nature and feminine in size. The small drawers at the top are both for bras and panties.

  A strange headache starts from the stress in my shoulders, so I rock my head from side to side trying to release whatever the tightness is. My body aches deep within as I envision Arek and a woman living together in this room, and I try to quickly banish the thought.

  Just to escape any more digging, I grab a black shirt with long sleeves, and throw it on.

  When finally sliding into bed with the lights off, the stars cover the heavens in a diamond studded display that is so unusual for someone from the city. It is a fight to fall asleep, but finally after several attempts at counting the bright planets, the expanse of it all sweeps me into a dream.

  So many people gather in Arek’s home as though a party is taking place. Yet the living room seems a bit less mid-century modern and a bit more just mid-century. People sit about with glasses of wine in their hands laughing and carrying on. I stand with a group of women in a dark A-line dress. Beckah is there as well as Elizabeth. I can see Sassi and Kilon across the room in the kitchen.

  Even Briston is there beside a beautiful woman, her blonde hair cascading down her back. Suddenly the room quiets and Arek enters with a large wrapped present in his arms. He lays it down in front of me and as he walks past, his hand casually runs along my waist.

  I rip at the paper, revealing a painting of the Swiss Alps. The blues and grays in the painting are breathtaking.

  Arek smiles as he runs his hand down my hair.

  My body jumps to wake me. It is still dark, yet the moon backlights each piece of furniture with shadow. The painting, the party . . . Arek . . . haunt me. There is a nagging feeling in my gut telling me where the painting might be. I quickly get to my feet and make my way through the room.

  The hallway is lit by a small night light in the electrical socket. Somehow, I know where to go. I don’t know how, but I do.

  Down the hallway, then the stairs, to the right, then another right, and straight ahead is a reading nook made with large down pillows, shelves, and a modern lamp with an arm extended from the wall. My shaking hands pull the lever and when the light splashes on the wall it displays the painting in my dream.

  I suppose that in some way I had hoped Arek and the others were wrong about me. In fact, maybe they had gotten the wrong person, yet I know this painting of the Swiss Alps. It is the same from my dream.

  “What are you doing?” I hear the strong voice from behind me and swiftly turn.

  Instantly, when seeing Arek, I realize that part of me wants this world because he’s in it. Yet what do I say to him?

  “I know this painting,” I tell him.

  His shoulder brushes my arm for just a moment when he comes closer.

  “How do you know it?” he asks. Is that concern or hope in his voice? With Arek, this is a fine balance.

  My body is electrified as my eyes survey it again. “You gave it to me.”

  There is nothing but silence until he finally breaks, “How do you know?”

  “I dreamed that you gave this to me,” I whisper. My hands press my temples attempting to somehow accept all of this. “There was a party in this home. Briston was standing with a woman that I know. I recognize her.” This is not good news, which he clearly shows. “Who is she?”

  “No one,” he answers.

  “If you continue to lie to me, I’ll never be able to trust you. The blonde woman is familiar. Somehow I know . . .”

  “Know what?”

  “That she’s my mother.” He rubs his temples just like I did. I feel his pain. This is all too much. Too confusing. “If she’s my mother, then where is she now? Why isn’t she here just like Elizabeth? Don’t lie to me.”

  “She is your mother, but she died.”

  In both worlds my mothers are gone. “I thought she was Velieri?”

  “We can all die. Just because we are Velieri does not mean we are immortal. It just means it’s more difficult for us to die.”

  “She was holding Briston’s arm in my dream. Why would she be doing that?” He doesn’t answer the question, but the color in his face turns darker. “If that’s my mother . . . in your home?” My cheeks are burning and for the first time in all of this I’m angry when he won’t respond. “Arek! Whatever memory you’re afraid of—it has started!” I raise my voice, surprised by my own confidence.

  He looks deep in thought, but before he can speak, a woman’s voice prompts us to turn. “So, you’ve remembered something?” Sassi is no longer as intimidating in her cotton pants and T-shirt when she enters from the kitchen with a glass of water in her hands. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Arek, but I heard you from the kitchen. And I thought maybe you could use some help.”

  “I won’t stay here if you don’t start telling me something!” There is fire from my fingertips to my cheeks. “I have a life to go back to.” My chin quivers so I back off.

 
Sassi shakes her head.

  “No, you don’t,” he admits. “These men will never stop now that they know you’re here.”

  “At this point I would rather risk it,” I hiss. With pounding feet, I pass them both but Arek’s hand catches my arm.

  “One thing,” he says sincerely, “one thing can open up your memory and if that happens, Willow, they will take you. The Prophets and Powers won’t care that you aren’t Remy. They will take you and place you in the Cellar. Do you understand what that means? You will be surrounded by criminals with more power than you understand.”

  My voice is an angry growl, “Who are you to me, Arek? Why did you give me this painting? Who are the Prophets or the Powers?! Tell me something . . . anything!”

  They are silent until finally Sassi looks at Arek. “It’s time. We got what we needed. She spoke to Leigh and she’s with us. We won’t let anyone come near her and you know that, despite what she does or doesn’t know.” She places a hand on his shoulder and surprisingly his tension drops.

  “You gave me that painting?” I ask.

  Sassi grins, “It was his anniversary gift to you.” In that moment, when watching his face, the answer is clear. This man who seems to fear nothing, doesn’t know how to handle the situation in front of him. I try to swallow, but all I get is air. Sassi continues, “A wedding anniversary.”

  Arek crosses his arms and rests his back against the nearest wall, but his chest rises uncomfortably while his eyes stay alight. The years of wisdom show in his movements and his reactions. He can handle himself, although this situation seems to challenge him.

  The tolling bell of the San Francisco trolleys ring in my mind, along with the squeal of my apartment front door desperately in need of maintenance, and the chitter chatter of kids as boredom made them wiggle from ears to toes. Where were my ruby slippers, or my blue pill that would miraculously carry me back home where every noise has thick roots in my daily routine?

  Arek’s eyes tell a story—of what he has gone through or perhaps what he is still going through.

  “We were married?” I nearly choke.

  Sassi looks at me inquisitively. “Something in you knows.”

  “Knows what? No . . .” A bit of cramped laughter escapes my lips.

  “He was familiar to you. Strangely felt like you’d known him for years, and even now when he touches you, it is different . . . unlike anything you’ve ever felt.”

  It is impossible to argue with her; rather my eyes shuffle from hers to his—although he won’t look at me. Intuitively she grins with a nod. “Something in you knows. And now you’re wondering why? Time allows you so much. Without time we lose possibilities, sit with burdens, never seem to see past our noses . . . Yovu.”

  “Yovu?”

  “What we call soul mates. He’s yours. Don’t worry, Willow. You have so much more to learn. This dream just means there is no stopping you no matter how much they wish to keep you blind.”

  “Soul mate?” I whisper. “If that’s true then why are you trying so hard to stop this?” I ask him.

  After a few seconds he reluctantly looks at me. I’m not sure whether the lights are flashing, whether the ground is shaking, or whether it’s him, but it doesn’t matter. When he looks at me, the world stops. Everything Sassi says makes it very clear, as my heart hits the bottom of my stomach.

  “It’s not what I want . . .” Arek admits. “Good night, Sassi,” he says as more of an instruction than kindness.

  Sassi takes a sip of her water. “Good night.” Her tall silhouette floats out of the room.

  “This is all too much,” my voice is breathless.

  “I know,” Arek agrees.

  After a few moments, I pass him, my shoulder brushing his. Yet his hand reaches out and stops me. My heart flips from the way his eyes stare into mine. This feeling in my chest is strangely addictive.

  “There is no way to stop your mind. It is healing, just as your body did. I can’t control it. But it’s my job to protect you. And I will.” There is hesitation, then he continues, “We have a long day tomorrow.”

  Without any more words, we slowly wander through the dark halls, back to the room that started everything. A thousand moments forgotten has turned into a thousand questions in my mind.

  “So that’s why it was you?” I ask.

  “What?”

  “You’ve been watching me because I am your wife.”

  “Yes.” We reach out at the same time to open the door, and I lay my hand on his. He looks at me.

  “But after so many years? Why? Why didn’t you just go on with your life?” I ask.

  Unexpectedly, his guard drops. “You’ll always be my wife.”

  He stares at me as he pushes the door open to the room. A telling look spreads across his face and my curiosity is overwhelming. “What?” I ask.

  “The hardest part was being invisible. Still . . .” He is quiet for a few moments, yet his words don’t seem as calculated as before. “Many times, we would laugh that even though you were Willow, Remy still showed up.”

  He wanders over to the dresser and sits on the edge.

  “She’s still here—in me?”

  “A bit. We watched the way you took care of Rick.” My eyes widen and he nods. “No normal child can kick their mother’s boyfriend out of the house when their mother hasn’t the guts to. Kilon and I had just been discussing our plan to get rid of the guy when I see his clothes flying out the window.”

  My voice comes out resilient, a broken child winning just once. “I knew the only thing he would chase was his Super Bowl ring. He didn’t follow his clothes, so I had to chuck the ring.”

  Arek smiles, “We didn’t know your plan until he tried to get back in and you had already locked the main door to the apartment building. Then a few minutes later, the cops showed up.”

  “George helped me.”

  “The front doorman?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He is a nice old man,” Arek agrees.

  My head drops to the side with curiosity. “Is? He can’t be alive still.”

  Arek rubs the back of his neck when he shrugs his shoulders. “We had to post him somewhere else. As a Velieri, you must move around quite a bit, or you run the risk of someone finding out your age. A group called the CTA, Correctional Territory Authority, manages relocation and helps Velieri start again.”

  “George is alive?” I laugh.

  “And will be for quite a while.”

  On the window seat is a folded blanket that I grab and throw around my shoulders. The introduction to this world is still so hard to believe.

  “My first steps, the first time I drove a car . . .” I list off to him.

  He finishes my thoughts, “When you broke your arm, the first time you lost a pet, the sadness . . . the happiness. . . All of it. We were there.”

  “My first kiss.” I breathe out and he quickly follows. “When I broke my arm, it took forever to heal. Why? If I’ve been like this my entire life.”

  “But you haven’t. There was always the possibility that you would become Velieri again, but it is never understood whether someone who dies will have the chance. Books and rumors have mentioned that people may be restored because they have more to do, or God’s miracle to undo the unjust of human decisions, or some believe in the power you had before. But when you were attacked just a couple of months ago and you died—we knew. There was still Velieri in you. We don’t understand the rebirth process. Only that it will take seven years for your strength to be as it once was.”

  We examine each other, waiting for the other to make a move, as my fascination for him draws me closer.

  “Arek, I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” He drops his head to the side and closes the distance as though he’s done this a million times before—maybe he has. It’s nearly impossible to handle the way he is watching me.

  “That I don’t remember.”

  “You will.” He reaches out to move a piece of ha
ir from my face. “Willow, I’ve waited years, hoping you would remember, but right now, it is best that you don’t.”

  “I want to know everything.”

  “We all do, but instead we should sleep.”

  “Will you stay here?” I point to the corner, finally accepting that when he is in the room, I sleep better.

  He takes in a deep breath, then nods. “All right.”

  Within minutes I slip into bed as he lays blankets across the couch that is too short for him. In the window is a reflection detailing his every move, and for the first time peace descends and my eyes grow heavy as my head sinks in the pillow.

  “So, the clothes in the dresser?” I ask quietly. “You have another woman in your life?”

  “No.”

  “After thirty-three years I’m sure that gives you a chance to get remarried.”

  “Getting remarried or divorced is very much an Epheme concept. We don’t.”

  I am tired and my eyes are sore around the rims, but what he is saying is shocking. Of course, coming from a society where half of everyone has gone through a divorce, it is difficult to understand.

  “No one divorces?”

  “It happens, but it is rare.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “If you haven’t lived thousands of years, your sensitivity to everything is dull, or immature, so you can’t grasp what we know.”

  “Grasp what?”

  He stands to his feet and just the movement alone makes the rhythm of my heart change. I watch as he walks around the bedposts until he is standing in front of me. Once again, his serious eyes stare into mine.

  “Sit up,” he instructs. “And put your hand out.”

  “My hand?”

  “Yes.”

  Embarrassed that my hand is unstable, I rub it on my shirt first. It doesn’t help.

  “Now close your eyes.”

  Sitting on my knees on the soft bed as he stands on the hard wood floor just in front of me, there is no telling what he might do. With closed eyes, every sense is heightened. Even a small whir of the wind outside becomes amplified.

  It is unexpected when he lays his fingertips on my palm. Slowly he begins to trace along my hand. From my wrist to the tips of my fingers, he smoothly outlines every angle, but it isn’t this action that surprises me. This act is sensual, yet it is the feeling left on my skin after. Where his fingertips pass, the sensation is different—like someone blowing on wet skin. The spark remains as though his finger is still stroking that part of my hand, even though he has gone on to another. My blood courses through my veins like he is directing its flow. Just this slight touch makes the rest of my body spring to life in a way I have never felt before. The loss of focus is uncomfortable, so I snatch my hand back and, strangely, it takes a moment to recover. My chest rises and falls like a person who has just run a marathon, while the places he has traced are still alive.