Born of Shadows- Complete Series

by J. R. Erickson

  Shining Mother in divinest night

  Drip down the wax of thy candlelight

  Bleed forth your luminescent fire

  Leave these woods in shadowed streaks

  We ask you hasten quick to cloak

  For blessed blackness you evoke

  Beneath the poem, more words were scattered without any apparent rhyme or reason. Rosemary, black snake, river stones, one double yoke egg and Indian cane.

  She flipped deeper into the book, and several sheets of loose paper fluttered to the floor. Different than the thick parchment of the other pages, these appeared to be yellowed newspaper clippings, their edges stiff and cracking.

  Abby spread the pages flat on the carpeting and crouched over them. The first clipping depicted a fire ravaging a dense forest. Even on the withered pages, Abby could see the intensity of the blaze as it leaped across the desperate leaves. The caption below read 'Ebony Woods Destroyed At Last.' She found the date, 10th of August 1908, and was amazed that the clipping was still in one piece.

  She pulled out the next newspaper article, staring incredulously at the blown up picture staring back it her. It was Devin, or someone who so closely resembled her that, for a moment, Abby was sure that she was seeing a ghost. August 8, 1908, only two days before the burning of the Ebony Woods. A short article followed the photo of the Devin look-a-like standing in front of a small cabin, a single wildflower clutched in her palm. Like Devin, her hair was wild, her skin a pearly white. She wore a long, dark dress buttoned high up her neck.

  "Aubrey Blake Stands Accused

  Com. vs. Aubrey Blake: The defendant in this case is the single living child of the deceased Nathan and Susan Blake. Complainant is one Jonas Herman of the upper end of the city. The defendant threatened revenge against Herman and his family after her mule took ill. Upon the mule's death, Herman's single son Solomon came ill with the Black Death and died three short days later. Aubrey Blake is accused of having dealings with the devil and performing witch behavior to infect Solomon Herman. Aubrey Blake resides in the Ebony Woods. Proceeding is scheduled for the Monday after next."

  Abby stared at the picture until her eyes swam. She shut them tight and tried to block it out, to force the face of Aubrey - Devin's face - from her mind. Slowly, the picture dissolved, but Sebastian's took its place. She saw him the first day, the surprised look on his face when she pulled into the driveway, the box he quickly placed in his trunk. She wanted to justify the clippings, to pretend that this was all part of his separate investigation, but she knew better.

  "No, no, no, no." She realized that she'd been murmuring aloud, and she clamped her teeth together, putting a hand on the floor to brace herself. She stared at the newspaper clipping again, at the face smiling out. Devin's face, Aubrey's face, Devin's face, Aubrey's face, they swirled in her mind, became an inferno scorching her eyes, a fire like the one in Ebony Woods, a fire that could burn you alive.

  "Abby?" Sebastian's voice startled her and she shot to her feet, staring at him with wild eyes. Terror streaked up her spine and screamed that she, "RUN!"

  She tried to streak past him, but he caught her around the waist, heaving his body back to balance the thrust of her own. He pinned her against the door, forcing her arms to her sides, and she cranked her head away, refusing to look into his face.

  "What the hell is going on? Why are you freaking out?"

  Her mind reeled for an excuse, for a logical explanation, but how could there be one? How could she explain what she'd discovered and still get away?

  "I, ummm, I was looking for your phone. I thought I heard a cell phone."

  Sebastian's eyes narrowed into hers, reading her, and she concentrated on her heart, on steady beats that might bring the color back to her face.

  "What happened to your hair?" He smiled and she shrank away from him.

  "Ha," she laughed weakly. "I cut it."

  He reached his hand up and touched it, bouncing his fingers on the stiff curls.

  "Yes, you did."

  He looked past her into the room, and she saw his eyes shift down. They paused on the leather book and the newspaper clippings.

  "Were you going through my stuff?" He didn't sound angry, just surprised and curious.

  "No, I mean, not exactly. It sounded like a phone was in that box, so I just, you know, looked around, but I didn't see anything," she added quickly.

  "Well, we need to talk about all of that anyway," he told her, the smile dropping from his face. He released her arms and moved further into the room, sinking onto the edge of the bed. He patted the space next to him. "Wanna chat?"

  Her eyes darted from him to the bed, and, without thinking, she rushed into the hallway and slammed the door behind her. She fled down the steps, ripped her purse from the kitchen table and raced across the driveway to her car, sure that any second his hands would reach out and take hold. Nearly ripping the door from its hinge, she dived inside and hit the lock button, starting the engine and reversing faster than she could control, which sent the car into a tailspin in the gravel drive. She pointed the nose towards the road and lurched forward, gunning the engine. As she pulled away, she caught a glimpse of Sebastian standing on Sydney's porch, a questioning gaze on his face.

  Chapter 11

  She drove recklessly, her foot skidding from gas to break as she sped down the tree-lined road towards town. She looked in her mirror more than she looked at the road and twice had to slam on her breaks when cars slowed in front of her.

  "Go, dammit, go," she cursed out loud, tears streaming. The tears had begun when she pulled from the drive, and realizing that Sebastian had not followed her, had time to grasp the magnitude of her discovery. Sebastian was a murderer. He had killed Devin. Why else would he have pictures of Devin? Of her family? Why would he pretend not to know her, while carting around her family keepsakes? Maybe he had murdered her and then stolen the boxes. Maybe they were filled with Devin's valuables, and Sebastian thought that he could hock the old book as an antique.

  She thought these things on one plane, but just below that another river of thought ran. Who had been in the woods when she showed him the body? Why did he insist that Devin's brother wasn't the murderer?

  She sped into town, swearing at every red light, and nearly mowing down a group of tourists rollerblading on the side of the road. She pulled into the police station and cut the engine, turning fully in her seat to scan for Sebastian's car from every window. When she was sure that he was nowhere in sight, she jumped from the car and ran into the precinct.

  "Hi, I need to speak to Chief Caplan," she said urgently to a middle-aged woman perched behind a wide, mahogany desk.

  "Do you have an appointment?" the woman asked, taking off her glasses and rubbing them on her tropical themed blouse. The blouse, a hideous umbrella-like thing, was smothered by parrots and crocodiles.

  "No, no, but it's urgent. I have to see him right now." She almost said, "it's about a murder," but stopped when she noticed several officers eavesdropping nearby.

  "Well, honey, he's gone for the day."

  Abby gaped at the woman before her, ready to scream or grab the lady by her bloody looking blouse and shake her until she understood.

  "Well, can you call him? It's very important."

  The woman rolled her eyes and started to speak, but was interrupted.

  "Hello, miss," a man said behind Abby, and she spun around.

  The scary detective, the Praying Mantis, was silhouetted in the doorway. He leaned toward Abby and drooped his head, looking directly into her face and smiling a wide, white grin. Up close, he looked fake, like one of her old porcelain dolls, and she backed away from him, stopping when her back hit the receptionist's desk.

  "I'm covering for the Chief today. You can talk to me," he said in a strange drawl that made every word long, like an echo that continued in Abby's head, rolling in circles around her skull.

  She followed him, partially out of fear, but also because she felt mesmerized,
like he had all the answers, like he could help her with anything.

  He shut the door in the Chief's office and beckoned her to a chair. When she sat down, he continued to stand behind her, his long, bony fingers on the chair back. She tried to sit forward, but he gripped her shoulders and pulled her back.

  "Here, now, just relax, young lady. Just take a deep breath."

  She did take a deep breath and then another. The florescent lights of the office had seemed harsh at first, but they began to appear dimmer, soothing even, and she leaned her head fully back.

  He stepped in front of her, walked behind the Chief's desk and sat down, lacing his fingers in front of him.

  His eyes sought hers, and he looked and looked, his black pupils enlarging and then shrinking, narrowing to tiny points that she could feel. They didn't land on the outside; instead, they penetrated her own pupils, traveled along the optic nerve and into her brain. She shook her head, feeling dizzy and sleepy. Sebastian didn't seem like such a big deal anymore, nothing did. She just wanted a nap.

  "It's okay, dear, just rest. That's it. It's warm in here, close your eyes."

  He stood up, walked to the office's single window and lowered the shades, flicking the wand to close them completely.

  He took a chair close to hers, allowing his knee to brush her own - she felt a shock like she'd been electrocuted. She jerked, and her chair yelped on the rubbery floor. The room focused, and she realized that the detective was leaning towards her, his eyes closed, sniffing at the air.

  "Go!"

  The command was so loud that she turned, looking for the source, before she realized that it had risen in her own mind. She paused for another second, frozen with fear and wanting to bolt, but afraid that she couldn't reach the door in time.

  The detective opened his eyes, and they seemed to be searching her again, as if he'd lost his connection and wanted desperately to get it back.

  "I'm gonna grab a coffee," she said, too loud, but better than the whisper she had feared.

  He stared at her for another second, his head cocked to the side, and then a smile slid over his face, revealing the straight, sharp teeth beneath his thin lips.

  Concentrating on a steady step, she walked across the office, opened the door and stepped back into the precinct. The lights buzzed and cops milled about, talking and laughing. A few looked her way but paid little attention. She stumbled forward and looked back. The Chief's office had become a tomb and the lights hurt her eyes. She felt foggy, but dared not slow as she hurried through the building and back into the parking lot. She was sure that she had not been in the building long, but already her car seats were hot. She cranked the air conditioner and pulled back onto the street, searching for a place to go.

  * * * *

  Sebastian veered off the road, maneuvering his car down a two track clogged with weeds, but still visible in the dense woods. He cut the engine and leaned his head back on his seat, seeking refuge in his mind. Claire had taught him a few things, not powers exactly, but more like a sixth sense. A sense that had to be found within and strengthened with mediation, which he rarely had the time or concentration for.

  He didn't know what he wanted to accomplish. He knew why Abby had left and he didn't blame her, the newspaper clippings had stunned him as completely as they'd shocked her. He had been carrying around the book, The Astral Coven, for two years and yet he'd never seen the clippings. He'd leafed through it a few times and read some of the spells. It had been difficult enough trying to get through Claire's journals; the book had fallen by the wayside. Could he have prevented Devin's death? He didn't know. Claire had stressed reading the "signs", paying attention to every detail. "There are no coincidences," she once said, but that had been her world, not his, or so he thought.

  Now he had to remember, he had to seek that power within.

  "It is your spirit dwelling, a cave or lagoon or house," Claire had said. "It is different for each of us. There is you, Sebastian, the human, the man produced by your biology and your environment, and then there is your spirit. Not wholly separate, but separated by your decision to ignore the spirit voice and make decisions based on this material world." Claire had been rhapsodizing all that evening about the importance of finding his source of power. Sebastian, drunk on wine and candlelight, had drifted in and out of her lecture, listening, but also daydreaming.

  "To go to the place where your spirit dwells, you must detach from this world, blank your mind and concentrate completely on that place. Focus on the image that comes to you. Is it a cave? If it is, then hold only that image in your mind's eye. See it from your forehead, from here." She had leaned toward him, the long, thin chain around her neck dangling on the cushions beneath them, and brushed her fingers across his forehead, in the space just above and between his eyes. "This is your third eye. From here you can venture into yourself. It is the voice of your spirit that must guide you. Your mind will fixate on fear, it will rationalize, and it will guide you toward destruction. Ignore the mind and listen to the soul."

  He slowly released the memory of that night, one of the last he spent with her, and pushed all of his energy into his third eye, imagining, not a cave, but a glacial crevice, a deep tear in an icy mountain, a place that he had gone before. He closed his eyes, tuned out the material world and sank deeper into that split in the mountain, seeing and feeling, not cold, but great warmth, as he grew closer to his spirit and further from his physical being.

  Then he drifted, cut off from his worldly perceptions. When the wind rose and branches scraped the hood of his car, he heard nothing. His eyelids fluttered, his face impassive except for their twitching.

  Sebastian sat on a wide, flat rock, his hands clasped in his lap as he watched a shape move down the icy crevice above him. Claire did not land, she'd not been flying, she simply moved from above to beside him, her own being perched on the rock.

  "I need help," he told her, flooded by grief and love at the sight of her. He did not know if she was real, but he thought not. Instead, he believed that she took on the form of a spiritual guide for him because she had become that in his physical life. On the rock, he commanded himself to concentrate, it was easy to lose the vision, too much thought would return him to reality.

  "Not my help," Claire said, laying back on the rock, her long, white robes too thin for the cold, which did not seem to bother her. "Her help."

  "Abby? I need Abby's help?"

  "Do you?"

  "Don't play with me, Claire."

  "Then don't play with yourself." She giggled and blew puffs of icy air out from her lips. They crystallized and formed little shapes, like clouds.

  "Where is she? Do you know?"

  "She is finding herself and then she will find you."

  "Find me where? Should I go back to the house? She thinks I'm a murderer."

  "Not a murderer," Claire said, sitting back up and brushing her dark hair over her shoulder. She braided her fingers through it, turning her wide blue eyes up at the sky. "She thinks you're deceiving her, and you are."

  "What choice do I have?"

  "You have a choice, and you made a choice. Sometimes, we have to take them back and start again."

  "How?"

  She didn't answer, and Sebastian felt a bead of sweat roll from his hairline, down his forehead. He reached up to catch it as it slid from his nose, and in that instant, the crevice dissolved, and he found himself back in the car.

  "Thank you," he said aloud, to no one.

  * * * *

  Driving without direction reminded Abby, rather dismally, of her escape from Lansing only days earlier. How had it all gotten so screwed up?

  She left downtown Trager, wanting to put distance between the detective and herself. Her head felt funny, like the Praying Mantis had picked through her brain with a rusted nail, and she had a rotten taste in her mouth, which she unsuccessfully tried to slosh out with a swig from a warm bottle of water that she dug out of the backseat.

  Her head hurt
, it ached from her brow bone to the base of her skull, and made concentration on the road impossible. She flicked open her glove box and leaned into it, fishing with her hands for a bottle of anything stronger than a cough drop. She pulled two bottles out, an off-brand allergy medicine and chewable vitamins - no painkillers. Her head started to throb. She could feel a pulse beat along her temples and tried to massage them with her thumb and forefinger, which made it hurt worse, like she was pressing bruised skin.

  She had to go home. It was only three hours to her parents' house. She would park on the street and close her heart to the stale smell of potpourri and the stiff mattress of her childhood bedroom. She would lock the door, tell her mother she was ill and sleep for days. Yes, no, no, she could not go home.

  Tiny, white lights began to prick her eyes, like needles, and she blinked, allowing the tears to roll out, praying that they might lubricate the dry sockets. She groaned, it scared her and reminded her of her cat, her abandoned cat, Baboon, who sometimes cried like that at night when he was locked out of the bedroom. It was a painful, guttural sonnet, a poem of desertion, and she felt it rip across her skull in violent, skipping beats. Wildly, she thought that God or the Devil or some divine, supernatural being was punishing her for her cruelty, for leaving Nick and her mother and Baboon.

  A horn blared behind her, and her heart thudded in her ears so loudly that she could not think to react. Was she driving too fast? Too slow? She looked at the speedometer - a blurred wall of green and black neon stared back at her. She tried her blinker, but windshield wiper fluid sprayed across the windshield, blocking the street, and she panicked, jerking the wheel to the right. She was on the shoulder of the road, sort of, and cars whizzed by, a line that had been waiting impatiently behind her. Up-north, driving settled around eighty-five mph, not the standard forty-five in the city, and she felt the blast of each car, the trucks especially, as they rocketed by.