“I will be speaking with her next.”
Ian nods, and his shoulders relax a little.
“Ian,” I say, “I know this has been very hard on you, but I do need to ask. What brought on your separation from your wife?”
The force of the guilt is now so overwhelming I feel it inside of me and have a desire to confess and beg forgiveness. However, I also feel righteous indignation that I imagine keeps him immobilized. His face becomes stiff as he tries to hide it, and he answers in a scratchy voice. “You know, my wife is an Aberrant. She kept it hidden from me for almost twenty years. When I found out that Jason had it too—” He says this like it is a disease. “—and my wife had been lying to me all of those years, I just couldn’t deal with it.”
Sadness weaves heavily with the guilt now as he looks down at his hands and continues. “I know a lot of people are prejudiced against Aberrants, and I guess I’m one of them.” He says this like a confession.
My respect for Ian, previously practically nonexistent, goes up a notch. It takes strength to recognize your weaknesses. It’s the first step toward mending them.
Then a roll of violent rage rises up, and he looks directly at me as he points his finger, punctuating every word. “You find the bastard who did this! Whoever did it is a monster! I don’t care if it was prejudice or not—no one should hurt a boy like that!”
Then tears start streaming out of his eyes, and I feel only loss and grief. “Not my boy. Jason was a good boy. It wasn’t his fault he was an Aberrant.”
Ian turns his head and tries to hold back his sobs in a manly way. It is astounding how quickly his rage instantly melts under his profound grief. He covers his mouth, and the sounds come out in short, heartrending bursts. He tightens his neck and face, trying to stop it, but it refuses to be caged. His grief is real and inconsolable.
I came here feeling so angry at him for his prejudice toward his wife and his son. But now, I just feel pity. Still, I can’t leave without addressing his prejudice. I should ignore it. It isn’t my job. But the idiocy of it burns me up, and this man is the perfect example of how much harm it can do. It destroyed his family as it destroyed mine.
So despite my better judgment, I put my hand on Ian’s shoulder, which is still shaking from his sobs. I speak softly. “Ian, I know you are very mad at your wife for hiding the fact that she was Gifted for almost twenty years. I get that; anyone would. But remember that she loved a man for twenty years even though she knew he would hate her if he found out she had a gift that she couldn’t help having. She may have hidden it so she could stay with you. If that is the case, she must have loved you very much. You may not realize it, but a gift is a wonderful thing. It is called a gift for a reason. Even so, she suppressed it to be with you. It sounds like the only thing that would cause her to risk her relationship with you was her need to support your son through his transition.”
Ian lifts his head from his hands and looks at me with wide eyes. I see a small flicker of understanding in them before he turns his face into his hands again and starts sobbing anew, unabashedly this time.
With that I stand and say, “Thank you, Ian. You have been very helpful.”
I quietly let myself out while Ian continues to weep on the sofa and waves of grief, sorrow, and regret curl around me and accompany me through the doorway as if trying to escape.
Chapter 16
Vapor
Bluebell Kildare: May 28, 2022, Red Ages
I walk out of Ian’s house, and Varg is inexplicably waiting for me on the stoop.
“Varg, did I leave a door open?”
I walk to the car and check. Nope, no open door. I look up and down the street, and the only person I see about is an older lady with gray hair tied up in a bun, dressed in a beige, ankle-length skirt and a pretty floral blouse. She’s sitting on her front patio two townhouses down, enjoying a beverage. She looks approachable enough, so I walk up to her.
“Hi, Ma’am, I’m sorry to bother you, but did you happen to see anyone near my car?” I ask.
She replies in a snippy voice. “No. I didn’t, as a matter of fact. I only saw that wolf of yours. I was scared out of my mind, by the way. It almost gave me a heart attack when he suddenly appeared from the other side of the car! Luckily he walked as quick as can be straight toward Ian’s door and sat on the stoop like a well-trained circus animal. I watched him for a bit and since he didn’t move, I didn’t move either.”
I frown at this. “Oh, I’m so sorry he scared you, Ma’am. I left him in the car and was wondering if someone let him out. I wouldn’t have just left him wandering. How long were you out here?”
She says in a slightly appeased tone, “Since you got here and well before that.”
“And you are sure that you would have noticed if someone walked up to the car?”
Now she snaps some very intelligent brown eyes at me and says, “I’m old, not blind, Missy. Of course I would have noticed!”
I smile at this. “Of course. I just meant that perhaps you had your head turned.”
“Humph!”
I smile wider. “Thank you so much, Ma’am. I really appreciate it.”
Goodness, I love older people, I really do. It seems like once you get to a certain age, you can just say exactly what’s on your mind. How nice that must be!
Varg and I walk toward my car, and when we arrive I cock my head and peer at him keenly. “Varg, did you open the door by yourself?”
Varg does his little happy dance, which looks completely undignified on his predatory form. Then he jumps away with a yip and does it again. Well, if he’s guilty, he’s certainly not at all contrite!
As we settle in the car, I contemplate my route from Ian’s house to his estranged wife Sandy’s. Sandy’s house is located in the neighborhood of Whispering Falls, a solid, middle class neighborhood with excellent schools and low crime. Talon’s Grasp, where I am now, is a lower middle class neighborhood, a little rough around the edges, but it has a lot of character. The fastest route between the two is to go through Shroud Valley.
Shroud Valley is another story entirely. Officially, because it is east of Crimson Hollow city boundaries, it’s policed by the Misty Rivers unit. Unofficially, it is policed by no one.
Three large rivers, the Great Oak River, the Weeping Ash River, and the White Thorn River, pour though the Misty Rivers mountainside, giving the suburb its name. The three misty rivers flow into Shroud Valley, pooling deep in its center where the mist condenses into a deep fog that billows out over the valley. An odd crosscurrent blowing between the peaks of the surrounding mountains keeps the fog from rising completely even on the hottest days.
Today is not the hottest day, but my schedule is full, and I’m not above jaywalking through another unit’s territory when expedience requires.
A few miles down the highway, I take a right onto Widow’s Pass and promptly hug the center line. It’s the main thoroughfare around the lake, traversing the rivers in a series of covered wooden bridges. The road is narrow with steep grades and winding curves that are impossible to see around, making it easy to guess the origin of its name. A few miles from the first bridge over White Thorn River, a gentle mist covers the landscape, hanging in the crevices of the mountainside and drifting over the trees. As I drive on, the mist thickens until a full fog envelops the car in a white netherworld. I keep my headlights low and reduce my speed to accommodate my limited vision.
I see the two main portal posts of the first covered bridge come at me quickly, and suddenly the rough wooden floor of the bridge replaces the smooth asphalt road. My world of white is transformed into a world of darkness.
I hold my hands like steel bands on the steering wheel to prevent the unevenness of the wood planks from taking the wheels in an undesired direction. The river is below me, but it’s a great distance beneath and would be no comfort in the event of a fall. I drive steadily toward the center of white in front of me, grateful as it expands larger and larger, until all at once
I am thrust back into the white abyss again. Something about being on this side of the bridge always gives me an eerie feeling.
I flip the defogger switch to clear my view and soldier on. The road dips down a steep grade bringing me deep into the heart of Shroud Valley. I can see ghosts of houses along the mountainside, but the fog clinging densely to the land makes their individual forms indistinguishable. From experience, I know the homes are painted in vivid hues, but the whitewash covering them turns their merry countenances into nothing more than pastel smears.
As I reach the bottom of the valley, the road levels and straightens out a bit, giving me a chance to relax. The fog is even thicker here, and my defoggers aren’t working well, so I resort to blasting the heat. Still the fog condenses, and my only remaining option is to unroll the windows. I do and am greatly relieved to see the white patches on the windshield diminish.
As the window clears, I see the fast approaching portal posts for the second bridge spanning Weeping Ash River. This time I’m prepared, and while my hands are still gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles, inside I am much more at ease. I can see glimpses of white through the gaps in the planks that cover the bridge as I travel through. My car makes the familiar thumping sound on the wooden bridge, and I feel a sense of accomplishment as I approach the exit, knowing I’ve survived yet another of Shroud’s dreaded bridges. I glance down at my clock and see that I’m running later than I expected.
Just as I lift my eyes to the road again and breach the tunnel exit, I see a pair of headlights aimed straight at me. Holy Mother! I jerk the steering wheel quickly to the right in a desperate attempt to avoid the car. My fear of hitting the car is immediately replaced by my terror at the thought of going off the edge of the mountain. I straighten the wheel as the car zooms right past me with the curve of the road. My car angles down off the road and rides at a tilt on the soft shoulder. I apply my breaks to safely slow the car down.
Thank goodness I survived that! With my white knuckles gripping the wheel, I decide the angle of the shoulder isn’t unmasterable, so I continue, looking over my left shoulder to merge back onto the road. Just then I hear a piercing scream and terrified wail coming from an area of homes on the right. What in the world?
Varg growls from the backseat, and I bring the car to a gentle stop on the shoulder. I slip out of the driver’s side, and Varg jumps over the seat to exit with me. His hackles are raised as he starts racing toward the noise without encouragement. I take off after him, knowing full well he’s a much better tracker than I. However, tracking becomes unnecessary as the screams continue guiding our way.
I jog up a side road and through a small copse of trees, trying to keep Varg in sight. As soon as I exit the shelter of the trees and stand at the edge of a clearing, I see a woman screaming and clutching a small, wailing baby in her arms. Something else on the ground by the woman writhes around, and my heart stutters in fear.
Varg arrives on the scene in advance of me and positions himself next to the screaming woman. I reach into the small slit of my leather belt and pull out a clear glass vial. Then I approach quickly, knowing there isn’t much time.
At about fifty feet away, I can clearly see the woman holds a long wooden stick— oak, I hope. She wields it toward the slithering mess before her.
Varg growls and snaps furiously as he seeks to herd it away from the woman. At twenty paces away, I see what I had expected: a debilitated Night-Crawler thrashing his prostrate body in attempt to squirm forward. I quickly glance up, and though it‘s mid-morning, the fog is so thick here that no direct sunlight touches the land. The woman clutches a diaper-clad infant, trying to spear the pathetic remnants of the ruined Night-Crawler.
Once a Day-Walker has killed in bloodlust, the crazed, soulless remains have a limited survival time depending on their original strength. Some can last for decades while others last only days. If they are not eliminated, their own irrationality will eventually do them in as their crazed minds increasingly lose grip of reality. In their demented ways, they end up doing reckless things like running in front of cars or crawling about in midday in the fog. Though the sunlight isn’t direct, even the diffused power of sun reflecting off of the billions of droplets forming the fog is enough to slowly eat away at their flesh.
This creature’s mouth is hanging open, and his eyes are bulging out as he is slowly devoured by the sunlight. His skin is melting and sloughing off in places, and dark patches of burns and gaping holes litter his naked body. His mostly bald head is covered in blisters with just a few strands of long, stringy hair hanging on. The flesh is completely gone from the bottoms of his feet, and only the gleaming bones help him propel his body. Still, with his insatiable bloodlust, he continues creeping forward toward his prey.
The woman’s back is against a tree, and behind her ascends a steep wall of mountain too difficult to climb with a baby in hand. She could dart to either side and probably outrun the rotten lump of melting flesh advancing through the mud toward her, but one look at her eyes tell me that she is incapable of coherent thought at this moment. If her eyes didn’t tell me, then the feeling of stark terror flowing from her in abundance and the piteous, continual screams emerging from her throat certainly would.
I ready my vial of holy water, unstopping the cork and stepping up to the creature. Varg’s hair is raised from his forehead to the tip of his tail as he snarls savagely at the Night-Crawler.
As soon as I become the closest source of warm blood in his immediate vicinity, he snaps his red, glowing eyes on me and pivots on his belly in my direction.
Exactly what I’d hoped and dreaded.
I shout, “Come on, you slithering sack of putrid flesh! Come and get it!”
He follows my voice and starts slithering toward me. I hope I’m the only one who knows I’m wearing a false bravado because I am fully aware that even in the throes of death, his grip, once on me, would be unbreakable.
I slowly back up, bringing him further from the terrorized woman. Her screams have turned to soft whimpers now, and hoping that she has regained some rationality, I call out to her. “When I say ‘run,’ I want you to run toward the house as fast as you can!”
She looks up at me with seemingly blank eyes, but I see a slight nod of her head.
“Be sure to hold on to the baby tight,” I shout.
Holy smokes! All I need is for her to drop the baby. The horrible image of the bloodsucker ripping apart the baby sears my mind.
I have my finger over the opening in the vial now, careful not to let the precious liquid spill onto the grass. I take a few more careful steps back, and the putrid remnants of the Vampire follow me.
I look up at the woman and see she is watching intently. Good.
“Run!” I yell.
The woman lifts up her skirt with one hand, clutches the baby tight with the other, and runs toward the house.
The Night-Crawler snaps his head toward her, his attention snared for the moment by her sudden movement. He gives a sickening hiss, and lifting himself up on his elbows and knees starts rapidly moving in her direction.
Cripes! I run toward him, determined to reach him before he gets her. Varg moves around him in a circle, snapping his fierce jaws and heading him off. The Night-Crawler hisses his rage at Varg, saliva dripping down his own fangs, then whips his body back in my direction.
His sudden turn brings me immediately within his grasp. He sticks his slimy, rotting hands around my left leg, jerking me forward toward his gaping maw. In the same moment that my brain shrieks with disgust, I realize that his grasp has unbalanced me and I’m falling backward. I know full well that reaching the ground at his level, regardless of how close his eventual demise is, will result in certain death for me.
I uncover the vial and throw the holy water in his direction mid-fall.
As my backside lands roughly on the hard, wet ground, I see Varg fly through the air at the Night-Crawler and land on nothing but a puff of vapor rising up from where he
had lain. A small scattering of ash lies at my feet. I push myself up and gather a handful of grass to wipe the muck from the Night-Crawler’s scummy hands off my boot.
“Disgusting!”
Varg sniffs around the pile of ash, and looking satisfied, he comes to my side, sticking his head beneath my hand.
“Good job, Varg!” I say. “If you hadn’t cut him off he might have reached the poor woman.”
Looking up, I see her stumbling on her front steps, desperately trying to get inside. I resolutely walk toward her, knowing that she is in no state to be taking care of a baby right now.
By the time I reach the house, she’s fumbling ineffectively with her door handle.
“Miss!” I say to get her attention.
She looks around wildly at me.
“He’s gone. I eliminated him with holy water.”
She glances back over the yard, and the gleam of terror in her eyes lessens but doesn’t disappear.
“Miss—” I join her on the porch. “—what is your name?”
She looks at me with the veiled eyes of a sleepwalker, and I know that she’s in shock.
I repeat myself softly. “Miss, what is your name?”
She answers in a raw, unsteady voice. “Maggie.”
I smile at her and say, “Maggie, do you have any family around here?”
Maggie only nods dumbly.
I look at her kindly and say, “Maggie, the Night-Crawler is gone. You did a great job saving your baby. Was that stick that you were holding made of oak?”
Maggie’s eyes get a little clearer as she nods at that.
“That was great thinking. But you’ve had quite a shock, and I think it would be best if you had some family come stay with you. My name is Blue, and I’m with the Supernatural Investigation Bureau. If you give me someone’s number, I can call them for you. Would you like me to do that?”
The Light Who Shines Page 13