by S. E. Akers
“My mistake. I’m a cake in your oven,” I corrected. “Is that why you’re so rough on me? You’re simply poking me to see if I’m done?”
“Rough on you?” Silas objected. “Heavens no! I see you as a random seed that the wind has deposited at my feet. A tiny speck that no one knows what it will become until it’s planted. But in order for it to sprout, it must be tended to properly. One can only hope that with the right attention, you’ll grow out of that tough shell and tower over the other trees in the forest.” The house steward sharpened his gaze. “After all, Ms. Wallace, even the grandest of oaks was once but a tiny nut that held its ground.”
My brow dove straight into my nose. Who died and made YOU my gardener? I already had a mentor, so what business was it of HIS?
“Well if that’s the case, have you ever stopped to think that maybe this ‘seed’ needs some sunlight for a change? Or some refreshing water?” I argued. Maybe go a little easy on the manure?
Silas flashed a quiver of a smug grin. Oh, yeah. He’d heard that last one. “I’ll keep that in mind, Ms. Wallace,” he assured and cleared his throat. “However most plants tend to grow towards the sun, but from my vantage, you can’t seem to find your way around your own shadow.” He extended his index finger. “And for the record, you’ll know if I’m ever ‘rough on you’— I can promise you that.”
The audacious as ever house steward resumed his steps straightaway. He wasn’t totally off base. I was struggling. I knew it. But then again, how could any plant even get a crack at any daggone sunlight with two trees showering it with leaves?
Our path led straight to a rustic-looking outbuilding that skirted the edge of the forest. It was close to the size of my father’s workshop, give or take a few feet. I didn’t have the first clue what we would be doing in there. Silas gave the wooden door a firm push and waved me inside. My confusion mounted when I stepped into the dim and dusty room, forcing me to whip off my shades. By all intents and purposes, this was a potting shed with garden tools galore. My gaze homed in on the flashy green and yellow John Deere tractor. Surely “fresh air” didn’t mean I was mowing the freaking lawn.
Silas walked over to a switch mounted on one of the walls and gave it a quick flip. The floor rocked with a knee-locking jolt and started dipping down into the ground not a second later. The entire space turned out to be one huge elevator. The two of us rode its slow descent until it parked at what I’d guessed was around twenty-five feet.
We had landed at the opening of a tunnel. Silas took the lead and ushered me along with a wave. Light was pouring into the long corridor from a source up ahead. Its steady glow and cooler spectrum suggested it was beaming from more modern fluorescent fixtures. A combination of distinct scents began tickling my nose. The smell of harsh wax, oiled leather, and fresh rubber had my gut churning with suspicions. Then one step into an expansive underground bunker confirmed my hunch. My eyes didn’t rally the first squint, despite the repeating rows of blinding industrial lights beaming down and reflecting all around. They couldn’t have closed if they wanted to, not with the countless hot rods and sports cars sweeping through the space like I’d just stepped into a muscle car museum. Hard beefy bodies and powerful thrusting lines lured my stare throughout the space while a palette of primary hues pummeled my starry retinas. Not even in my wildest dreams could I have imagined a more colorful or candy display. The cars’ pristine condition and meticulous placement begged the question if these were strictly for show. I sure hoped Tanner let these beauties out of their stable for some sunshine now and then — the speedy kind. I immediately started picking my favorite and trying to guess his. Although I spied a seriously boss row of pricey imports, it was evident from the scope of the muscle that his pick of pleasures was good ole General Motors.
I stopped in my tracks when I reached his extensive collection of Corvettes. Fourteen of the gorgeous beauties sat in a long row, all arranged by their infamous generations and model years. The empty space left along the line called out to me. I could almost hear the whimpering cries of an engine somewhere off in some stranger’s garage pleading for its release. Not knowing when my ’63 split-window would be ready was just as depressing as seeing the vacant spot, kind of like a family member was lying in the hospital and trapped in a coma. Judging by the exactness of his collection, there wouldn’t be any keys hitting my hands until every original factory-issued, numbered part had been repaired by the most gold-handed surgeon-esque mechanic.
A pathetic smile emerged when it hit me that “Katie” and “karma” each started with a “K” and right now they were both five-letter words I considered swear-jar worthy.
“Putting your sunglasses back on would be a wise move right about now,” Silas suggested as he strode past. “There’s your sunshine for the day.”
I’d no sooner thrown him a skeptical glance when an unmistakable sound rumbled the air. The pulse-pounding engine revs fired an immediate warning shot, but it was pointless. My heart had already come to a breathless halt in my chest. I heeded his advice and slipped on my shades. Tanner slowed to a stop within a few seconds and cut the engine. I turned to find the handsome Amethyst Talisman sitting on his vintage black and chrome Harley, looking nothing less than scorching. That fuel tank he was straddling didn’t need the first painted-on flame. I covertly outlined the dreamy vision, now thankful for the house steward’s helpful ray. His leather jacket wasn’t black, but a deep field of perfectly-weathered gray. My pulse quickened just thinking about the tips of my fingers stroking the supple grain stretching across his chest. I’d never seen a jacket drape a guy so flawlessly, hinting at all that brawn that lay beneath. I pressed my lips together as soon as I caught my reflection in his mirrored shades. My thoughts were rogue enough. I didn’t need my tongue betraying me too. My eyes sparked when I zeroed in on his hair. He’d cut it—noticeably shorter—and had it styled more urbane-tousled with a razor-sharp taper easing down to his nape. The darker hue made it look more dramatic now that all its caramel highlights were gone. A quick fantasy had my fingers stroking through every inch of it too, right down to that seductively slicing widow’s peak. Pinpricks of shame finally ripped me out of the divine image. All of my irritation had completely vanished, simply because he’d knocked me on my bum with a boost of extra-hotness. No manipulative magical stones required.
Damnit…
My brain sensed the same fuzzy waves from last night, when the house steward had sent me a telepathic message. “Please be advised, Ms. Wallace,” Silas announced. “The tint on your sunglasses is not that dark. Consider yourself watered for the day.”
“Obliged,” I responded mentally and then quickly stretched away the gape seizing my eyes.
Tanner’s grin was magnetic. “I thought you might like a change of scenery,” he said.
“Where?” I asked warily.
“Someplace I like to go when my head needs clearing,” Tanner replied, just as evasive as ever. He nodded to the spot behind him. “Don’t worry. There’ll be no ‘blissing’ — I promise.”
An eager nervousness rippled through me. The only other time I’d ventured an intimate ride on his motorcycle was the night we went looking for Mr. Snake-handling Estell down in Jolo. I hoped his choice of vehicles wouldn’t precipitate any trouble again. The last thing my luck needed was a metaphorical green-light.
“I didn’t bring my sword,” I said, angling my leg to prove my thigh was holster-free.
Tanner seemed unaffected. “You won’t need it,” he smiled. “Not with me, not today.”
That was all I needed to hear. I hopped on the thin stretch of black leather straightaway, scooted close, and latched my arms around him. His arousing scent drifted up from underneath his leather jacket, ushering away any thoughts about where we were going and replacing them with a looping stream of naughty I-don’t-cares. I rolled my lips into a soft bite. No bliss needed, I grinned. I’d found a sweet honey-hole of my own.
“Ready?” Tanner asked mentally.
I answered him by hugging his waistline tighter. My squeeze may have lasted longer than a couple Mississippis (I couldn’t remember & just didn’t care). The next thing I knew, his back was pressing against my chest with a jerk and the rev of the engine was gingering me with its rhythmic pulses. We darted through a tunnel, descending in a series of twisty turns like a parking garage. It wasn’t long before my face felt the smack of the sun. We’d made it down the mountain and were pulling onto the main highway. A quick glance back revealed the remnants of the camouflage spell concealing the secret entrance.
With an amused grin, I nestled into a comfy spot and started crafting vivid guesses about where my Batman was taking me.
Our thirty-minute ride came to an eye-opening end when we turned off the highway and into a row of cars lined up at an approaching security booth. A glimpse at the stucco sign roughly fifty-feet ahead may have ended my suspicions about our destination, though the words its gleaming gold letters spelled out were downright unsettling.
My gaze fell to the inky asphalt in a shake. Ha… I knew it was just a matter of time.
The Amethyst Talisman’s emotional radar was exceptionally fine-tuned today. “I’m sensing some mild amusement,” he remarked. “About what?”
“Just irony.” I mean really… He’d contributed his fair share to my screwy mental state over the past month, but I never dreamed his idea of “head clearing” would entail a personal escort to my committal.
Once we had secured our visitors passes (and I’d breathed out a sigh of sheer relief), Tanner steered into a parking lot adjacent to a stately columned building centered within the facility’s sprawling green grounds.
“Shock therapy or lobotomy?” I queried as I hopped off.
“If it were only that easy,” Tanner teased. My mentor’s demeanor shifted when he took my hand. “I thought you needed to be reminded that we hold our powers for more than killing and banishing evil creatures. Healing is as much a part of our existence as death — anyone’s death,” he stressed. “Some of humanity’s greatest demons lie buried deep inside them, not lurking in the shadows. Trust me. It’s hard to top a rush like healing someone,” he vowed, stroking the tips of his fingers softly across my hand.
His touch was as soulful as his words and they inevitably lulled my senses into a boundless state of tranquility.
Tanner was quick to point out my smile. “You wear that better,” he assured.
I didn’t want to dredge up anything from last night. My good mood was sticking. “Nice haircut,” I averted.
His brow sprang into an arch. “So you approve?”
Who wouldn’t? “It suits you,” I replied casually while I focused really hard on not letting how much I approved seep out. Again, it was at times like these that I would honestly kill for some sort of magical emotion blocker—stone, potion, spell, or what have you—anything to keep my cards face down and flat on the table.
“I’ll be sure to let my stylist know she did a good job,” he replied.
“SHE” bounced through my head, right along with the slam of regret I spied locking his lips not a second after his admission. I was actually surprised I didn’t see the rounded tail of a brass key sticking out of his mouth.
Yep… Especially at times like these. My eyes narrowed suspiciously. A stylist that makes midnight house calls? I wasn’t buying it. I didn’t care how good of a tipper he was.
Lucky for the both of us, a woman carrying a clipboard flagged our attention. “Welcome,” she beamed on her approach. “I’m the Senior Visitor’s Guide here at Transcendence.”
“Yes,” Tanner replied with a courteous handshake. “Carolyn Kingston, I believe.”
“Y—Yes,” the pleasantly energetic woman confirmed. “Um, have we met before?”
“Don’t tell me you don’t remember,” Tanner teased, playing wounded.
“I honestly don’t,” she replied with a blush, though she quickly made a point to add, “Oh, I promise . . . I wouldn’t forget you.”
The slant of his grin confirmed that he’d brainwashed this woman an untold number of times before. “I’m Tanner Grey,” he informed our doe-eyed guide, “and this is—”
“Your sister?” she blurted hopefully and then latched on to his arm. Reminiscent visions of the horny nurses swarming him at Welch Emergency Hospital rained down on my rigid frame.
“That’s correct,” I interjected, hoping all the frost had melted from my baby-blues. “I’m Shiloh Grey — his sister.” Paw away, I goaded silently, especially after catching the slight gape of his mouth. It was subtle, but I’d caught it.
“How about that tour, Mrs. Kingston?” Tanner urged with a pivot towards the building.
“Yes,” she agreed, now looking disappointed that he’d verbally acknowledged her wedding band. I followed behind them, simply for a good seat to the touchy-feely, eye-batting show. I said she was disappointed, but not the least bit discouraged.
Mrs. Kingston spent a long-winded ten minutes raving about their marvelous patient success rate. “One hundred percent of all our substance-abuse and depression patients make a full recovery . . . and by industry standards, quickly, I might add,” she boasted.
“I can believe it,” I agreed with a doubtless nod, directed more towards the poker-faced Professor Grey.
“We had a visiting therapist hold a seminar a couple of years ago,” Mrs. Kingston began, “and after his lecture, around fifty of our worst addicts checked out, swearing off their vices forever. We just knew most of them would be back, but none have ever returned. And, I’m happy to report that every single one of them are doing wonderfully.”
“It was actually fifty-nine,” Tanner whispered mentally.
“Impressive,” I said aloud, acknowledging them both.
“May I ask what brings you here?” Mrs. Kingston inquired.
I couldn’t resist a little ribbing, having sat on the sidelines one too many times. “My brother,” I stated, sad-faced and painfully woe. I made a point to notice her close proximity to Tanner. “He’s a sex addict.” I patted the side of his cheek. “Poor thing. It doesn’t help that women are constantly throwing themselves at him.” You could literally see the color draining from Mrs. Kingston’s face as she took a sharp step away. I gave my mentor’s arm a squeeze and looked into his eyes. “It’s time you finally get the help you need.”
Tanner flashed me a curt grin. “Yes,” he nodded and then turned his stare to our guide, “ . . . and since your facility deals with such a wide range of ailments, I thought my sister could keep me company while she gets treatment for hers.” He snatched my arm and yanked up my sleeve to reveal a few of the slices that hadn’t completely healed from my run in with the imp the other day. “She’s a cutter,” he announced. “I think it’s my sister’s way of dealing with her feelings . . . guilt mostly.” He even motioned to me like they were EVERYWHERE.
Mrs. Kingston looked noticeably startled. I snatched my hand away. You ASS, my eyes glared. I wouldn’t have the first lingering mark if Silas would just give me back the jar of imp-salve he’d swiped so I didn’t have to be so sparing with what little was left.
Tanner leaned towards Mrs. Kingston. “Shiloh is a very guilty soul.” He may have attempted a whisper, but he spoke with the audible level of a whirling circular saw. “One can only imagine what she’s really hiding in there.”
“Well, if the two of you will follow me to my office, we can get both of your evaluations scheduled,” Mrs. Kingston instructed. “The road to recovery is only one small step away.”
Tanner extended his hand. “After you — Sis,” he smiled.
Unbeknownst to our tour guide, Tanner began issuing my instructions telepathically. “I’ll be heading over to the substance-abuse wing and then onto the Ascension building. That’s where they house their patients battling depression.” He pulled a small pouch out of his jacket and gave it a couple of shakes. I knew it was crammed full of amethysts from the sound of its clunky “clinks”. “Y
ou’ll be starting in The Havens. The Alzheimer’s ward is on level six. Then after you finish with them, work your way down floor by floor through the psychosis patients. We’ll rendezvous at the fountain in the main courtyard around one o’clock.”
I felt like my mother had just slapped a raincoat over my frame, smacked me in the chest with a bagged lunch, and was shoving me out into the awaiting arms of a gnarly storm. Mrs. Kingston had barely closed her office door when I issued her a quick catatonic directive to sit behind her desk.
“Shouldn’t you come with me?” I posed. “I don’t have the first clue what I’m doing.” I held up one hand and extended three fingers. “That’s exactly how many people I’ve healed. Three. Ty, Katie, and Ms. Blaine . . . And Bea was with me for all of them.” Correcting Officer Ryan’s waistline didn’t count; I was simply undoing Bea’s payback out of latent guilt. And neither did Katie’s parents — for obvious messed-up reasons.
“You healed me too,” he added, pretending to be offending.
“That doesn’t count,” I insisted. “Gallia helped.”
Tanner brushed off my worries with a shake of his head. “Restoring a mind is the same as mending tissues and fusing bones,” he asserted. “Just do what you’ve done before. Focus on the diamond’s power and let your desires carry you the rest of the way.” He took my hands and gave them an encouraging squeeze. “You can do this . . . without any hand-holding or hovering.”
I stared at him blankly. Oh, yeah. I was onto him, but at least my allegations about his “control issues” had registered. I just hoped it wasn’t a fluke. “Okay,” I agreed. “Do I need to carve out diamonds for them?” Seeing the sack of stones he’d brought along was daunting. My arms were already stinging. A true cutter wouldn’t dare inflict that much damage on themselves.
“No,” he voiced in his strictest of tones. “Once they’re healed, they’re healed — permanently. Substance abuse is much different. They need a stone to carry with them along their path to ensure their recovery, just in case their will starts to fade. Past triggers can always crop up. Mental illnesses like the ones you’re about to heal are genetic glitches. They’re purely rooted in their physiology.”