Grim

by Anna Waggener

  “Would you let us in?” Uriel asked, his voice more gentle now that he wanted something. “We have news for Jeremiah. He’s been gone for so long.”

  “I don’t think —”

  “We can entertain you until he arrives, love. You must be bored to death.” Uriel smirked. “You’d think Jeremiah would be more accommodating, considering his background, but he always was a poor host. Please?”

  Despite her better judgment, Erika pulled open the door and showed the brothers in. Selaph hung back near the entrance. His eyes, the darkest Erika had ever seen, searched the room with a single, sweeping glance. Uriel strode over to look at Kala.

  “So this is where he keeps her now, for all the world to see. Clever boy.” He turned to Erika. “That’s a lovely necklace.”

  Her hand went to her neck.

  “From my kids,” she said.

  “How sweet.” Uriel cleared his throat. “And how are you liking our brother?”

  “He’s been very good to me.”

  “Has he? That’s unlike him.”

  “He’s never mentioned you.”

  Uriel smiled and seemed to warm to her. “A little more expected. We aren’t on the best of terms. He can be very trite. He was an accident, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s a terrible thing to say.”

  “It’s true. His mother was never a favorite. He’s had a time of it. Hasn’t he, Selaph?”

  He turned to his brother, who was straightening his jacket.

  “I can’t blame him,” Selaph said.

  Uriel shrugged. “Well, I can,” he countered. “And why not? We’ve never held it against him.”

  “Father has.”

  “And who is your father?” Erika asked.

  Uriel’s eyebrows rose. “He hasn’t told you? Then we’ll have to keep it confidential.”

  “Between blood,” Selaph said thoughtfully.

  “Do you have blood, then?”

  “Oh, hell,” Uriel groaned. “Don’t tell me that he did that to you as well? So dramatic. He gets it from his mother.” He took a silver pocket watch from his vest and checked it. “I’m very sorry, dear. I was sure that little Jeremy would be back before curfew. He’s a bad example.”

  “Curfew?”

  “To keep the city in check,” Uriel said. “We wouldn’t want anyone wandering about at midnight, now would we? It’s the witching hour.” When Erika didn’t answer, he gave her a small, deprecating smile. “Tell Jeremiah that Selaph and Uri leave their love.”

  Selaph opened the door, signaling that they had finished.

  “My name’s Erika,” she said, coming forward a step as the brothers headed for the porch. Uriel kept walking, but Selaph turned back, one palm on the handle, and on his face a smile small enough to get lost.

  “Erika Stripling,” she whispered. She didn’t know why. Maybe she just wanted a place in this world that barely seemed to tolerate her.

  “Nice to meet you, Erika Stripling,” Selaph said, also in a hush. “Welcome to the Kingdom.” He stepped out into the night and drew the door quietly after him.

  Shawn came to in the soft dark of dusk with a touch of ice in his lungs and a prickle running over his arms. He sucked in a deep breath and was startled by campsite memories of wintered earth and cold air. He picked himself up, wiped off his face, and looked around.

  There were trees. A low blanket of mist hung around the totem trunks, everything a wash of gray in the twilight. Shawn fell back onto his knees, his head spinning.

  “Shawn?”

  He saw Rebecca emerge from the bed of fog a few feet away. He lifted his hand, but couldn’t bring himself to say anything.

  Rebecca’s voice was strained. “Where’s Megan?”

  An image flashed through Shawn’s mind — a glimpse of his little sister stumbling toward a bonfire on the stairs. His heart thudded as he looked around.

  There she lay, asleep beside the trunk of a thin aspen tree. He scooped her up and rested her cheek against his shoulder. Her skin was smudged with ashes, but he could feel her breath against his neck. He sighed, relieved.

  “She’s here,” he said.

  Rebecca came up behind him. “Where’s here?” she hissed. “Where the hell are we?”

  “I … don’t know.”

  Shawn looked down at his arms, and at the back of Megan’s blue pajamas. His lungs were sore from smoke and the smell of fire.

  “Did we get kidnapped?” Rebecca hissed. “Dumped somewhere?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh my God. We did.” Rebecca dropped to her knees and covered her face with her own ash-blackened hands. “Why is all of this happening? Oh my God.” She was breathing hard.

  Megan scrunched up her nose and blinked at the dark.

  “Mommy?”

  “No, Meg,” Shawn said. “It’s just me and Becca. You want to stand?”

  “Okay.”

  Shawn knelt down to put Megan on her feet. Once she’d moved away, he turned to grab hold of his older sister. “For God’s sake, control yourself.”

  She gaped at him, indignant, even as she tried to brush away her tears. “Don’t you tell me what to do, Shawn.”

  His fingers tightened around her shoulders. “Are you trying to say that this is my fault?”

  “Well, it’s not mine.”

  “Nothing is ever your fault, is it? Wake up, Becca.”

  “Are we dead?” Meg asked.

  Shawn and Rebecca turned to look at her at the same time.

  “No, Meg,” said her sister. “Why would you think that?”

  “The fire,” Megan said simply. “Is this heaven?”

  “God, I hope not,” said Rebecca. Shawn threw an angry look at his older sister.

  Megan looked at the two of them, expectant. “Where are we, then?”

  Shawn faltered. “We’re … We’re …”

  The look on Megan’s face made Rebecca pull herself together. “We’re on an adventure, honey,” she said quietly, and held out her hand as she pushed herself up. Shawn watched the transformation but didn’t comment.

  “I don’t want to go on an adventure,” Megan said. “I want to know what happened.” Despite herself, she had to stifle a yawn.

  “I know, Meg,” Rebecca told her. “So do I. But let’s find a place to sleep first.”

  Shawn watched his sisters stumble off through the woods and resigned himself to following along behind. He too wanted to know what had happened. He noticed that Rebecca’s hands trembled as she ran her fingers through her hair and looked down at their little sister, and he realized how hard she was trying — how hard they were both trying — to be calm for Megan. He took a deep breath. The air felt clean and almost astringent, but the warm musk of smoke still gripped his clothes.

  Once, when he was six or seven, his mother had gotten angry enough to hurl a vase of flowers through the back window. The vase had shattered on the patio in a spray of cobalt glass and gerbera daisies, and the hole had stayed in the window for almost a month before she found the time and money to replace it. Shawn looked at Megan’s and Rebecca’s clasped hands, both gray with ash, and thought about the heavy clatter of the microwave as it bounced back from the window and hit the breakfast table. One metal corner had dented, as if smashed against a brick wall.

  Now they were God knew where. Maybe Megan was right — maybe they were dead. Maybe they would find their mother, then. Shawn’s mind raced and he wondered if he wasn’t coming unhinged. Then his stomach dropped and he thought about his dreams, and about how desperately his mother wanted to come home. Being dead wasn’t the same as being safe. He sped up to close the gap between himself and his sisters.

  The king turned away from his wife, who was weeping.

  “How could you?” she moaned into her hands. “How could you do this to us? To your family?”

  “I don’t want to hear any more of it.”

  “You don’t want to hear?” She leaped up from her chair. “You don’t want to
hear? How dare you? How dare you say that to me?”

  “We will say that the child is yours.”

  “I will not have that slut in my house!”

  “Then you will go to hers,” the king said smoothly. “I’ve ordered a new palace to be built. You will stay there through your pregnancy.”

  The queen gasped, flushing red. “You would banish me?” she shrieked. “You would take that whore into my bed and then send me to watch her grow fat with your bastard?”

  “I’ll not discuss this any longer.”

  “Send her to the Colonies! I order you to send her away!”

  The king paused. He looked back at his wife, whose blushed cheeks smoldered as bright as her burgundy dress. He nodded.

  “After the birth,” he agreed. “I’ll have her taken there after the birth.”

  He left the queen’s chambers without another word.

  Her stomach turning over, the queen ran to the eastern windows and pressed her face against the cold glass. Her boys were in the gardens, playing with one another. Gabriel, beautiful Gabriel, and solemn little Michael chased the three youngest through the hedges while the sun sank low behind the house. Gabriel, Michael, Uriel, Selaph, Jegud. She had always thought that they were her saving grace. That they were enough. She turned away, dropping the curtains to hide the view. She’d never deserved them, she knew, but had always imagined that she’d at least deserved their father. Now she felt so damaged. So painfully, permanently flawed.

  Erika still waited on the bottom step of the main staircase, though this time, her nerves had doubled. She smoothed the skirt of her dress, crumpled it, and smoothed it again, trying to keep her mind away from her children before the thoughts made her sick. She felt as flighty as if she’d eaten too much sugar.

  When Martha passed from one side of the entry hall to another, carrying bundles of wash or dust rags for cleaning, Erika opened her mouth as if to speak, but she never built up the courage to actually do so. Instead, Martha did all the talking. “He’s late, miss,” she would say after one pass-through. “It’s after curfew.” “He’ll be back soon, miss.” None of it calmed Erika, though it was intended to.

  When the lock of the front doors finally clicked, Erika flew up from her perch. It was Martha, however, who appeared in the blink of an eye to open the door for Jeremiah and take his coat and hat.

  “Send for my brother,” he said quietly as he slipped off his gloves. Martha didn’t need to ask which one or why now. She could tell from his face that he had already thought it through.

  Erika took a few steps forward, looking uncertain, and steadied herself on Kala’s cage before Jeremiah noticed her. He faltered, and then collected himself.

  “You’re awake,” he told her.

  “I am.”

  He asked nothing else, but instead gave her a one-armed hug, still looking a little thrown, and led her into a parlor at the back of the house.

  Erika realized that her children were not with him, and fell silent until they had stepped into the low light of the parlor. Then Jeremiah dropped his arm and walked away from her, over to a bronze log holder beside the fireplace.

  “How are they?” Erika whispered. “Where are they?”

  The dying coals blazed as Jeremiah tossed handfuls of kindling into the hearth. When he turned around, Erika was still on her feet.

  He pointed to one of the armchairs. “Sit. Please.” He took a seat himself and slumped forward to stretch the tension out of his shoulders and back. When he was comfortable, he settled against the pillows of the couch and concentrated on Erika. “They’ve come,” he said. “But that’s only half the battle. There are issues with bringing them any farther than where they’ve ended up. There are rules to break. Rules that I have no authority over.”

  “You are trying?”

  “Of course I’m trying.” Jeremiah shaded his eyes against the firelight. The logs he’d added were beginning to catch. “I’d do anything for you, Erika.”

  “Jeremiah …”

  “Let me finish.” His legs were crossed, his left hand on one knee and his right propped on the back of the couch. He picked at the trim of one of the throw pillows. Erika thought of Matt, who sat like that after a long day and told her about a report or a case and worried over her children in a way she could never quite grasp. There were things, Matt told her, that were worse than dying. “I’d do anything,” Jeremiah repeated, and Erika came back to the parlor and the smell of smoke. He looked into her eyes. “I just want to know why.”

  Erika’s forehead creased. “Excuse me?”

  “I need to hear it from your mouth. Why do you want them here?”

  “They’re my children.”

  “Is that good enough?” He studied her. “Is that really good enough, Erika?” When she didn’t answer, he laughed softly to himself. “My God,” he said. “Rebecca was an accident. Shawn was a mistake. Megan was the only one you ever really wanted.” His voice dropped to a thoughtful murmur. “You were desperate for her, weren’t you?”

  All that Erika’s horrified expression got was a sad shake of Jeremiah’s head.

  “You know that it’s true,” he said. “So tell me, Erika. Why should I fight for your children when you never did the same?”

  Her mouth fell open. Her words came out in a hiss. “How dare you say that to me?”

  Jeremiah turned away. He seemed troubled. “We’re both too tired to deal with this right now,” he said, his tone becoming gentler. “You’re getting upset with yourself. You should leave, Erika.”

  “Is it because you were a whore’s son?”

  He sprang to his feet.

  “Who told you that? Don’t talk about my mother.”

  Erika’s eyes narrowed.

  “I’m only telling you what you already know,” Jeremiah said. “Don’t try to be clever when you have no idea what’s going on now or what’s gone on before. Get out of here.”

  A tap broke on the door, as soft and timid as a cat’s claws against tile. A young man who looked no older than Jeremiah peered around the edge.

  “Is this a bad time?”

  Jeremiah’s arms fell. “Yes,” he said. “But come in anyway.”

  “Martha let me in.”

  Jeremiah nodded and folded his arms across the fireplace mantle. He dropped his forehead against his crossed wrists.

  “I’m Jegud,” the man said, offering Erika his hand. “You must be Miss Stripling.”

  “I am.”

  “Jeremiah has told me good things about you.”

  “I think that his opinion has since changed,” Erika said with a sad smile.

  “Keep your theories to yourself, Erika.”

  She ignored the comment. “Are you a friend of his?” she asked Jegud.

  “He’s my brother,” Jeremiah said.

  Jegud shrugged as if apologizing.

  It was true that he looked like Jeremiah, or at least more so than either Uriel or Selaph had. Jegud’s features were more delicate than Jeremiah’s, however. He was pale, even in the firelight, and his intensely blue eyes were bright against his skin and dark hair. He dressed like an English dandy.

  “You asked me to come?” he said, turning to Jeremiah again. “Please tell me that I got that right. If I came after hours for nothing, I won’t be happy.”

  “You’re right,” Jeremiah said. “And I’m sorry that it’s so late.”

  “I don’t think you really are.”

  “No, I am.” Jeremiah turned, arms dropping to his sides. “I’m exhausted.”

  “There are cures for that,” Jegud said. “One is called sleep.”

  “Not now. I’m not myself.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Erika saw Jegud glance in her direction.

  “No, not that. I’ve been out and back in less than a day. I’m not used to it.”

  “How did you manage?”

  “Cancer patient,” Jeremiah said, sounding remorseful. “She was terminal, so her family was ready to let go.
She seemed happy.”

  “Until you made it to the gate?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “They always are.”

  “I shouldn’t have left her so soon.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  Jeremiah grunted. “It’s completely my fault,” he said. “We both know that.” He shook his head.

  His brother shifted uncomfortably. “I’ll find her tomorrow,” he offered.

  “That’s not your job.”

  Jegud held his palms up. “What can I do?”

  “Get me a drink.”

  Again, Erika noticed Jegud’s eyes flick toward her.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Jeremiah said. “I need it.”

  “Fine.” Jegud went to a liquor cabinet at the back of the room and took out a glass and decanter.

  “You won’t take anything yourself?” asked Jeremiah.

  “I’m smarter than you are.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it.” Jeremiah threw back the alcohol and set down his empty glass. “Erika? Let me take you back to your room. Jegud and I have some business to discuss.”

  “It’s boring, really,” Jegud said.

  “Quite.” Jeremiah offered his hand as if it were an olive branch.

  Erika looked at it for a moment, still hurt, before putting her fingers against his palm and letting him guide her out of the room.

  They went down the hall and up the stairs in silence. It wasn’t until they reached the threshold of her bedroom that Jeremiah ventured to speak.

  “I am sorry, Erika.”

  She shook her head. “I needed that,” she said. “I needed someone to tell me the truth for once. It’s just … I’m so afraid.”

  “I know you are. And that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

  “No, it is,” she said. “It is, it is.” She rested her forehead against his chin. “I’m sorry I said that about your mother. I’m such a mess.” She lifted her head to look at Jeremiah, and saw how warm his eyes were, and how worried.

  “No harm done,” he said. His gentleness and good intentions washed over her and her breath caught in her throat. When she leaned in, her mouth fit perfectly against his.

  For a heartbeat, Jeremiah allowed himself to kiss her. Her heat filled him up, and the taste of her skin, and he wanted more. But then his eyes flew open and he jerked away. One hand flew to his lips, forcing a barrier.