Gunnar went entirely still, gritting his teeth, but obeying me.
I let out a breath, and fell onto my back, lying on the ground for a few seconds, rolling my shoulders to shake off the pain. Whatever that stab of agony had been slowly faded. Had I injured myself? Hurt my neck or something? I slowly climbed to my feet, and then shambled over to the couch. “Sit beside me, Wulfric.”
He did, shooting a last look at his makeshift deadbolt, as if only now realizing he had sealed his own fate.
“Oh, don’t be such a drama queen,” I snapped. “But maybe you should think twice before mistreating me in my own home,” I said, waving my wrist to show him the bangle. “Really? I did something this bad? Enough to warrant house arrest?” I hadn’t even known he had found where I’d hidden this cursed thing – cuffs able to prevent a wizard from using his own magic.
Gunnar sighed from beside me on the couch, placing his elbows on his knees, and resting his face in his palms. “Kind of. Almost, anyway. I really need you to try to remember, Nate. It’s not that I don’t want to tell you, but that you need to try to remember it for yourself. The fact that I see you wince in pain every time you try to remember should tell you something… It will answer a lot more questions if you can remember, because what we saw isn’t very helpful.”
I frowned. “What’s the difference between you telling me and me telling you? You obviously remember a whole lot more. You didn’t pass out after.” He sighed, glaring down at his tattoo, his own handcuffs.
To be honest, I was just as surprised as Gunnar that the last-ditch attempt had worked. The first time I had found this loophole, it had been when he and I were not on the friendliest of terms, and I was coming to grips with a Beast dwelling inside me.
Kai had ridden the Nate train for a little while, giving me access to all sorts of powers as a Maker – a symbiotic relationship with a Beast – exactly like how my mansion was bonded with its own Beast, Falco.
But I was no longer a Maker, so perhaps my mastery over Gunnar’s tattoo had had nothing to do with being one. But that didn’t help me. That just gave me more questions. My parents had given Gunnar the tattoo, after all, and I’d recently learned that they were liars like the world had never seen before.
“In the name of Chateau Defiance,” Gunnar finally said. “If you can’t tell me what happened last night, I will cut off my arm and this tattoo, and I will leave St. Louis forever,” he whispered. He wasn’t threatening me, he sounded terrified.
I blinked at him incredulously, not sure how to respond. “You’re calling up the oath from our old tree house?” I asked softly, recognizing the severity of the situation from that comment alone. It was about as sacred and old of an oath as we had between us. It sounded ridiculous, but we’d always promised to hold it up as our highest standard of honesty. It was sacrosanct.
He looked up, finally, and in that bloodshot eye was desperation. “Yes.”
I let out a breath. “Okay. I’ll try… But only because you invoked the sacred oath,” I muttered.
“Thank you.”
I leaned back into the couch and closed my eyes. Since I had found only pain anytime I tried to recall the details of last night, I decided to try a different tactic. I called upon my Memory Palace.
My parents had taught me how to construct an imagined place where I could store an unlimited number of memories, knowledge, and facts. We had come up with the solution after I’d told my parents about having constant migraines. After some consideration, they had theorized that it had something to do with my memory, that since I could recall even the most mundane of details about a place, event, or person, that my mind was simply having trouble storing it all.
They believed I had an eidetic memory. But I’d learned there were different levels of eidetic memory. Some better than others. The more severe cases had near instant recall, and often had antisocial behaviors, living too deeply in their memories, unable to relate to their peers.
Others compartmentalized things, basically archiving everything until it was needed at some later date.
My memory was somewhere in the middle of those but leaning more towards the former.
It was one reason why meeting Gunnar had been so vital to me. A means to escape the data dump in my mind. With Gunnar, I had been able to forget all that, and instead use my imagination to… well, imagine.
We built our treehouse. Made slingshots. Pretended we were monster hunters. Pretended we were monsters.
Kings.
Princes.
Angels.
Demons.
You know, kid stuff. Delusions of grandeur.
And those growing bonds of friendship had helped to keep me grounded. Helped drown out the noise.
But on top of that, my parents had thought it beneficial to help me build a mental library, so that instead of remembering every detail chronologically, I could attach them to objects and tuck them away on a dusty shelf for later.
For example, I could mentally create a schoolroom inside my Memory Palace, and anything associated with school or learning would be stored there. A set of imaginary beakers where I could toss all my science lessons.
An abacus to store all my math homework.
Things like that. All I would need to do was ‘visit’ my mental schoolroom, pick up the abacus, and wham, I could delve through specific details related to any math lessons I’d ever had.
As one could probably guess, my Memory Palace had quickly grown beyond one room.
A living room to recall all the time spent with my family – full of pictures, photo albums, and movie stubs, and even an arcade token. Pick one of these up, and I could relive the moment.
A conservatory for my dreams and worldly adventures.
A library for my favorite books and authors.
All in all, my Memory Palace was now considerably larger than my real mansion, Chateau Falco, which I had used as the basis for my imagined construct.
And… I hadn’t been there in a very long while. Really, maybe since my parents died. At least habitually, anyway. Maybe it was time I took a stroll, dusted off some shelves. Took a trip down memory lane.
Because memories never hurt anyone…
Chapter 27
I stood before the massive front door to my Memory Palace. A large crest emblazoned the door, the Temple Family Crest. I glanced down at my palm, seeing the identical brand.
A shield with a point at the bottom and split vertically by a jagged lightning bolt. On one side of the lightning was a pair of mountains, and on the other, a feather. The top of the shield was bordered by a strip of eight stars, and a clenched fist rose above the top of the shield, and beneath it were the words Non Serviam, meaning, I will never serve. It was a quote made famous by Milton’s Paradise Lost when Lucifer told the Angels he would no longer be a blind devotee.
Diagonally crossing behind the shield were two polearms. One was a spear of sorts, and a strip of cloth furled out from it with the word Arete on it – Aristotle’s famous lesson to Alexander the Great to strive to become the best possible form of a thing, whatever that thing was. Basically, to be the role model for anyone else behind you. If you chose to be a wizard, be a notorious one. The most legendary wizard the world had ever seen.
The other polearm was a scythe, and a similar strip of cloth dangled from the haft with the words Memento Mori – remember you will die. Live life to the fullest, because at any moment you could die.
Below the shield, the butts of the spears extended out a little, and on each was a raven with the names Hugin and Munin beneath them – Odin’s Ravens, Thought and Memory.
I shivered at a breeze.
Then I belted out a laugh, realizing what I had done. The Crest always humbled me, because it embodied so much, had been a symbol for the Temple Clan for centuries. And it sure seemed more than a little prophetic to me. I wondered if that was something every Temple had felt at one point in their life. Like the Crest had been designed specifically for them.
&n
bsp; Or if I was just a special flavor of arrogant.
Regardless, the Crest made me uneasy, so I had imagined a cool breeze here in this imagined realm. I turned to look back out at the rolling hills of trees and manicured lawns that ringed the property. It was uncanny.
I glanced at the spot where a tree now stood, and smiled as one popped into existence, fleshing and building out like a photoshopped image in fast-forward. A titanic white tree covered in scales, and a tiny white treehouse perched high above.
Carl’s Mighty D, as we’d taken to calling it.
In the distance, I saw Chateau Defiance, Gunnar’s and my treehouse. It was much larger than in real life, because most of my childhood memories took up too much space. All our adventures.
I sighed, shaking my head, and turned back to the front door. Then I walked inside.
Here, Chateau Falco was much different than reality. Because I had removed anything not pertinent to my specific needs. I strolled down the marble halls, about three times wider than they really were, and admired the artwork. I strolled past a section of painted portraits of past Temple ancestors that my parents had acquired. They weren’t all here, but any my parents specifically sought out had been found, and a few they had only seen pictures of – because I had added them to the walls.
I paused before Matthias Temple’s portrait, frowning.
He’d been banished to the Fae Realm long ago after his friend had betrayed him, pinning the blame for the influx of Brothers Grimm in America on him. Matthias had been in Fae for so long that he’d taken to believing himself the real Mad Hatter. Since his prison had been entirely white, I made the painting also entirely white, even the man himself, like a textured painting in milk. Then I added a fancy fedora and a red ascot, because I could.
Even though Matthias was borderline insane and had caused me any number of headaches – like kidnapping the only Knight of the Round Table we had found still living – he meant well. I think.
So, I didn’t draw a wang on his face, out of respect. But it was a faint respect. Very, very faint. If he didn’t give me back my knight, I’d come back with a sharpie to vandalize this portrait.
I continued on down the halls, wondering what I hoped to find here. I knew this place like the back of my hand. Was I just hoping it would clear my head, or that I would actually find a memory of last night?
Whatever I had done that had been so bad I had repressed it.
I slowed, thinking. Maybe there was a way to find the answer here, after all.
I let myself feel the place itself. The temperature was a little stuffy, so I made it cooler. The familiar smells of my father’s Gurkha Black Dragon cigars permeated the air – not the smoke smell, but the crisp vibrant smell that always wafted up the next day. I savored it, recalling the times I had spied my father working late into the night, hunched over his desk in his office.
Then, I focused on the opposite of that feeling.
Discomfort. Uncertainty. Fear.
And, in a heartbeat, I felt it. Like a creeping tendril of black fog leading towards a dim hall. I frowned, staring at it. I followed the hall, realizing I had created it at some point, but had left it incomplete, almost hazy, and if I looked away, it began to fade.
I followed the hall, seeing that it ended in a set of creaky stairs, leading up. I paused at the base, imagining the area lighter, but the Memory Palace fought me, the entire place quivering slightly.
And I saw a figure staring back at me from the top of the stairs, an entirely black shadow.
With blazing white eyes.
We stared at each other for a few moments, and then he bolted like a rabbit, pounding up the stairs. I hesitated for all of two seconds before I took off after him. I ran, and ran, pounding up the steps two at a time, the staircase spiraling in on itself again and again and again. I had to have climbed a dozen flights before I spilled out onto a hallway of silver chrome. I skidded to a halt, not seeing the shadow.
But the tendril of darkness was thicker here, leading onwards.
I walked cautiously. I was in uncharted territory. Even in my own mind.
Which… shouldn’t have been possible. Well, I knew it was, obviously, but it was still alarming. My subconscious had made some renovations without me.
And judging from the extravagant gleaming hall, my subconscious was apparently a suave, classy, but creepy asshole. My surroundings glittered with opulence, decadence, and arrogance. Silver busts of myself in dramatic poses. Every single fucking trophy I had ever won, cast in gleaming silver. Models of the cars I had owned. A blueprint for Plato’s Cave. Every speeding ticket framed and displayed in a position of prominence.
Life-sized portraits of every pretty woman I had ever encountered, all smiling and deliriously happy, and I could tell that they were smiling at me. How I imagined they felt about me.
Tory. Ashley. Indie. Othello. The Reds’ mother, Misha…
And a full bodied, life-sized statue of Callie Penrose, hands held together in prayer, smiling adoringly at me like an Angel. She was gloriously naked.
I ran past that one faster than the others, but her eyes followed me. If she ever found out, she’d kill me.
I began staring at the floor as I pounded my feet, unable to witness anymore false idols of my pride and arrogance. My self-imagined world of how I believed everyone should see me.
I had enough arrogance for a thousand men, because even the chrome floor tiles were odes to my achievements. Each tile was carved with minor accomplishments, grade cards, awards, diplomas, degrees, and even the napkin notes my mom had tucked into my lunch boxes as a child.
Calling me things like…
Her tiny godling.
Her knight in shining armor.
Her cute little Manling.
I set my jaw, growing angry.
It was a Hall of Vanities.
And I finally realized what I was actually seeing. It was a security system.
A visual replication of everything I had ever done that made me feel good about myself. Every defense mechanism I had ever hidden behind. Every flaw I had worn like a badge of honor. Of course, many were legitimate accomplishments, but there were enough of the false depictions of prideful achievements to make me snarl.
An area of my Memory Palace carefully designed to reassure me that I was awesome. To distract me from venturing further. I began to run faster, because whatever lay beyond this area had to be dark.
The hallway ended in a floor-to-ceiling chrome mirror, but my reflection was a suave, perfectly polished version of myself. No scars. No scruff on my cheeks. No torn clothes. No pain in my eyes. Nothing but sheer joy at everything I had accomplished, at how perfectly incredible I was.
I punched the mirror as hard as I could, clocking that cold, arrogant motherfucker right in the jaw. And like the world was made entirely of glass, everything before and behind me shattered, and I stared down at the blood running down my knuckles, panting heavily.
“I’m Nate Fucking Temple, and I’m nobody’s hero,” I snarled, stomping through the mounds of broken glass, leaving bloody footprints in my wake.
I felt resolved – and calmer than I could ever recall feeling.
As if a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders – the weight of my own prideful arrogance.
I ground the shards of glass beneath my feet, eager to destroy even the dust of that world beneath my heels.
Chapter 28
The shards of glass sliced and bit into the thin skin of my feet and toes, drawing blood, but I gritted my teeth and pressed on. Other than the heaps of broken glass, the world beyond, above, behind, and below looked as lush and comforting as black velvet, begging me to run towards its comforting embrace.
I ignored it and purposely made sure to walk on nothing but the glass.
After a few minutes, I glanced back behind me curiously, wondering how far I had walked. As far as the eye could see was nothing except broken glass, and a lone, crimson trail of my blood leading to me. S
urely, I hadn’t walked that far…
I growled and pressed on.
What felt like an hour later, I was staggering, dragging my feet through the glass now, weakened from blood loss. Everything abruptly changed between one shuffled step and the next, and I found myself on a roof.
Stone gargoyles lined the edge to my left and right, and on closer inspection, I realized they were Guardians, like the ones that I used to protect Chateau Falco.
This became obvious when they turned their heads to stare at me, or ruffled their feathers, or pawed the rooftop with long, stone claws, letting me know I wasn’t welcome here.
I grunted, dismissing them as I stared upwards. The thunderstorm of the century tried to bat me down, the skies black with pregnant, bloated clouds, and never-ending bolts of red and blue lightning crackled from cloud to cloud, frequently erupting down to touch the rooftop I stood on. I didn’t flinch, wiping the water from my eyes, squinting through the walls of water hammering the earth.
I stared ahead since there were no Guardians in that direction, only the edge of the roof.
And I saw the shadow I’d been initially chasing standing on the edge of the roof, limned by the flashes of lightning. He had his hands on his waist, arms akimbo, and he was staring at me.
I smirked defiantly and continued on. The Guardians snarled, growled, shrieked, and hissed at me, snapping their jaws and beaks at me, dragging their claws across the concrete in threatening gestures.
I ignored them, holding up my hand to shield the rain from my eyes – fearing the little shit would run away again and I’d lose track of him for good. He watched me in silence, his eyes – one red and one blue, now – were merciless, cold, and demanding. As I got closer, I realized he was too small. Like a child.
I also realized that he wasn’t wearing a cloak, because each peal of lightning and thunder that rattled the rooftop didn’t so much as faze him or illuminate him. In fact, I could see his shaggy, unkempt hair waving in the wind, and it was also pure black, like every other part of him. Because he was one solid color.
Horseman: A Nate Temple Supernatural Thriller Book 10 (The Temple Chronicles) Page 16