Airel

by Patterson, Aaron

  Straight ahead in the darkness was a canopy bed, very ornate. It stood on a raised platform against the wall. I crept in and closed the door gently behind so I wouldn’t announce my presence, if I hadn’t already done so.

  I held my candle aside and down, waiting until my eyes adjusted a little. I kept my back to the wall. This room was round too, and opposite me were large windows much like the ones in the ballroom, showering the floor with starlight. I sneaked boldly to the bedside. Nothing stirred in it as far as I could tell.

  I came to the windows of tall etched glass and observed a setting moon, blood-orange, against the snow of a distant mountain range. There was a trailhead at the edge of the porch outside the windows. It seemed to lead toward the base of those mountains. There was a shed or shack, partially on stilts, that clung to the mountainside. Below it was a square patch that looked like one of those places where gymnasts do their floor routines for the Olympics, but it was washed-out brown and stuck out over the drop as if it were floating.

  I forced myself to look away. Though life was getting difficult to assess—which is an understatement—I still wanted to be cautious. If it turned out that being savagely murdered in the dream meant certain death in the real world, I had to keep my guard up. It didn’t matter if I sometimes couldn’t tell what was a dream and what was the real. I was so overwhelmed with my life that it was getting difficult to stay tough.

  I took a brief survey of the rest of the room. I found a bathroom, a tub that was more pool than tub, and some odds and ends that I couldn’t really place.

  I watched the bed curtains to see if I was safe to explore further. I heard respirations barely louder than a whisper.

  I moved to the closet, which was like a private WalMart. It was filled with every kind of clothing imaginable, in every style. 80’s MC Hammer pants, old suits like the mobsters used to wear, and even robes, all of them appearing to suffer from the occasional actual use. It blew me away. It looked like a costume wardrobe from a movie studio. Of course, there wasn’t a stitch out of place; everything was orderly. I think I would have felt more comfortable if there was one thing normal in the place. Like shoes kicked in the corner or even dirty undies in a pile of old t-shirts or something.

  I was creeped out, and I’m not sure if it was the thought of killer underwear or not. But I felt the irresistible yanking need to turn around, as if he was standing right there. I grimaced, dreading what was coming—not sure if I was going to die of embarrassment or a knife wound—and raised my hands in surrender, turning slowly around. I almost said, “Okay. You caught me,” but I didn’t, because as soon as I had turned and opened my eyes again, there was no one there. Just another unexplainable item to add to the list.

  I was not deterred from my nosiness, and continued on creeping through my captor’s private life. I chalked it up to the fact that I figured he owed me at least a little information—and if he wasn’t going to volunteer any, I would find some, so help me, and he would be at the mercy of my interpretation of it. So there.

  It was a bummer that all I found after that was a bare concrete room, it was about the size of a restaurant refrigerator. Killers need storage space too. But that was probably the weirdest part of another weird night strung on the necklace of my existence. Palatial house, in which everything is obscenely overstuffed—then a tiny bunker of a room that’s just…empty. I was seriously wondering how many of these kinds of things were going to continue to happen to me.

  I wasn’t leading a life, I decided. My life was leading me. Where, I did not know, and was almost afraid to ask. But whenever I asked the heavens for explanation, they were silent. Typical.

  I yawned and decided I was getting sleepy and needed to make my exit sooner rather than later. I retraced my trail to my room, being extremely careful not to leave any crumbs. I fell into the soft bed and this time I didn’t dream of anything. No monsters, no running. Just blank sweet sleep. Was that good or bad?

  Chapter XIII

  1250 B.C. The City of Ke’elei

  “They never intended to give even one man,” Kreios said aloud, primarily to himself, but in the presence of his brother and friend. Yamanu sat smoking his pipe as if readying himself for a very long sleep, and Zedkiel was pacing by the fire. They had all three returned to the inn where they had found lodgings at the great City of Refuge.

  “You read their thoughts?” Yamanu asked a tone of surprise in his voice. “A bit risky, if you open your mind up to read you are vulnerable as well.”

  “Yes, I know. But I am not afraid of the likes of the council; they have grown weak. I am sick of the lies. They had no intention of giving us even one man.” Kreios paced the room.

  He was not going to let the Seer or the council control him. He knew that the Seer wanted him and his baby girl for some dark purpose beyond his imagination, and the only way to be rid of the Seer and the threat against his daughter was to kill him. Cut the head off the snake, and the rest of the body will die.

  Yamanu sat back in a long low chair, feet up, jovially puffing on his pipe. He looked up at the two brothers as if they were two figures in a play discussing nothing more important than whether one lump or two was proper. “I am ready to fight, ladies, but I will require a dinner of lamb and greens with bread smothered in butter, if it please you.”

  Kreios let out a pinched laugh and swept Yamanu’s upraised feet off the table. “Nothing gets to you, Yamanu, does it?” Yamanu shrugged and looked innocently at him.

  Kreios’s smile faded slowly as the jest died away under the gravity of their situation. His eyes turned to Zedkiel. “I think you should stay here with Maria. She needs you to help her with the childbirth, and I will feel better if you are here to protect what is left of my family.”

  Zedkiel protested lightly as a matter of course. “I will pray for you my brother. Every moment.”

  Kreios did not answer him.

  Yamanu regained his reclined posture, regarding the brothers.

  “They will stay here, instead of taking a chance to surprise the Seer and wipe the horde from the face of the earth. ‘Fortify and defend,’ they say, but in the end the war will be long and hard. Every day that goes by, the horde will grow stronger and we will grow weaker—they simply need to be led to the foot of the walls and besiege us with their encampment! Not even having to raise a sword! It is madness. Why would they risk so much in refusing to risk so little?”

  Yamanu took the pipe from his lips, standing at last. “Kreios, we do not have the time to uncover this mystery. We should ready ourselves; grasp what is already in our hands.” He poured out the bowl of his pipe into the fire, where it sparked and sizzled. “If you don’t mind, I require a good night’s sleep and a hot meal. After that, friend Kreios, you and I will go to see how many demons we can kill.”

  Kreios managed a weak smile, nodding. “We go at sunrise. We will eat and sleep—then we will hunt.”

  Chapter XIV

  Somewhere in the mountains of Idaho, present day

  Cool mornings in the mountains, with rain on some nights, made the earth smell so good that it invaded the mind. I sat up and drank it in, feeling better than I ever had up to this point. For the first time in a long time I felt like I had a good night’s sleep.

  I took stock of my situation: I knew Michael was alive and well. He was off his game, but at least he was breathing. My host was disturbingly generous and wealthy. Either that, or he was working for someone who owned an entire country.

  I let my feet fall to the floor and shuffled into the bathroom. I wasn’t going to think about my parents and how they were doing. Let’s at least wake up and clear the cobwebs before we burst into tears.

  A pink sticky note looked at me from the mirror. The handwriting had to be Michael’s. I imagined the killer’s hand would be cursive. I pulled it free and read what it said.

  Went for a walk. Don’t worry about me—I was assured I was being watched, so I won’t go far. See you at breakfast—8 a.m. sharp!
>
  - Michael Alexander

  I looked outside, down the lush green valley, but did not see Michael. The enormous grandfather clock against the wall was reading…little hand on the seven, big hand on the nine…quarter ‘til. I was experiencing culture shock, full on. Literally nothing digital in the entire place, unless it was numbers themselves. “Man!” What could I say? I decided to get ready and head downstairs.

  I found a hair band, pulled half my hair back, and tied it tight. Smoothing out the rest with my hand, I looked in the mirror. On second thought, I pulled the band out of my hair and let it run wild, hiding part of my face, providing cover. I decided that was better, and pulled on a black shirt and my favorite jeans, trying hard not to think of how they had appeared here in the middle of freaking Narnia.

  I opened the door and stared straight into the dark eyes of my captor, which prompted a sharp gasp and a long, “Shhhhhhhhh—” aborting the rest of the curse.

  He smiled, his lips drawn thin. “Morning,” he said. “I hope you’re feeling well.”

  I recovered quickly, rebuilding the wall by reattaching the mask to my frightened face, glaring at him. “Well actually I’m feeling pretty good. Better than I have been, since you asked.” He turned to walk and I followed. “But I think I may need a doctor to find out what’s wrong with me. I started getting sick a month or so ago.” I didn’t know why I told him, but somehow I felt I must.

  “You’ll be fine. You need a good breakfast, and there is much to talk about. It will become clear in time—and try not to think of me as your captor or kidnapper,” he looked at me. “I only did what I had to do.”

  He stopped short when he saw the look on my face. I had no interest in being his friend or buddy, if that was what he was looking for. I remembered something from a movie, where victims actually started to like their captors, building a sick version of a relationship—I was not afraid of that happening to me.

  “I don’t want to be your friend. I don’t want to know you, and the first chance I can find to escape, I will. I’m trying to make the best of all this, but don’t pretend anything’s normal.” I didn’t care if he had tried to nurse me back to health or any of it. he was a murderer and a kidnapper. And that was just the stuff I knew about him.

  His eyes grew hard. “Have it your way. But know this: you cross me or try to escape, I will kill you. Do not mistake my generosity for weakness.”

  He ground his teeth, turned, and walked away. I followed him, wondering if I had made my situation better or worse. We descended the stairs together, and for the briefest of moments I imagined what it might be like to descend the same magnificent stairs in an impossible five thousand dollar princess gown on the arm of my Michael. Instead I was walking at a distance from my kidnapper that more than suggested repellence.

  He wore jeans and a tight black t-shirt with a white intertwined ivy design laced from the hip to the shoulder. It was an interesting shirt; I couldn’t quite place where he might have gotten it. He moved smoothly for his size; he looked like he was a panther. Maybe it was the black shirt. Nothing about him was wasted. Not even his words. He seemed to think long and hard before he spoke in order to avoid saying something he might later regret.

  He led me to the far side of the ballroom and through a set of heavy glass doors. I saw a round table and three chairs under a white umbrella in the morning sun, looking like a slice of Paris. The porch was a hundred feet long at least, and surrounded with bushes and plants of all kinds. I saw Michael standing by the edge of the porch and my heart skipped a beat.

  I ran past the killer and threw my arms around Michael’s big shoulders, hugging him tight. “Michael,” I said breathlessly. “I’m so glad to see you!” I pulled back, looked at him, and hugged him again. I had to hold back a tear. I hadn’t had time to realize how much I had grown to care for him, but suddenly it was realized. I didn’t want to let him go.

  “Airel, I was so worried about you. How are you feeling?” He seemed better and back to his normal confident self.

  “Great! I’m fine, all better.” I was fine, better than fine. I was alive, I felt great, and I had Michael next to me. How could I not be fine, even in the black-eyed face of my captor?

  Michael held my hands and looked at me with his deep blue eyes. These were the eyes that could look into my very soul, and I gladly allowed it. “Are you sure, though? I mean, are you still sick?”

  “I’m better; I think it was all the stress and maybe something I ate or drank.” I gave our captor a glare and said it just loud enough for him to hear.

  Michael smiled and nodded. “Good. You had me worried there…I don’t know what--”

  The killer cleared his throat and sat down. The chair scraped on the cobblestone as he pulled it closer to the table, and I got a strong sense that it was intentional. “There will be time to ask and answer all of your questions. All the time in the world. Let us eat.” He had a calm look on his face as if this was all quite routine for him.

  Michael shot me a look and pulled out a chair for me. I could only guess at the meaning of his expression. He slid his chair closer to mine so that we sat opposite from our mysterious captor, the table serving as a buffer. He glanced at us without any concern, even seeming amused by it.

  There were three white china plates on the table. Each was piled with fluffy scrambled eggs, bacon grilled to a perfect crisp, country sausage, and crusty cracked wheat toast with plenty of soft butter. Baskets of fruit and muffins stood in the center of the table.

  I could see cherries, mango, oranges, papaya, peaches, grapes on the vine (the kind I had discovered the night previous), and fresh pineapple. Glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice were in front of each plate, droplets of condensation forming deliciously on all of them. I took the cold glass in my hand and sipped it. It was amazing.

  Michael started on his eggs hungrily, and so did I. The killer took a small bite out of his toast as he studied us. Then, just as abruptly as a punch in the stomach, he introduced himself. “My name is Kale. My last name is of no importance. I thought you ought to know.”

  I stopped in mid-bite and put the fork down, staring. “I bet you could tell me my name,” I baited him in vain. I waited, too, in vain, but I had to surrender. “It’s Airel.” Michael mechanically introduced himself out of obligation. It was really awkward.

  “I need to tell you something so that we do not have another night like the one that put you in convalescence for a week.” He was looking directly at me. Then his gaze shifted to Michael, and he continued.

  “You cannot escape, so don’t try. If you do try, I will lock you away like a dog. If you stay on the property you will be free within its boundaries.” He took a sip from his glass of orange juice, then sighed. He acted as if he was being forced to do this. I wondered if he was like an employee for someone, a hit man for some multinational power broker.

  I could not help but wonder how in the world I had ended up there. Kim would have said, “I told you so,” and reminded me that we should have gone to the cops. I was shocked at myself as I wondered if I was inside the machinery of one of those human trafficking organizations I had been hearing about.

  I was so mad; I couldn’t believe we were all sitting at a table eating as if we were all old friends. But I couldn’t bring myself to hate Kale or even retain my anger. He acted natural and sure of himself, which disarmed me. He didn’t even seem to consider the fact that he would end up in prison for a very long time if he was caught kidnapping minors.

  “I have eyes and ears everywhere. I’ll know of any plans you make before you have a chance to execute them. I do not want to hold you in a cage like animals. I would rather you were free.” He paused, indicating that he was switching gears. “You are to attend to your schooling so as not to fall behind in your studies.” Michael groaned, and I sighed aloud.

  “This makes no sense,” I said. “You kidnap us, and then you act like we’re here on a field trip? Now—why did you take us, and what do you w
ant?”

  “You will obey or suffer the consequences,” he said calmly. The calmness chilled me deeply, and I backed off, feeling with certainty that I was in over my head.

  “Easy now, she didn’t mean anything by it,” Michael was trying to keep the peace. “She just wanted to know what you want—money?” Kale looked at him with what can only be described as hatred. I don’t think Michael noticed it; he just kept on talking in even tones. “My dad doesn’t have much. I don’t think hers does either.” Michael tensed, opening and closing his fists as if he was about to strike. This was like cats and dogs, seriously, and I almost felt like I needed to jump up and get in between them.

  Kale deflected him. “I do not need money. As you can see I have money to spare. What I want,” he turned to me, “only Airel can give.”

  Chapter XV

  Boise Idaho, Present day

  Stan was cheerfully ignorant, standing over the demobilized police officer, engaged in what was, for him, a shiny new hobby: abduction and torture. He held the badge up to the light that came from a single bulb in the tiny one-car garage.

  “Lopez,” he read out. The instability in the housing market had done at least one thing for opportunists, and that was that there were plenty of empty foreclosed homes all over the valley.

  Stan fancied himself a man of deliberate action. He had considered the empty house for a week before deciding it would work well for his purposes tonight. Officer Lopez was bound with his own handcuffs; his torso and ankles duct-taped to a metal folding chair. Blood seeped from his broken nose onto his white uniform shirt, soaking in, making a beautiful inkblot image.

  Stan thought it looked like a bat; maybe a dragon. This image filled him with a sense of power and fear; a buzz to which he had become addicted.