by R. M. Ridley
“Or dangerous?”
“God, I hope not,” Wendell laughed. “Think I’ve had my fill of that, see?”
Jonathan clapped him on the back. “I’d like that Wendell.” Then, steadying the tall man as he suddenly leaned backwards, he asked, “Are you good to drive?”
“Yeah, just there’s a layer of ice under the snow; nearly slipped.”
“You’re sure?” Jonathan pressed.
“Absolutely.”
“Well, I’ll walk you to your car.”
“It’s just down by the corner there,” Wendell said, pointing along the empty street.
The two of them walked like old men, careful not to fall on the ice.
As they passed along the front of Jonathan’s building, both of them looked up, searching for signs of the assaults they had repulsed.
“Kind of hard to believe from out here,” Wendell commented.
“Yeah.” Jonathan returned his eyes to the sidewalk. “You’ll get used to that sort of dichotomy. That’s how it all stays, just the stuff of movies and campfire tales to the masses. People forget, rationalize, and it’s almost as if the universe itself does all it can to ignore the ways its supposed laws are broken and bent.”
They had walked to where Wendell’s car was parked, only one space in from the corner. The only other car parked on the street was Jonathan’s, down in front of the door to the office building.
They walked out into the street and Wendell unlocked his door, but before opening it, he turned back to face Jonathan.
“I’ll give you a call once I’ve caught up on my sleep.”
“You do that, Wendell,” Jonathan said and clasped the man’s hand in his own.
He saw headlights sweep into view from the corner of his eye and stepped a bit closer to Wendell. He wanted to allow the vehicle plenty of space to pass.
Wendell, however, planted both of his hands on Jonathan’s chest and, with all his strength, shoved him away.
Jonathan yelled out in surprise. Stumbling backwards, he lost his balance.
He ended up sprawling into the middle of the street. Jonathan craned his head up in a desperate attempt to keep it from being cracked open on the asphalt, even as his shoulders bounced off the slick road. His torso clenched in a hot fist of pain.
He was gliding over the pavement. Sliding on the black ice.
Sliding like the minivan, which, even as his eyes came to focus on it, crashed its front corner against the sedan door . . .
. . . crushing Wendell like a nutcracker.
Jonathan howled in rage and denial as the last bloody breath was forced from Wendell’s mouth.
Jonathan tried to rise. The ice under him mocked his efforts.
From far away, a horn sounded, and a voice began screaming. The person repeatedly cursed the very night.
Jonathan was hauled to his feet by strong arms on either side.
As he yelled in pain, he realized it had been him cursing the gods.
He heard his name and came to understand that Bao and Quan had helped him up.
Eventually, it registered that Quan was asking if he was all right. Jonathan nodded without taking his eyes from the long torso draped over the steaming, crumpled hood of the minivan.
Despite his silent assurance that he was unhurt, neither man released their hold on his arms. Jonathan wasn’t struggling. He knew there was nothing he could do.
Wendell was gone.
After everything, it was as simple as a car accident. “But it was after twelve. It was a new day,” he declared with bitter vehemence.
Cautiously, Quan said, “It’s not twelve yet, Mr. Alvey.”
“Yes! We waited,” Jonathan insisted. “Waited till almost one.”
“Mr. Alvey, it’s just midnight now—look.” Quan lifted his wrist.
Reluctantly, as though looking away would somehow rule out any chance of a miracle happening, Jonathan looked at the numbers digitally displayed on the watch.
According to the timepiece, it was just one past twelve.
“But . . .” Jonathan began. Then again he insisted, “It was after. It was after one.”
Then Jonathan understood, even as Quan told him the truth.
“Time changed, Mr. Alvey. Yesterday night—time went back.”
Jonathan remembered Wendell coming into his office complaining that his watch wasn’t working. His own clock had to be turned manually, but Wendell’s, Jonathan understood now, would have automatically reset itself.
He nodded and said he could stand by himself.
As though letting go of a child riding his bike for the first time without training wheels, the two men slowly withdrew their hands.
Sirens were already drawing close.
He heard a voice talking and realized someone from the restaurant must have come out after Bao and Quan to tend to the driver of the minivan.
They were talking the young man out of getting out of the van, instructing him to wait for the paramedics. An airbag held him against the seat. Despite this, he had managed to get a gash on his forehead.
Jonathan wanted to feel anger toward the man.
A part of Jonathan wanted to run over, haul the man from his seat, and wail on him. It was a distant echo of any real rage.
Even from where he stood, Jonathan could see the man’s guilt, his horrified disbelief that it had happened. He babbled about the ice, even as he continued to try to get out.
The police had taken his statement. The paramedics, his blood pressure. Neither got more than the basics. There was nothing more to Wendell’s story now.
Jonathan had walked away, leaving the flashing lights, the squawk of radios, and the jumble of voices.
He had ridden the elevator to his own floor. Pulling both doors closed behind him, he sat at his desk.
He filled his glass and emptied it. He filled it and picking it up again, he slung it across the room.
He looked at the shards of glass that now lay over the protection circle.
He saw the symbols, drawn so carefully, melting under the bourbon.
Jonathan lit a cigarette, pulled the bottle of bourbon towards him, and turned off the desk lamp, plunging the room into shadow.
Sheila van den Heuvel – for her time, wisdom, and patience, which she always gives freely. Without her guidance, this novel couldn’t have happened.
Heather Cox and Tracy Haidle – my beta readers, and first fans, for their insight and support.
Thanks as well to: my family, on both sides of the marriage, for aiding and abetting me in this endeavor. Ray Bondy, for technical logistics. My editor, McKenna Gardner, for making me do those rewrites. And to all my friends who supported and encouraged me.
R. M. Ridley lives with his wife on a small homestead in Canada, raising chickens and sheep. He has been writing stories, both long and short, for three decades, the themes of which range from the gruesome to the fantastical. As an individual who suffers from severe Bi-polar disorder, R. M. Ridley is a strong believer in being open about mental health issues and uses his writing to escape, when his thoughts become too wild.
www.facebook.com/rmridley
www.twitter.com/RavenMRidley
creativityfromchaos.wordpress.com
At The X, we pride ourselves in discovery and promotion of talented authors. Our anthology project produces three books a year in our specific areas of focus: fantasy, Steampunk, and paranormal. Held winter, spring/summer, and autumn, our short-story competitions result in published anthologies from which the authors receive royalties.
Additional themes include: Mr. and Mrs. Myth (Paranormal, fall 2014), Out of This World (Fantasy, winter 2015), and Losers Weepers (spring/summer 2015).
Visit www.xchylerpublishing.com/AnthologySubmissions for more information.
Relative Evil, a romantic thriller by Debra Erfert. July 2014
Black Sunrise, sequel to Shadow of the Last Men and second book in the Next Man Saga by J. M. Salyards. August 2014
Accidenta
l Apprentice, a wizardry fantasy by Anika Arrington. September 2014
On the Isle of Sound and Wonder, a Shakespearean steampunk rewrite by Alyson Grauer. October 2014
To learn more, visit www.xchylerpublishing.com.
Now for a sneak peek of
Debra Erfert’s Relative Evil
coming in July 2104 to Xchyler Publishing.
One
Late February
Phoenix, Arizona
It stood motionless, less than ten feet away from Ryan. The sallow, blotchy skin barely hung on its bones. The not-quite-human’s lips were gone, eaten away by the fleas that had given it the virus. Now, only broken teeth, dripping with blood, glistened in the hot sunlight, and forced an aberrant smile onto its face, like a gruesome Halloween Jack-o-lantern. The tiny bugs still feasted on what was left of its healthy membrane.
It stared at him through clouded blue eyes, the whites jaundiced with disease. Ryan wanted to run away from it. He knew he had time, but watching it kept him riveted to where he thought was his hiding place behind a forgotten industrial garbage bin. He shivered as gooseflesh coursed over his sweaty skin.
This one appeared cognitive, unlike some of the other altered creatures. When it lifted its boney left hand, something shiny caught the sun, refracting the light into minuscule rainbows onto the broken window by its fetid arm. A diamond. Her wedding ring—their wedding ring.
“No, no, no! This is so stupid,” I said out loud, and I began tapping the delete key with more force than necessary to get rid of the last disgusting paragraphs I’d written. I glanced at Paddles, my three-year-old polydactyl cat, who trilled at the noise my excessive pounding produced. We’d been together since I graduated college.
“Why can’t I just be happy writing romance? Or living my own romance,” I asked him. “Maybe then I would stop trying to write in a genre I know nothing about.”
He didn’t answer me in words, of course. But I interpreted his pointy ears rotating backwards and half-closed his eyes as his way of saying, “You should be happy, Claire, my pet.”
Switching hands, I continued hitting the delete button, maybe not with as much enthusiasm. “My publisher liked my first two books, but this . . . she probably won’t take a second look at this drivel.” I looked back at Paddles. “Would she?” I sighed. “What was I thinking? Moonwriting Publishing doesn’t even accept horror.”
My cell phone rang, and it gave me a temporary excuse to stop beating up the keyboard. My fingers were starting to hurt, anyway. When I saw Dad’s picture on the screen, I glanced at my watch. Two in the afternoon was a strange time for him to call. Being a CPA, he should be totally submerged in someone’s taxes. I opened my phone, connecting our call. “Hi, Dad. What’s up?”
“Hey, baby girl. You busy tonight?”
I stared at the cluttered breakfast bar, and then took in the rest of the messy kitchen, including the dinner dishes stacked on the counter from last night. After one last tap of the delete key, I shook my head at Paddles, and said, “No, I’m free. Did you want me to come over and whip up my special clam chowder?” I closed the computer’s lid, putting it to sleep. “I could stop by the store on my way and pick up fresh rolls.”
“No, I’d like to take you out to dinner tonight—you and your brothers. Let’s say—Postino Central at seven?”
I could’ve been wrong, but he sounded excited. So very little excited him since Mom died ten months ago. But I’d need to see his face before I knew for sure. “I’ll be there.”
After I hung up, I lost track of time and arrived late. I expected to see Dad, of course, but what I didn’t anticipate was my oldest brother Neil bringing a date with him. The new woman was a pretty blond, and looked to be close to Neil’s age—twenty-nine, maybe. She squinted up at me as I came around the table like she had a dirty, dark secret. A sudden shiver coursed its way through my body. Jarrod, my younger brother by two years, stood up, reaching for me. The tremor quickly passed before he touched me, though.
“Are you okay, Clarrie?” he whispered, as I sat down in the chair next to him.
I nodded, feeling embarrassed. Everyone stared, like they were waiting for another seizure-like episode. Even my older brother, Grant, watched with the ever-present scowl on his face. Emma, his sweet wife, sitting between him and Jarrod, was busy lifting a glass of water to me. Drinking got rid of the dry mouth that developed after the odd look Neil’s new girlfriend had given me. That was when I noticed that she was holding my dad’s hand, and not Neil’s.
The next swallow of water didn’t exactly go down the right way, and I choked. My coughing elicited a smirk from the blond. Dad didn’t notice the strange look she’d given me. It seemed nobody else had either. I continued to cough as Jarrod patted my back, until my gasping became only rasping.
“Claire?” I looked up at my dad through watery vision, but I managed to tack on a smile, although I didn’t dare try to speak. “You haven’t met Addie yet.” He gazed at his new friend with startling hungry eyes. “This is Adelaide Walker Harris.”
“Hello, Claire. It’s good to finally meet you,” Adelaide said. “Your father has told me so much about you.” She had her head tilted down slightly so she looked up at me as though she were bashful. The smirk she had worn was now the demure smile of a shy new girlfriend meeting her beau’s family for the first time. The subtle change in her countenance was barely noticeable. Had I imagined her attitude toward me in that first instance? I looked at my dad, but he kept his attentive stare on Adelaide.
“Hi,” I croaked out. Crazy is a relative term in my family. That quote was taped up on the wall next to my breakfast bar. Other quotes were up on the wall as well, mostly inspirational ones about writing, but after today I’d concentrate on finding new ones about dysfunctional families. Dad’s new girlfriend was much too young for him to be dating.
A sickening, burning sensation churned inside my stomach as he stood up.
“I have an announcement,” Glen said, his smile widening.
My heat beat erratically when he looked at me. “Claire—” He then let his gaze fall on each of my brothers, spoke each their names tenderly before he said, “I called you together to let you know about my marriage to Adelaide—”
Anger swelled in my chest when I saw the ring on her left hand. Dad wasn’t a rich man, yet the diamond in the center of the thick gold band had to be two karats. He’d spent a fortune on her. I was pretty sure he continued to talk after announcing their elopement, but all I could do was clench my teeth and breathe.
How dare he? Mom died less than a year ago. How could he forget her that quickly and run away with a woman young enough to be my sister? She was only a child. No matter how cliché it sounded, he was a— a cradle robber.
It was crazy. How could he have kept his wedding a secret? Why wasn’t I invited? Why weren’t we told he had a girlfriend, or even had a single date? Things didn’t make sense. Why would Adelaide want our dad? While she was a very pretty blue-eyed blond, he looked like a graying bloodhound without the long ears—adorable but hardly head-turning attractive. Although he had a good business, he wasn’t a rich man, even by the government’s definition. By all exterior evidence, she wasn’t looking for a wealthy husband.
Could it really be . . . love?
Adelaide kept glancing down at her ring, as if she couldn’t believe she was married. She couldn’t believe it? I was astonished. I wanted to shake Adelaide’s hand and accidentally-on-purpose rub the ring against a crystal glass to see if the ring had a mark left on it. If the diamond was really a fake, then my dad hadn’t completely lost his mind.
Adelaide never stopped smiling, not even when she caught Jarrod staring at her with a distinct frown on his lips. He might’ve been even angrier than me. Or maybe his emotions leaned more toward distrust.
Grant looked confused, while Emma only sweetly smiled. I looked at Neil. His grinning face hadn’t faltered since the announcement. He looked genuinely happy when all I wanted to do was s
cream at everyone what a stupid idea they had had, and that it wasn’t too late for an annulment.
“Congratulations,” I said, weakly. That was a step in the right direction, even if I didn’t feel it in my heart. What more could I do?
~*~
Three months later
Early May
Phoenix, Arizona
The emergency room’s hallway was crowded. I looked around at all the sad people waiting for someone they loved being treated, until I saw Neil leaning his shoulder against a wall. He’d sent me a text that Dad had taken a fall at home, and to meet at the hospital. I had saved my client’s manuscript I was editing on my laptop and hurried out the door. Taking the time to change out of my pajama bottoms and holey T-shirt, or even run a brush over my teeth didn’t seem that important.
“What happened?” I asked after stopping next to my brother.
Neil gazed at my feet. It was then I realized I still had on slippers. “Were you in bed, Claire?”
A nurse walked by. Her work scrubs looked very similar to my pajamas. With my being a freelance editor, working at home didn’t require business clothes—neither did being a struggling author. I practically never wore a dress, and I didn’t own a suit. Jeans and t-shirts were my standard wear. If I wanted to feel dressy, I’d ditch the t-shirt for a silky button-down. Instant glamour. “Just tell me about Dad.”
Neil scratched something dried off the front of my T-shirt. I swatted his hand away.
“He slipped in the kitchen and broke his right arm.”
“You’re kidding? He barely got the cast off his leg.”
“Yeah, what rotten timing.” He poked his finger through a hole in my sleeve.
“Stop that!” I slapped at his arm and stepped back away from him, ripping my sleeve. “Neil!”
He chuckled.
“What did he slip on this time?” I was having a hard time envisioning Dad’s condition.