Grey Lore

by Jean Knight Pace

  His father stepped into the house, shutting the door and locking it behind him.

  “Am I standing in a pile of money?” Sam asked.

  It seemed as though his father refused to breathe, locking the two front windows, and closing the blinds in perfect silence before turning to Sam. His father was crying.

  Sam still didn’t know if he was standing in money or if it was a pile of dirty socks he’d stacked around himself—lunatic style. Or maybe it was nothing at all.

  His father opened his mouth to speak and then choked on his sobs—red face, eyes and nose streaming.

  Sam wasn’t sure if he wanted to be crazy or not. Lying, thieving father in the sane corner; shockingly vivid hallucination in the crazy one. Sam felt as though he stood in the middle of the ring and waited.

  “If only she hadn’t died,” his father kept repeating.

  “Dad,” Sam said again. “Please. Is this money? Just tell me.”

  His father took a deep, shivering breath and spoke. “You’re not crazy.”

  Sam bent to pick up several bills. “I see,” he said, his voice ice.

  “No,” his father said, wiping his nose and then shaking his body as though shaking the tears off. “You don’t see.”

  “Then tell me,” Sam said, tossing the money up in the air so that it fluttered to the ground like a game show. “Tell me what I don’t see. Tell me why we’ve starved and moved and lived in a van. Tell me why I’ve never had any friends or known anyone outside of you. Tell me!”

  “Because the things you don’t see can hurt you,” his father shouted back. “But if you don’t see them, they can’t get to you as quickly. Or as easily.” His father stopped. “Sit down, son. And not in the money.”

  Sam remained standing, defiant, in the thousands of dollars his father had hidden from him. “So…” Sam began sarcastically. “No, wait, let me guess. You love to camp, so you thought it’d be fun to spend the last twelve years living out of cars and trailers and eating refried beans.”

  Sam’s father pressed his fists into his temples and took a deep breath. “Son, all money comes from somewhere.”

  “Right,” Sam said, laughing meanly. “Like how this money came from a hollow door where you were hiding it.”

  His father took his fists off his temples and stared a straight line into Sam’s eyes. It hurt for Sam to hold the stare. He glanced down and his father spoke. “And some money comes from places it shouldn’t—from crime and murder and coercion. In some circles, they call that dirty money. That’s the kind of money my family left to me. Money that never should have been gotten the way it was. When I met your mother, I saw a reason for change. Ever since then, I’ve been trying to make it on my own.”

  “But you kept it,” Sam said accusingly. “This ‘dirty’ money.”

  “I kept it so if I ever couldn’t make it on my own—and trust me, it’s not easy when you’re moving every few months selling something no one wants to buy—I could feed you. And I did. Not well. Not on roasts and Italian cheeses, but I fed you. And clothed you. It hasn’t been easy, son. Especially without your mother.” His father paused. “I know it might sound crazy, but I’ve done all this so that you could have a normal life.”

  That did sound crazy. Sam laughed—a choked sort of sound. “So how did your family get the money?”

  “The truth is that I don’t want you to know. They did a lot of things they shouldn’t have. Developed things they shouldn’t have. My father’s side anyway. He was involved with several dealings with a group called The Pack, which controls a lot of money. Your mother was familiar with this group too, but for a whole different set of reasons.”

  That was not nearly enough explanation about how they were standing in thousands of dollars, but Sam would ask more later.

  “And the picture?” he said.

  “I didn’t want you to know about your aunt.”

  “Why?” Sam asked.

  “Because your mother’s sister is dead too.”

  “Did she marry into a bunch of mobsters as well?”

  “I would not exactly call my family mobsters. And no. Your mother and her sister grew up in a compound—mostly secluded from the outside world.”

  “A compound controlled by The Pack?”

  “A compound controlled by the people who control The Pack, and other groups like it.”

  “So…a master mob.”

  His father did not contradict him. “The Ring of the Alpha,” he said.

  “What?” Sam asked.

  “That’s what The Pack called them—‘The Ring of the Alpha.’”

  “And was it like one of those weird religious compounds?”

  “Sort of. Minus the religion. But, yes, isolation and a different sort of indoctrination. When your mother and her sister were young women, they broke out with some help from some of the servants within the compound. Your aunt actually ran off and eloped with one of those servants. And shortly after that, your mother and I met.” He took a deep breath. “For several years, the sisters were thought dead. Our life was pretty good. And then your aunt’s husband was found alive. He didn’t stay that way for long.

  “After that, things got tough. After that we started to move. We became rovers; vagrants. It’s been a hard life and one I never anticipated, but I haven’t looked back. Through it I got both your mother and you. I’ve lost one and couldn’t bear to lose the other.”

  “So how did she die—my mother?” Sam asked. “Really.”

  “Uterine cancer, like I’ve always told you.”

  Sam raised an eyebrow.

  His father sighed. “But the reason it advanced as quickly as it did was that your mother hid it. I didn’t know until she collapsed one day—just standing there by the sink in the kitchen. I rushed her to the hospital, though she’d always refused to go to the doctor or any medical facility after her years on the compound. But it was too late. She never regained consciousness. The cancer had spread everywhere. I’d just let her die under my nose.”

  Sam looked at his father who was crying again. It was all super crazy—so crazy that it seemed it would be difficult for his dad to be making it up.

  “If what you say is true,” Sam said, “then why would we still have to run? Why would they care about you? Or me? You didn’t help her break out of that compound like my…my uncle did. And it’s not like I know anything about their compound; it’s not like I could report them to the police or anything.”

  His father made a face. “The Ring of the Alpha does not fear the police. But it also does not enjoy losing face. I took more than money. I claimed your mother—one of their greatest prizes. And then I hid her from them.”

  Sam shook his head, confused.

  His father sighed. “Your mother and her sister had a gift, a gift that this group needed.” He paused. “Luckily the gift has not been passed to you. Your mother’s marriage to me took that away from you. This has made us less of a priority to them. That’s a good thing. Even so, I know more than I should. And you might know more than you think you do. Though I hope not.”

  Sam could only stare at his father. He had no idea what he was talking about.

  “Listen,” his father said. “Whatever happens to you in the next few weeks or months or years, know this—anyone from The Ring of the Alpha claiming to want to help you doesn’t. No matter how much it might start to seem that you’re like them, you’re not. They know it. And they don’t like it. Your kind—a child created by two people like your mother and me—this world has no place for you. The world will fear you. And The Ring of the Alpha will do worse than that. It will hunt you—try to control you. Don’t let them. Please.”

  His father’s last plea was so earnest that Sam couldn’t do anything but nod. Still, he was worried his dad was crazy. What was he even talking about? Of course Sam wasn’t going to go off with some gang or mob or whatever The Ring of the Alpha was.

  He thought of his father’s mother with her strapped arms and writhing bod
y and then the words came to him—psychosis, paranoia. “Dad,” he said. “I think we need help.”

  And with that his father roared—deep, throaty, heavy, almost inhuman. “No,” his father shouted, the raspy deep word, pressing through Sam’s skin. “Now sit down.”

  Sam sat.

  “There are a few things you should know. I’m not…” he began. “I’m not normal. That’s true. There are times…times when I could change into something I don’t wish to be. As you get older, there’s a part of you that might feel this too. And there are a few things you must do to avoid becoming like them—like I was before I met your mother.”

  Bi-polar, Sam added to the list of his father’s possible mental illnesses.

  “And if you ever…” his father went on and then stopped. “If your body ever starts to feel out of control, then just don’t…”

  Sam bit his lip, remembering the night he broke the window.

  “Well, if you ever lose control, just don’t—well, never mind, it won’t happen. It can’t.”

  “If I ever what?” Sam asked.

  “Listen. Sometimes you’ll have headaches or dizziness. And hunger. The hunger is the worst part. It feels like it will eat you. But it won’t. Trust me, it won’t. Just fight it.”

  Sam didn’t want to talk about hunger, about control. “The picture, Dad. Tell me about it. Tell me about my aunt.”

  His father sighed, a long, deep breath that seemed to empty him. “After her…after your aunt’s husband died—your aunt cut herself off from the family. She’d stolen some sort of artifact from the compound and she seemed to believe that it was putting the ones she loved at risk. So instead of getting rid of what she stole, she distanced herself from the family. She always sent your mom postcards though—every few months—always from a different location. And she had a little girl. You should know that.” His father looked away. You should know that.

  Sam did know that. In a way, he’d always known it. “So you think it’s her,” Sam asked, forgetting to be angry. “You think it’s Ella? She’s my cousin.”

  “I don’t think anything,” his dad said, still staring into his corner.

  “It is,” Sam said, catching his father’s eye. “It is her and you do know it. And you know that there was something about her mother.”

  “There was something about the whole family,” his father said. “They wind up dead. If she is Christa’s daughter, then she’s the only Peterson left. Stay away from her.”

  Sam looked at his dad. “But she’s my cousin.”

  “All the more reason.”

  When David Witten showed up at Mitchell Jones’ house, Jones barely cracked open the door. “What?” he said gruffly.

  “She’s been here,” Witten said.

  “That’s no concern of yours,” Jones retorted.

  “It wasn’t a question,” Witten replied. “The child is in danger—carries danger around her like the flu.”

  “Yes,” Jones said slowly. “Yes, I had noticed that.”

  “Take this,” Witten said, shoving a small item into the farmer’s hand.

  “What is it?” Jones asked, fingering the silver chain.

  “I found it on one of the carriers—the doctor. The stone that belonged to it was already gone.”

  “And what am I to do with it?” Jones asked.

  “Make it into something,” Witten replied. “Something the child can use to protect herself.”

  The farmer pressed his lips together. “I hate getting mixed up in all of this.”

  “The day you picked up your first stray dog, you got mixed up in it,” Witten said.

  “The day I picked up an injured young man in the woods of Montana I got mixed up in it worse.”

  “I know,” Witten replied.

  “I should have taken you back to the commune.”

  Witten smiled—a long, slow change to his face. “But you didn’t,” he said, then held out his hand to shake.

  Jones took it, and for a moment the two men were friends again.

  Chapter 35

  Ella sifted through the old stones in her mother’s jewelry box. A chipped moonstone a vendor had given them for free at a lapidary show. A long, straight shard of kyanite, blue like the sky. A smooth chunk of sea-wave green chrysocolla. And labradorite, one of her mother’s favorite stones—gray with oil spots of color puddled throughout. Ella fingered the stone. She had almost used it for her mother’s necklace. But she hadn’t.

  She set it down, thinking about the stone that had been gray shot through with streaks of silver—the stone she’d used on the necklace that was now lost.

  Ella was pretty sure it was the inspiration piece for the stone in the stories her mother had written. Maybe that’s why her mother had treasured it so much. Ella flopped onto the floor near the jewelry box and pulled out a page from her mother’s stack.

  There were few who could carry it. The stone of source.

  None of the Changers, except the rare but mighty Silverlords. And few of the humans. The alchemy of the stone was odd, perhaps enchanted. Created during an ancient time when the metals of the humans were wound through with the magics of their world, only a few strong and pure of heart could bear the stone.

  Through the ages, this human bloodline began to fade. They were hunted by Changers, shifters hungry for the power to change the suns; and they were hunted by the humans desperate to thwart any change. Hunted. Through the dark ages and crusades and witch trials. Until only a thin strand remained.

  One could find this small line of descendants because they could still hear the voices of the dogs at every full moon—a gift they learned to hide so well that eventually their children’s children’s children did not think to look for such a gift, and worried if they happened upon it.

  And perhaps that blessed-cursed bloodline could have remained hidden were it not for the shifters and madmen of this world—those who concocted potions and brews—elixirs intended to uncover the gifted humans whom they sought. Year after year, century after century, they experimented. Eventually, the human hunters died off—science replacing mythology.

  But shifters had longer memories and hidden ways. Over the years, one rose to power, stumbling upon a serum that would change color with the blood of the Bearers. And so he began to work in blood—white coat, clean hands—his methods for hunting advanced, refined, evolved—alchemy giving way to chemistry.

  Ella looked down at her polo shirt. She’d been picking at it as she read, and now she’d managed to unravel half the hem. She dragged herself off the floor and stumped downstairs to see if she could find a pair of scissors.

  She couldn’t. But there in Vivi’s kitchen drawer was a tiny spool of red floss. It was soft and smooth, almost garish in Vivi’s black and white house.

  Ella had never seen her aunt do any kind of crafting or sewing. As near as Ella could tell, there was no other thread or even any ribbon anywhere. Vivi’s house was as clean and as sparse as a monastery—void of extras or sentiment of any kind.

  Finding the spool of floss was like finding a piece of colored glass in plain, brown sand. Ella took it out and might have just kept it in her pocket as some kind of good luck charm if she hadn’t thought of her mother’s ring.

  Ella ran back upstairs and dug the ring out of the jewelry box, then unraveled a bit of the floss, looping it over the band of the ring until it fit her finger snugly, until she was sure she wouldn’t lose it.

  Wearing the ring felt comforting—like a piece of her mother could be with her all the time. Everything about it—from the decorative ‘C’ to the blocky, funky square—reminded her of her mother. Somehow Ella knew that hundreds of secrets were contained in that tiny ring, secrets Ella would probably never know, but she wanted to have close to her anyway.

  When Jack came a few minutes later for their session, he noticed the ring immediately. “Where’d you get that pretty thing?” he asked, touching her hand and holding it up so he could examine the ring more closely.
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br />   Jack turned her hand over, and then raised an eyebrow when he saw that it was wrapped with floss. “It’s not yours,” he said. “Do kids still give each other their rings when they’re dating?”

  The word ‘kids’ stung, and Ella stumbled over her explanation. “Oh, well, no, I mean, maybe, but it’s not from anyone else. I mean, it kind of is, but not at school. It’s, well, it was, it’s my mother’s.” She blushed as she spoke—hot streaks of red shooting from her neck to her forehead.

  Jack laughed and squeezed her hand before letting it go. “Oh good. I thought you’d gone and gotten yourself a boyfriend.”

  “Oh, no,” Ella said quickly, “I…no, I didn’t.” The blush felt like a fever now.

  Jack laughed again. “Well, good. If you had a boyfriend, you might get too busy for me.”

  He was obviously kidding, but Ella felt like she wanted to stick her head in a bucket of ice. Fortunately Vivi chose that moment to come out with two glasses of water in hand. Ella took quick gulps, which almost made her miss the meaningful glance Jack shot Vivi as he nodded at Ella’s finger.

  “Oh, Ella,” Vivi said, setting the pitcher of water down. “That’s pretty. And unusual. Where’d you get it?”

  Ella was relieved that Vivi wasn’t also surmising that Ella had found herself a significant other.

  “It was my mom’s,” she said between sips of water.

  Vivi took Ella’s hand and looked slowly at the ring—turning it so she could see it from each angle.

  “It’s gorgeous,” she said. “The ‘C’ is for Christa I suppose.”

  “I guess,” Ella said. She was actually kind of surprised at the attention her aunt gave it. And a little pleased. There were times, many times, that Vivi had seemed almost uninterested in anything about her mother. Ella was glad to see that her aunt seemed to appreciate the small artifact from a part of Christa’s life that she had missed.

  “May I?” Vivi asked, touching the ring as though to slip it off.

  Ella took it off and handed it to her aunt, who peered closely at the small square of metal, touching the engraved “C” as though some dark secret would be released. She didn’t look like she wanted to give it back.