Dark Series, The Color of Seven and The Color of Dusk (Books We Love Special Edition)

by Gail Roughton

  Cain threw back his head and laughed, startling the pigeons nesting in the rafters of the covered bridge. Rest. He needed rest. He turned and headed back to his rooming house, a great wolf returning to his lair. He’d sleep the daylight hours through and this evening he’d rise, refreshed. His followers, the cowards, and their city, would feel his righteous wrath.

  Early morning travelers on their way to work fell back from his huge shadow as he passed, sensing darkness in the strange light glaring from his eyes. Cain no longer perched on the borders of sanity and lunacy. He’d passed that border, never to return. He was totally, hopelessly, irrevocably insane.

  * * *

  Tamara slept. Everett rested as comfortably as possible in the back bedroom of the house on Orange Street under Janie’s supervision. He was clinging steadfastly to Tamara’s explanation—Paul wasn’t dead, he was merely changed. Sadie didn’t think the full consequences of Paul’s change had made an impression on Everett yet but since he was coping with the situation far better than she’d hoped, she was grateful for any small crumb falling her way.

  While those loved ones rested, Sadie implemented the first of the tasks she and Tamara had determined must be done. She knocked on Nona Gorley’s door. Nona came up behind her, almost startling her into a faint.

  “Isaiah. He made me spend de night wid our oldest girl. Say he doan want me here alone.” Nona sank down to her top step. “Ain’t never worried ‘bout me spending de night alone, never, not in thirty year, do he need to be out with sick folks and such. But dis time, he be right, didn’t he? Dey ain’t coming back. Is dey?”

  “Nona, I’s so sorry. An’ I can’t tell you everything—”

  “I heard ‘em. Whilst I was in the kitchen. Talkin’ ‘bout dat man. Dat debil spawn, whut he done?”

  “He goan pay, Nona. Isaiah, he goan be foun’ behind de church. Sorta, anyway,” Sadie explained. “An’ de police, dey goan think some crazy person did it. An’ dey ain’t never goan find out who. But he goan pay. Doan you worry none over dat.”

  Nona sat. For a minute, Sadie was afraid the shock was too great. Then Nona spoke, her voice strong. “‘Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.’ Dat’s whut Isaiah say. But I ain’t near as good as Isaiah. Mist’ Paul?”

  “He ain’t never goan come home again neither, Nona. But his body ain’t never goan be found.”

  “Is it over?”

  “Not yet. But it will be. Tonight. I promise you, Nona. I promise.”

  * * *

  Back at the cottage, Joshua woke on Tamara’s bed. Mid-afternoon by the light streaming in through the windows. The Blood Drinker had stalked his dreams. Paul. What changes were going on, down there in the cellar Tamara had forbidden him to enter without her? And did he dare slip through the cellar doors to see?

  Mind you keep dem doors closed tight. Doan crack ‘em, doan look, doan need to let in no mo’ light den can be hepped come daylight... you doan go back down into dat cellar….

  Did he dare disobey? If intruding light might hurt his brother, he shouldn’t risk it. If she was worried about any potential danger to Joshua, Joshua didn’t give a damn. And he’d move quickly and crack the door the bare minimum.

  He slipped into the cellar through the barest crack possible. He moved slowly, feet leaden, across the hard-packed dirt floor. His brother lay in exactly the same position they’d settled him in last night. But something was different. His bruised face was unmarked. The huge cuts on his chest were—was he seeing things? No. The huge cuts were closing as he watched, changing into white, ropey scar tissue. And the gaping tears on his throat were completely closed. Closed as though they’d never been. Without a single marring scar.

  * * *

  Sadie returned to the Orange Street house after her sorrowful visit to Nona and the two sisters made the journey, yet again, to Tamara’s cottage. They arrived near four o’clock in the afternoon. Joshua sat, carved of stone, at Tamara’s table.

  Sadie hugged him, pulling him hard against her body. He didn’t return the hug. “I killed him, Mama. I killed Paul. But I’m goan kill Cain, too. Tamara promised.”

  Sadie looked over Joshua’s head toward her sister.

  “You and Paul, Josh. You and Paul together. Yes, I promise.”

  “I went in the cellar when I woke up. I was real careful. No light got in. And they’re gone. All gone.” said Josh.

  “What, son?”

  “The marks. His face. The bruises. Now his face is clear. The cuts, Cain cut him so bad, Mama, and now they’re just old scars. All white and raised, like the one on my leg where I fell on Miz Bennett’s picket fence when I was little. And his neck, where the Blood Drinker, where it—it’s gone. It’s just gone. Ain’t even no scar. Nothing.”

  “Sadie.” Tamara’s voice broke into the blackness of Sadie’s thoughts. “Let Josh sit. Won’t be dat much longer ‘til dark fall. Got things to do.”

  “You all right, son?” Sadie asked.

  “Ain’t never goan be alright again,” Joshua stated flatly. No. It wouldn’t. There being nothing to say to that, Sadie dropped her arms and followed her sister out.

  * * *

  The three of them sat in the cellar in lantern light vigil by Paul while twilight edged down over the lingering colors of sunset.

  “What’s goan happen?” Joshua asked. “When?”

  “Time gettin’ close, boy. Real close. We jest have to watch, can’t really judge without no windows. But soon, now. Real soon.

  Heaviness hung in the air. Joshua saw the blanket stir and moved closer, leaning over Paul’s body.

  “Josh, doan do dat! Goan take him a minute or two, he ain’t goan know whut he doin’!”

  Paul’s eyes flew open. His hand raised and flashed upward. He caught Joshua by the throat and pulled him down. Joshua stared at his brother’s mouth, at the sharp fangs replacing the incisors. He offered no resistance. If Paul needed Joshua’s blood, it was his and welcome.

  Tamara and Sadie, moving as one, grabbed Joshua’s arms from either side and pulled.

  “Paul! No!”

  He loosened his grip enough for them to pull Joshua away. Tamara’s feet scarcely touched the floor as she flew to the supplies waiting at the ready. Her flock of chickens was sorely depleted.

  Paul sat up. He threw the blanket back, his coordination jerky, and tried to rise. A man regaining consciousness after a severe illness.

  “Hurts.” His voice mimicked the rough growl of an animal. “Thirsty. So thirsty!” He moved forward.

  Tamara lifted the glass jar in her hands in offering.

  “Drink!” she said.

  Paul stared at its ruby-red contents. Lantern light reflected off the glass in jewel-like points of color. His mouth twisted into revulsion and then, snarling in anticipation and despair, he grabbed it and raised it high. Like a man lost in the desert for three days, he drained it dry.

  Joshua moaned as drops of blood ran from the corners of his brother’s lips. He’d done this. The night he’d first trailed Abe and Eulises down to the river bank. His fault. All his fault.

  Paul lowered the jar, his movements more coordinated, almost as though he were a piece of rusted machinery needing oil.

  “More?” Half question. Half demand.

  Tamara took the empty jar from his hands and replaced it with another. Paul drained it too, and shook his head as though to clear it.

  “Where? What?” His voice, still gruff, sounded almost normal.

  “My house, son. My root cellar.”

  “I’m not—I shouldn’t be—it hurts, Tamara.”

  “I know, son. I know.”

  “Is there any more?”

  “Yes. But not here, not right now.”

  “Then—”

  “You knows, boy. You knows.”

  Paul straightened and glanced down, noticing for the first time he was shirtless. He stared at the raised scars on his chest and ran his finger lightly over their long length.

  He raised his head.
“Impossible.” His hand moved to his neck, searching for the gaping wound he knew should be on this throat.

  “Dat’s gone, son. De Blood Drinker leave its own healing power behind.”

  “But my chest—”

  “Dey was already dere ‘fore de Blood Drinker. Cain did dat. You ‘member? So dey heal too, but not clean.”

  Tamara moved to the table standing in the center of the room and shook out one of Paul’s shirts Sadie brought with them. She handed it to him.

  Paul’s blue eyes flashed, visible in the darkness.

  “I remember,” he said. His voice was cold as New England in the depths of winter. He took the shirt and slipped his arms into the sleeves. Tamara moved closer and fastened the buttons for him.

  “You feel him, son? You know where he be?”

  Paul shook his head.

  “But you can. You can do you try.”

  Paul withdrew into himself. His eyes focused on the far wall. He stood utterly still.

  “The river bank. He’s back at the river bank. And tonight I can kill him. Can’t I?”

  Tamara nodded.

  “That thing. It changed me.”

  Tamara nodded.

  “For how long?”

  Tamara bit her lip.

  “For how long?”

  “Forever, son. Forever.”

  Paul threw back his head and laughed. A laugh made of icicles. Joshua shivered.

  Paul looked at his brother and smiled. “Don’t worry, little brother. Nothing lasts forever. But we’ll discuss that later. Won’t we, Tamara?”

  “Paul—”

  “Later. You and I, we’ll talk later. But for now, there’s Cain. I need a horse.”

  Tamara shook her head. “No, son. You don’t.”

  “Then how?” he asked.

  “Close yo’ eyes, son. Close yo’ eyes and turn ‘em inward and see whut wonders can you work now.”

  He stood still and closed his eyes. He opened them and smiled.

  “It’s that easy?”

  “Is for you.”

  “And afterwards?”

  “Leave dat to us. We be followin’ behind to pick up de trash.”

  Paul laughed again, more human this time, almost the mirthful laugh of a child enjoying a great jest.

  He raised his arms high. His body wavered in misty lines, one moment solid, then the barest trace of fog. After a few seconds of indecision, he was gone.

  “My sweet Jesus,” whispered Sadie. “My boy. My poor boy.”

  “Sadie, we got to move. Bet my teams know de way to town all by dere lonesomes by now.”

  “Tamara, he ain’t goan live like dis. When he say you and he goan talk, he goan want—”

  “Whut we wants and whut we gets ain’t always de same thing. Now, we gots to move. Like I say. Dere’s trash goan need picking up.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Cain strode the river bank. His bare chest gleamed with oil. Amulets of gold and necklaces of bone draped his neck and shoulders. He paced in growing fury. Alone.

  “Cowards!” he muttered under his breath. “’De fools! De stupid fools dare turn dere backs on me!” He stopped suddenly in mid-stride.

  “Where are you?” he shouted, his voice echoing back into the trees. “Where are you, fools?”

  They would pay. The whole town would pay. He swayed in concentration, moving among the seven fires burning in the clearing.

  “Sebben. My color be sebben. Color be sebben … sebben … sebben….”

  He knelt before the skulls of his grisly sentries, their glowing eyes powered by the demons imbuing them with sight. His demons. He’d call them forth, yes, and all their brethren, and send them streaming through the town, darting though open windows. Feasting till they burst.

  He reached down and lifted two skulls high, one in each of his huge hands

  “Last chance, fools!” he shouted. “Where are you?”

  “Here I am.” And almost instantly, from the opposite side of the clearing, the words repeated. “And here. And here.” Shifting, ever-moving. “Here … and here … and here.” The voice, human, held silvery overtones of inhumanity

  Cain twirled around in circles, following the voice. A voice he recognized. Except he didn’t. Because it was impossible.Wasn’t it?

  “White man!” he shouted. “Dat you?”

  “And here … and here … and here … here … here….”

  Cain swirled in a dizzying circle as the voice cat-called, moving, floating, seemingly coming from all directions at once.

  “Come out! Show yo’self! Like a man!”

  The taunting ceased, replaced by laughter floating in the air from everywhere at once. The laughter stopped. Echoes bounced back from river.

  A tall figure materialized directly in front of Cain. It smiled a terrible smile and curled its lips. Four incisors, honed to razor sharpness, gleamed in the mingled moonlight and fireglow.

  “I’m not a man, Cain. Not anymore.”

  Paul advanced toward him and Cain fell back, fear rising from the lower reaches of his stomach. It moved up his spine, accelerated and raced upward, leaving his body almost numb. This man was dead, executed by his demons. Dead! But wait! If dead, he belonged to the regions of darkness Cain ruled. Confidence rekindled. He could control this being. He halted his retreat and stood tall.

  “You can’t do nothin’, white man! I made you! I control you! You does whut I says you do!”

  “You keep right on thinkin’ that.” Paul smiled. His arm flashed out and caught Cain by the throat. His hand squeezed. Cain’s eyes bulged under the pressure.

  Cain curled his fists, raining blows on Paul’s head and face. But Paul’s head didn’t snap back. His lips didn’t split. He loosened the pressure on Cain’s neck a bit, allowing a trace of air to flow back into his windpipe.

  “Who are you?” Cain croaked. “What are you?”

  “You don’t know?” Paul released Cain’s throat, immediately grabbing both his arms. He threw him across the clearing like a sack of feed. The impact of landing knocked the breath from his lungs. He tried to suck in enough wind to stand and fight.

  From nowhere, Paul fell on him again, hauling his bulk off the ground as though it weighed nothing. He tossed him into the middle of the clearing. Cain’s right arm landed in the center fire. His left arm twisted and bent beneath his great weight with a snapping sound. Cain screamed. He jerked away from the flames, trying to shift his body, his right arm a running river of agony. Fire fed on flesh.

  Paul reached down and grabbed the charred skin, jerking and twisting. Bone snapped again as he hauled Cain free of the flames and loomed over him, wicked incisors coming closer, closer.

  “No! No!”

  Cain felt the blood leaving his vessels, draining from the valves of his heart, the pit of his stomach, the chambers of his lungs, the smallest capillaries of his body. As it left, it burned, burned with an intensity so hot it was ice cold. Finally, the clearing held only dying moans and the wet, sucking sounds of Paul’s mouth.

  Paul floated, then soared with an exultation unlike any he’d ever experienced. He felt the power of hot blood as it rushed throughout his body. Sated, he dropped Cain’s bulk to the ground like an apple core and laughed. He laughed and laughed until laughter turned to sobs. He raised his hands and wiped the blood from his lips.

  He looked down at his hands, at the bloodstains gleaming black under the moon, and rushed to the banks of the river, down to the water. He leaned over and gazed into the slow-moving eddies of the river. Moonlight glazed the water, turning it to a shimmering mirror.

  He stared at his reflection and curled his lips, showed his teeth. His hand flashed down, breaking the surface of the water. He cupped his hand and scooped water to his mouth, scrubbing viciously.

  He was still perched on the river’s edge when his clean-up crew arrived at the scene to pick up the trash, engaged in an endless, repetitive cycle. Hand to river water, river water to mouth, scrubbing and
scrubbing as though his lips would never be clean again.

  The cycle broke when Tamara reached down and gently shook his shoulder.

  “Son?”

  He hadn’t heard their approach and wondered how he’d missed it. The world around him buzzed with noise. He could hear the heartbeat of the wood creatures crouched in the furthermost shadows.

  “You all right, son?” Sadie reached out a tentative hand.

  Paul laughed. “I’m not ever goin’ to be all right again. Your trash is in the clearing, Tamara.”

  “So I seen. How’d it feel, boy?”

  “Oh, God, it felt good! So good. And I’m so scared, Tamara, never been this scared in my life! What if I can’t—but I can’t, I know I can’t. I can’t live without blood now. Can I?”

  Tamara pursed her lips and sent out a thin whistle.

  “Boy, dere’s blood, and den dere’s blood. Up to you to pick yo’ prey. I doan got no doubts ‘bout yo’ choice. Do you?”

  Paul didn’t answer. Seconds before, he’d been sated, full of Cain’s blood. He hadn’t thought he’d ever, ever, look at blood again. And now, so soon, his senses remembered the thrill, the exultation, the power. He smelled the blood all around him, the richness of it as it flowed through Joshua, through Sadie, through Tamara.

  “I have to leave! I have to hunt!” He backed away and raised his arms.

  “Paul!” Sadie grabbed his hand. “Son, you don’t know where you goin’! What to do ‘fore day breaks—”

  “Yes, I do. I go back to the root cellar. Don’t I?”

  “Dat’s right, boy. An’ you see dat you be dere.”

  “You can’t just let him go, Tamara! He doan understand!”

  “He got to reach his own understandin’. You hunt, boy. An’ you come home. We talk tomorrow night. Ain’t nuttin’ so bad as you think. Let go his hand, Sadie.”

  Sadie stepped back. Paul raised his arms, wavered in and out a few times, and disappeared.

  “How could you do that?” Sadie turned on her sister in a spasm of rage. “How you jest let him go like dat?”