Burning Emerald

by Jaime Reed

  3

  I pulled into my driveway; the pop and grind of gravel against rubber filled the car’s interior.

  Turning off the engine, I sat behind the wheel for a moment. I tried not to think about what happened tonight, but the scene was stuck on instant replay. There was something strange going on, again, and I knew this was only the beginning, the quiet before the shit storm. I liked to be ahead of the curve when something was about to blow up in my face; however, sometimes knowing was worse than being caught off guard.

  I closed my eyes and focused on Caleb, searching for his face in my mind’s eye. It didn’t take long to find him, or rather feel him. Confusion, annoyance, and high levels of pissed-off rushed to my senses, giving me a sudden urge to break something, which was a good thing. He wasn’t scared or in danger, so I could at least try to sleep soundly tonight.

  I set the dilemma on pause and studied my dingy house with the flaky white paint. The shriveled flower bed lined the front deck, and the putrid yellow porch light made my house visible from space. Pine needles, nutmeg, and my neighbor’s chimney smoke sprayed the air with a perfume only worn this time of year. Of all the things that had changed in my life, my birth home stood the test of time. I climbed out and breathed in the cool autumn night, enjoying the crunch of dry leaves under my sneakers.

  Once inside, I checked and double-checked the security alarm by the door. My eyes locked on the blinking green activation light, marking the time at which it had been set. It became a habit of mine to test it twice lately, just in case.

  Under a floral mist of scented candles, the air still carried that sour hint of paint fumes from Mom’s room. Little crumbs of drywall had settled into the crevices between the stairs. The cracks in the ceiling were gone, and the bloodstains had faded under strong bleach and several coats of paint. The repairs had given Mom an excuse to redecorate, but that had only covered the external damage. After a shrewd face-lift, the Marshall residence no longer resembled a house of horrors, but the ghost of that terrifying night still roamed the halls.

  Soft light from the kitchen told me where and how Mom had spent her evening. Instead of passing through the hall by the stairs, I entered the kitchen from the dining room to my right. The crimson walls and gold tasseled drapes reminded me of a brothel, but this eyesore hurt less than the one from the living room.

  The side route allowed me to sneak up on Mom, a difficult prank with only the top of her brown bun in sight. The rest of her hid under a mountain of encyclopedias, old news articles, and other source material. This had always been Mom’s makeshift office, but it had quickly transformed into a library and demonology classroom.

  An astute accountant by day, by night Mom moonlighted as a renegade myth buster. She burned the midnight oil trying to understand why a succubus spirit had jumped bloodlines to occupy my body. This type of possession was supposedly a hereditary trait, so this new living arrangement produced a ton of questions and sleepless nights.

  “Hey, Mom.” I dropped my bag on the counter and headed to the fridge.

  “Hey, honey.” She returned from somewhere behind the stack of books.

  I grabbed a carton of orange juice and poured a glass. “How was counseling?”

  “Awkward as usual. I’m not a big talker, so I end up listening to other people’s problems more than anything else. The stories they tell in the meetings would break your heart, Samara. I feel guilty because I always leave thinking, ‘You know, things aren’t that bad.’ ”

  “Group therapy: proof that life could get a whole lot worse.” I saluted her with my glass before taking a sip, but watched her with caution.

  I worried about her recent issues with insomnia and night terrors, and I secretly wished Nathan Ross could be just a little bit more dead for her sake. Even in death, the face of Caleb’s father taunted her, like some movie villain coming back for one last scare. Her doctors chalked it up to trauma, and Caleb and his brothers assured us there was no lasting damage. Good luck explaining that to a woman who almost had the life sucked out of her by a deranged Cambion. In either case, nothing could be left to chance, not even dreams.

  I leaned against the counter, watching her carefully. “You know, there’s better ways to vent if you’re upset. You can always go back to the gun range.”

  “True. I just hate that they close at nine. I mean, what’s a girl to do in the middle of the night.”

  “Drive-bys?” I offered.

  Mom smiled and returned her attention to her laptop. Text and lights dragged across her glasses.

  “What you working on now?”

  “Trinkets and sanctified objects. Did you know that priests and missionaries use olive oil for exorcism? There’s a sacred ritual that expels demons.”

  “For real?” I rummaged through the overhead cabinet and retrieved the bottle of olive oil Mom used for cooking. As soon as my hand gripped the bottle, Lilith flinched, causing a quick jolt in the middle of my back. It ended as quickly as it had begun, so I figured she was probably hungry.

  I let a few drops fall on my finger and hissed at the contact. “Ah! It burns! It burns!”

  That got Mom’s attention. Immediately, she stood to her feet and raced to my side. “Baby, are you okay? What happened?”

  I gave a wide grin and showed her my oily hand. “Nothing. I’m just playing with you.”

  Mom didn’t look amused. She turned away, then did a double take. “What happened to your eye?”

  “Dodgeball shows no mercy and takes no prisoners,” I said in a dramatic, movie-trailer-guy voice.

  After giving me a light whack on the back of the head, she returned to her research.

  I licked the oil off my finger, then said, “I don’t know why you bother with that stuff. It’s hardly accurate.”

  “Well, it says it has to be sanctified and untainted. That’s the cheap stuff; I think I got it on sale.”

  I rested my elbows against the counter. “You mean like anointing oil?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Doesn’t work, either. I tried it on Caleb when he first came to the house.” In fact, I thought I still had that little vial somewhere in my bag, among other things I should’ve trashed months ago. I had a hard time throwing stuff away, resulting in me carrying extra baggage.

  “Do I even want to know why you used oil on him?” Mom asked, sounding a bit disturbed.

  “The same reason you’re looking up folklore in the middle of the night. You’re scared of the unknown.”

  Mom’s eyes lifted from the computer screen. “I’m not afraid of you. You’re my child. I’m just trying to keep it all in perspective. Evangeline has been trying to answer some of my questions, but I keep coming up with more.”

  I smiled at the mention of Nadine’s mother, making a mental note to call her tomorrow. Evangeline Petrovsky, or Angie for short, was an unstoppable force in her own right. Since Lilith came from her lineage, Angie had pretty much adopted me, teaching me the ways of the Cambion. No matter where she traveled in the world, she was always a phone call away.

  “Oh, look at this!” Mom motioned me to her side. “According to myth, Merlin the wizard was a Cambion. That’s why he had those magical powers.”

  I peeked over her shoulder. “Like King Arthur and Camelot?”

  She nodded. “Also, they say a true incubus has the physical ability to appear as what a woman most desires, plaguing women while asleep, and seducing them to his will.”

  The concept swirled around my head for a moment. “So an incubus is going to creep into my room looking like Usher?”

  “Not sure. It’s what your heart desires, so he might look like Caleb.” Crystal-blue eyes slowly met mine.

  All sound and good humor fled the room. My mind swam to the night when Caleb’s father had used the same trick for personal gain, a deception that nearly killed me. It was a very powerful, confusing ability that few people lived to tell about.

  Mom continued, “The folklore varies with each c
ulture. Some say they’re gremlin-looking imps that perch on a person’s chest to drain energy, like that superstition about cats. This might contribute to their animalistic nature. All in all, these incubi creatures are a randy bunch, enslaving and impregnating women.”

  “Myth.”

  Her head popped up. “What?”

  “Myth,” I repeated. “Incubi first possess a human male, then use him to impregnate a female. A part of its soul passes to the female during conception.”

  Mom just stared, her mouth agape. After a few blinks, her hand slid to the wireless mouse, ready to scroll down the web page for confirmation.

  My hands rested over hers, halting her movement. “You won’t find it there. Ask Angie.”

  “I’m avoiding her calls. She keeps insisting that I’m tired and need a spa makeover. Honestly, how can I look tired over the phone? You see what she made me do to my hair?” Mom nervously patted her newly highlighted curls.

  I stroked the top of her head. “I told you before, it looks nice. She just wants you to stop stressing all the time.”

  “I don’t know how she talks me into these things. I can’t say no. It’s odd, Angie and me, it’s like—”

  “Love at first sight,” I finished.

  “Yeah, but in a strictly hetero way,” she was quick to add. “How did you know?”

  “That’s what it was like with Nadine and me. It took Mia and me years to get to that point, but with Nadine, it was an instant connection. Cambions are attracted to wary women, I guess.” For reasons beyond my control, my bottom lip quivered and tears burned around my sockets. Lilith jittered up my spine, letting me know she grieved as well.

  Mom removed her glasses and gave me a hard stare, probing my every move. “Samara, maybe you should come to a few of my counseling sessions—”

  “No, thanks.” I turned away and moved back to the counter.

  “Just a few meetings. They’re really helpful, and you don’t even have to say anything, just listen.”

  “I’m fine, Mom.”

  “Baby, you need to handle your grief properly. I can only imagine what you’re going through. You won’t even enter the living room by yourself. You barely talk about Nadine and you’ve become detached.”

  I paused. “Have not.”

  “Samara, your father and I are worried about you, and you can only hide so much from that man.” She quirked a brow.

  Mom had a point. Though ignorant of Lilith’s existence, Dad wasn’t stupid, and it was damn near impossible to lie to a lawyer. Mr. Watkins called more often now, laying guilt trips on me for not coming around. My visits were a test of endurance since listing Caleb’s many flaws became his favorite topic at dinner. In Dad’s book, no one was good enough for his baby girl, especially the son of a killer. So no, baring my soul to certain members of my family was not a good idea right now.

  “Have you talked to Caleb about this? It’s not healthy to have all this bottled up inside.”

  “It’s pretty hard to find ‘quality time’ with the LoJack I got strapped to my arm.” I looked down at my wrist and snarled.

  Like Lilith, this trinket had also belonged to Nadine, and it was one of the most stylish and unassuming tracking devices on the planet. Only after it had been placed in my care had I learned that it could never unlock once it was fastened. Waterproof and flame retardant, the tiny chip embedded inside the nameplate monitored the wearer’s location and sent updates to the software on Mom’s hard drive. This heirloom had been passed down to me as a form of protection, but now held the weight of iron shackles. The bracelet’s outrageous retail value kept it from meeting the fate of a bolt cutter.

  I tried to reason, though I knew it was a lost cause. “Angie told me that you two were discussing my relationship with Caleb. Why is it such a big deal? We have to see each other; we feed from one another for energy. I’m not going to skank out or anything.”

  “She said that your body chemistry will change more than usual during the adolescent phase. I’ve seen how you get when you don’t feed. I can only imagine what might happen with other cravings, and I’m not trying to be a thirty-four-year-old grandmother.”

  I lifted my head to the ceiling. “Where is the trust in this house?”

  “It’s not you I don’t trust, baby. It’s your roommate—as you call it—that needs to be chaperoned. Which means that outside of work, you’re not allowed to see Caleb without supervision. I’m not budging on this, so you can save your breath.” Mom replaced her specs and returned to the solace of her laptop.

  At that point, this meeting of the minds was over. I snatched my bag and left the kitchen. This broken record kept playing over and over, and I had grown sick of the song. First Dad, and now Mom sung backup to the tired tune. At least it had gotten her off the subject of therapy, a topic that slipped into our conversations a lot these days.

  On my way to the stairs, I tried not to look at the living room, but its presence seemed to burn at my peripheral, soliciting one peek, one moment of my time. I snuck a glance at the small area and cursed at my own weakness.

  The layout was different, a cheery arrangement of floral prints, cushions, throw rugs, and fake plants tucked in corners. The sofa had been moved a foot or two closer to the center of the room, grouped by the love seat, glass coffee table, and high-back chair. The walls were painted in a pale, cake-batter yellow trimmed with white molding. Carefully selected photographs crowded the wall unit and marble fireplace that we never used. But no amount of remodeling could erase the image of Nadine’s body sprawled on the floor.

  As Angie had once said, “once seen it can’t be unseen,” and that truth breathed life into this phantom, giving it substance. My back stiffened and the muscles tightened painfully, causing a bubbling in my stomach. My throat closed up as I tried in vain to keep my dinner down.

  The greasy sludge rotting my gut shot me upstairs, down the hallway, and to the welcoming embrace of the commode. Between vomit sessions, the cool tiled floor became my new best friend, my confessional. I wished I could blame it on food or some physical illness, but it had to be psychological. Mom wasn’t the only one with issues—I was just better at hiding them.

  Gripping the edge of the sink, I pulled myself up and stared at the stranger in the mirror—perhaps a close cousin or a long-lost twin. The features looked familiar, same chubby cheeks, stubborn chin, caramel-brown skin, and the Sideshow Bob mop top that reached my shoulders. The only thing that didn’t belong to me were those green eyes—another souvenir from Nadine.

  Three antacid tablets didn’t ease my stomach, four glasses of water couldn’t quench my thirst, stripping down to my underwear didn’t cool my fevered skin. The air tasted thick, rusty, and too humid for my lungs to absorb. Too much activity crowded inside my skull, too many voices between my ears spoke out of turn. I needed oxygen and an open space where the walls didn’t move.

  I went to my room, opened the window, and welcomed the crisp night air, not caring that I stood in my skivvies, giving the neighbors a free show. I had never experienced anxiety attacks before, and considering what had brought it on in the first place, I doubted it would be a one-hit wonder.

  As if an answer to my unspoken prayer, my cell phone rang. I didn’t need to see the name on the caller ID, or hear the sappy ring tone I’d picked out for him; I just knew.

  “Sam, you okay? What’s wrong?” Caleb asked as soon as I placed the phone to my ear.

  “I’m glad you called. I just ...” I paused, unsure how to verbalize hysteria.

  “You just what?” His voice hitched and his anxiety shot through the line to reach me. Police radios and chatter mingled in the background, so I knew he was still with his car.

  “Nothing. I just—I’ve got a lot on my mind,” I dismissed. It was best to keep quiet. Caleb had his own problems. “I’m not feeling good.”

  “I can tell. Why don’t you lie down? I’ll stay on the line until you feel better.”

  “I thought you weren’t gon
na call me until morning,” I nagged.

  “That was before I started getting nauseous and scared out of nowhere. Go to bed. I’m right here.” His soothing tone melted the knots in my shoulders and liquefied the bones in my legs. Underneath his hard outer layer came a wash of peace that purified me.

  I crawled into bed and let his voice cradle me to rest. “Thank you, but you don’t have to do this.”

  “It’s not just for you, Sam. I need you nearby for a while. Don’t think I can sleep otherwise. Is that okay?”

  “Always,” I whispered and tucked a pillow under my head. I couldn’t blame him, for I felt the exact same way. It came with the package of having a Cambion boyfriend, to share emotions. All. The. Time. Some would consider it intrusive, or even a curse to experience this kind of connection, this empathic intimacy, but it had its perks, especially tonight.

  His sigh dragged through the phone, a weary gesture that mirrored mine completely. “Talk to me. Anything you want.”

  I brooded for a moment before asking, “How would you feel about mixing at a party on Halloween?” I told him about Courtney B.’s proposal and the free press that would come with it.

  He sucked in a sharp breath. “Yeah, I heard. Some redhead approached me earlier today about doing a gig. The pay is good and all, but ... high school girls? I can’t deal with all that whiny—”

  “Hey, grandpa, in case you forgot to take your meds today, I’m one of those high school girls. Plus, it’s supposed to be the biggest event of the season, with free candy,” I added, knowing that anything involving sugar would seal the deal.

  A long pause passed between us until he asked, “Will you be there?”

  “I gotta check with my parole officer, but I think I can swing it,” I said while toiling with my love-hate battle with my phone. Despite all its buttons and high-tech features, it had no arms, no lips, no breath. This tiny device served as both a gateway and wall between us. “I wish you were here.”