Burning Emerald

by Jaime Reed

  I backed away slowly, but returned to the body and wiped his mouth. I checked for stray hairs and other evidence that could lead to me. Though the police would attribute his death to a heart attack, I’d watched enough forensic shows not to leave anything to chance.

  Slow, elementary facts drilled in my head, as if rephrasing would somehow soften the blow or facilitate knowledge. A boy was dead. He was no more, no longer among the living. But, no matter the wording, no matter how I sliced it, I was still the one holding the knife.

  “Hey, Malik, hurry up, man! The coach is coming!” The voice of one of his teammates echoed against the gym walls.

  I didn’t know what to think at the moment, but I knew getting the hell out of there was a good start. I stood up and straightened my clothes, trying my best not to look at Malik’s body. I stumbled through the labyrinth of support beams and metal framework under the bleachers. Coach Reynolds corralled the basketball team through the side door of the locker room.

  I had to stay cool, keep it together, and by no means let them wander behind the bleachers. I inched toward the door, staying close to the walls, hoping to sneak out before anyone saw me. The screech of a whistle ruined that plan.

  “What are you doing here, young lady?” With a clipboard in one hand and his eighty-proof energy drink in the other, Coach Reynolds stood in a reprimanding stance. Though he wore a maroon track suit that had probably fit twenty years ago, this ex-Marine was not one to tangle with, unless you wanted to risk triggering his famous war flashbacks. His disapproval was palpable as he zeroed in on my location.

  Fellow teammates leered at me in humor. The ones who had left me with Malik offered knowing smirks and shared private comments. If they’d known what had happened to their boy, they wouldn’t look so smug.

  “I asked you a question. What are you doing here? This is a closed practice,” the coach demanded.

  Giving my best impersonation of a deer in headlights, I said, “I-I-I was looking for Malik. I wanted to give him something.”

  “I’m sure you did.” A tall kid with cornrows snickered. Others joined in with laughter and high-fives.

  “Quiet down!” Reynolds barked before darting his beady eyes at me. “You socialize on your own time. Now see yourself out.” He nudged his head to the exit.

  He didn’t have to tell me twice. I nearly tripped over my feet crossing the gym, when the coach asked, “Where is Davis anyway?”

  Murmurs spilled from the group. “I dunno.”

  “Haven’t seen him,” another said.

  “Oh, for crying out loud!” Reynolds threw his head back and groaned. “Somebody had to have seen him. He was here ten minutes ago.”

  I kept moving, not waiting for the fallout, the screams of horror, and the impending police visit to my house. Those boys would know I had been the last one to see Malik alive. Of course they would point me out in a lineup. How was I going to explain this to my mom? I’d cross that bridge when I got there. All I knew was I had to get home.

  I pushed the handle of the double doors when the last voice I ever expected to hear called out.

  “I’m right here, Coach!”

  Slowly, I turned and saw an image that shouldn’t have been there, a knowledge I wasn’t equipped to comprehend. I blinked several times, but the vision remained, gaining focus with each step.

  “Davis! Front and center! Now!” Reynolds yelled with the conviction of a drill sergeant.

  Malik emerged from behind the bleachers and trotted toward his teammates. Reaching the group, he said, “Sorry I’m late. Something came up.”

  “I’ll bet.” Coach Reynolds grunted, eyeing Malik’s wrinkled shirt and shorts. “Twenty laps around the gym. Now. The rest of you, pair up and grab a ball.” The quick chirp of the whistle shot everyone into action, including me.

  Malik jogged the outer perimeter of the gym, his long, toned body working in a uniform pace, lithe and very agile for a person who had no business being alive.

  Glancing in my direction, a slow smile crept to the corner of his mouth as he flashed me a wink.

  What had happened behind the bleachers had been real. Malik was dead, an ex-person who ceased to be. I hadn’t been seeing things, but the dozen witnesses littering the gym could attest to the contrary. I felt Malik’s energy inside me. His life and all it entailed churned and digested within, and Lilith practically belched after her devoured meal.

  Given the situation, I should consider myself lucky. If there was no body, there was no crime. I was off the hook. My newfound freedom died quickly as a question crept to the surface.

  If I hadn’t taken Malik’s life, then what the hell did I just eat?

  I sprung upright, the dream dissolving into mist, bringing the murky design of my room into focus. My skin itched from where the bedsheets stuck to my sweaty back even through my T-shirt. I rocked on the bed, my pulse racing to keep in time with my rapid thoughts. It was just a dream, but not really; more of a recap of the day’s weirdness, the brain counting its earnings once business hours were over.

  The thing I really hated about nightmares was waking up alone. No one hid under the bed or lurked in the closet, but the imagination ran wild and every shadow posed a threat. Everything was still, quiet, and set to rest but me.

  Needing a drink, I tiptoed downstairs to the kitchen, successfully avoiding a glimpse into the living room. But turmoil persisted, oozing through the woodwork and cracking static in the air.

  After clicking on the kitchen light, I headed to the fridge to down the half gallon of orange juice straight from the carton. I thought of Mom’s olive oil and the questions it provoked. It piqued my curiosity several times before, but now that interest leaned more toward scientific research. Units of measure, quality, quantity, and religious dogma swirled around my head, thick and greasy as the oil itself.

  I checked the top and bottom cabinets, even the pantry off the side of the kitchen, and found no oil. Opening the fridge again, I noticed that the jar of green olives Mom liked was missing from the shelf on the door. She’d probably thrown it away and likely child-proofed the house. She’d even cleaned out my purse while I was in the hospital, which explained how the old dried-up bottle of anointing oil mysteriously disappeared. Tossing the empty O.J. carton in the trash, I made a mental note to hit the grocery store tomorrow.

  No sooner did I come to that decision than an eerie vibe locked me in place, a brush of a presence in close range. Something alive and moving occupied the first floor; its energy fluttered around my skin, creating goose bumps. That familiar signal always alerted me of Caleb’s nearness, and I reveled at the welcome vibration. I starved for my Cake Boy, and I quietly begged for him to end my famine, to hold me again. I could almost feel his breath on my skin, that warm kiss on the back of the neck.

  Lost in emotion, I didn’t bother with the plot holes of the scenario, like the impossibility of someone entering my house without tripping the security system or Mom’s keen sense of hearing even in deep sleep, or that Caleb, by all logical extremes, should still be hospitalized.

  Eventually, reality set in once a whining noise poured from the living room, a low, raspy yelp of an injured animal, or a crying dog. Mom’s allergies prevented me from having a pet, yet that failed to explain how a dog had wandered into my house.

  I spied the security box by the door, noting the flashing green light indicating its activation. Slowly, I turned to the living room and almost screamed at the tall figure standing by the couch. His back faced me; the light from the window outlined his form, but gave no real detail to identify. What I knew was a man stood still with hands in his pockets and his head low.

  Memories of the last home invader had me paralyzed in terror. My heart pounded in my chest and I fought to keep everything in my body in working order. I was going to need all my faculties to go into battle mode, and it would be a fight to the death before another man tried to hurt me. He stood a good foot taller than me, so I had to find a weapon.

 
I backpedaled into the kitchen, pulled a knife from the rack on the counter, and crept back to the living room entry, all achieved with the deadly silence of an assassin.

  My bare feet crossed the threshold, that distinct line where hardwood floor met soft carpet. I lifted the knife in the air when his head turned toward the window, casting his profile in gentle moonlight.

  “Lilith, be still.” Though barely a whisper, his voice ricocheted against the walls, summoning unseen forces to his bidding.

  Those three words sobered me up quickly, bringing disturbing facts into play. This man standing in front of me operated on a first-name basis with Lilith. What’s more, Lilith jittered down my vertebrae at the acknowledgment. If she’d had a tail, it would’ve been wagging.

  The knife wobbled in my hand. “What did you say?”

  Instead of a response, he returned his focus to the floor, concentrating on a singular spot near the couch. As a cop would a crime scene, he circled the area. A shadowy hand traced the outline of a shape that only he could see. His whole body engaged in this exploration, crouching lower as he studied what lay there, or rather what once laid there.

  “This was where it happened?” he asked with his back still facing me. “This was where she died?”

  I didn’t try to deny it or pretend not to know what he was talking about. “Yes. She broke her neck, and stopped breathing soon after. I tried to revive her, but it was too late.”

  “You were with her?” He sounded surprised but then sniggered at some private joke. “Of course you were.”

  “I didn’t want to leave her alone. She was very close to me, a good friend,” I rambled on while I inched toward the stairs.

  I’d barely made it two paces when he said, “Don’t bother. She won’t hear you.”

  Not taking his word for it, I dashed up the staircase, my screams going unheard by my mother. Was she hurt? Had he gone after her first? A vision of Nadine flashed before my eyes, her broken body discarded without a second thought, an obstacle that had to be eliminated. The risk of Mom sharing a similar fate fueled me with rage.

  I opened the bedroom door and found Mom stretched across the bed in a graceless sprawl. Her night mask covered her eyes at a slant. Tangled within the covers, she rolled onto her side and rooted into a deep sleep that had eluded her for too long.

  Her peaceful state left no doubt that some mad paranormal activity was taking place. If the intruder could enter the house undetected, he could leave just as easily, making a quick call to the police a moot point. I quietly closed the door and trotted back downstairs to find the stranger standing where I left him.

  “What did you do to my mom?” I demanded, pointing the kitchen knife at his back.

  “Nothing. She’s only asleep. She won’t hear us unless I let her.”

  I couldn’t have been any more spooked out if I’d tried, and I really did try. Gathering all my courage, I bit the bullet and asked the question of the hour. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Whoever you want me to be.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  In response, he turned around. The glow from the window trapped his body. A light ripple rolled from his torso to the roots of his hair, darkening his skin, and distorting his features to a different shape altogether. In seconds, Malik Davis stood before me with hands on his hips, looking pleased with my astonishment. He hiked his chin in greeting. “What’s up, Shorty?”

  “Malik!” I leapt back and whacked my head against the wall.

  “No. Malik is dead. He’s been that way for several weeks now.”

  I was going for the gold for the number of freaky events that can occur in one day. “Malik isn’t dead. I saw him a few hours ago at practice.”

  “No. You, the coach, and his teammates saw me walk from under the bleachers. If anyone cared to look, they would find Malik at the bottom of the James River ... where I left him.” He bit out the last part. The energy you took today was mine, and with it, some of the memories I’d taken from him.”

  “Wait. Malik was already dead? But how?”

  “Friends don’t let friends drive drunk,” he intoned.

  A cold streak followed that answer and it froze the blood in my veins. “He had a car accident last month. He didn’t survive, did he?”

  “No.”

  I glared up at him. “Was there really an accident?”

  “Yes. He was dying when I found him. I took the pain away, and while doing so, I saw a few memories of you at school, and I jumped at the opportunity. What better way to get closer to you, much easier than hovering in shadows.”

  “And you’ve been walking around looking like him all this time?”

  “Not the whole time, but a while. I’ve been waiting for a time where I could get you alone, a chance to reveal myself without frightening you.”

  “Right, because showing up in my house unannounced isn’t frightening at all.”

  “Are you frightened right now?”

  I opened my mouth to respond, but shut it again. I was a lot of things: surprised, angry, annoyed, confused, but fear didn’t factor into it at all. A false sense of security seemed to trap my body in a warm, protective coating. I would have been stupid to trust that feeling for a second, but it was there.

  “You’re a cold, slippery one, Miss Marshall.” He stepped closer, his eyes hooded in recollection. “I saw you on Halloween. I thought I would have my chance then.”

  “Hold up, so you were the man in the mask?” His affirmative recharged my anger. “Why are you following me? If you wanted to talk to me, then why not just come up to me and say hi?”

  “I tried that, and as I said, you’re a cold, slippery one—emphasis on ‘cold.’ You really don’t like this Malik fellow, do you?”

  “Not really. He was always mean to me, but that’s not the point,” I dismissed irritably. “So, that epic death scene behind the bleachers, it was all fake?”

  “One of my best performances. Lilith left me winded, but as you realize, the spirit won’t truly harm what it knows, and she knows me quite well.” He smiled. “But I wanted to see what you would do, how far you would go should a real danger cross your path. I must say, I’m quite proud of you. A true killer instinct.”

  His words made me shiver. “You tried to take advantage of me, you crazy rapist!”

  He moved closer, not in the least bit threatened by the knife aimed at his chest. “Sweetheart, I don’t have to rape any woman. I am every woman’s fantasy. They come to me without a fight. Well, except you, of course.”

  I took a minute to ponder his reply. That was something a Cambion would say. Cambions inspired lust and for that reason, were usually victims, not aggressors. Then I remembered what Mom told me about demons and how they could appear as any person they chose. Oh yeah, I knew these glamour tricks well, but something wasn’t right.

  “What kind of Cambion are you?” I asked.

  He looked at me like I’d insulted his mother. “Cambion? I’m not some demon mutt, Samara, and you wound me deeply for even insinuating it.”

  “Well, this demon mutt is offended by you busting in her house and trying to ... whatever you were trying to do.” I fell back against the wall, resigning to the absurdity of the argument. Taking a deep breath, I added, “Just answer three questions for me: Who are you, what do you want, and what did you plan to do with Malik’s body?”

  “You have nothing to worry about. As far as anyone knows, Malik went home after practice like he does every night. I made sure plenty of people saw me as him, including his mother. Business as usual.”

  “Ohmigod!” I had completely forgotten about his family. Before I could regard it any further, he continued.

  “As for your second question, I’m here because I’ve come to claim what is rightfully mine. But I can’t take it by force, nor should I have to. It already belongs to me. But there are some people who are trying to trespass on my territory, and I can’t have that.” To show an example of said trespassers, the
ripples returned. His skin lightened, his hair grew, resembling an image that drained the fight from my body. The knife slipped from my hands and hit the carpet with a dull thud.

  To the smile, to his height, to the way his hair fell around his face, the man in front of me was Caleb’s carbon copy. Déjà vu hit me with such strength it made me dizzy and I lost my balance. Once again, I stood before a predator that used my one weakness as camouflage. Was this some sadistic wheel that kept reverting back to this same moment in time, history repeating until I learned from it? Or maybe Mom was right: I needed professional help.

  A pair of arms caught me before I hit the floor. Through barely parted lids, I stared up at the man, frozen beyond any normal range of shock.

  I knew he wasn’t Caleb, and the inner connection hadn’t come from Capone. Lilith agreed, but no complaint came from her end. She flipped and yipped with excitement, the only one amused by this new circumstance. She didn’t fight back, but beckoned him into her inner sanctum as one would an old friend. Or something else. Then I saw it, the secret that I could never uncover, the puzzle that had gone unsolved until now.

  “You have an interesting taste in books, Samara,” he said in Caleb’s voice. Then he placed a finger to his lips. “Shh.”

  The gesture brought a distinct memory and a new series of righteous anger. “You’re the one who broke Caleb’s windows!” I shoved his chest, which only pushed me back toward the wall. “Did you put olive oil in my drink? You could have killed him and me!”

  “I may or may not have taken my anger out on his car, but you were never at risk. You’re no good to me dead. Him on the other hand—most beneficial.”

  His admission made me sick to my stomach. Anger tainted my system to the point where I couldn’t move. “Why are you after me? What did I do to you?”

  “What makes you think it was something you did? And that’s not one of the questions.” He turned his back to me and faced the window. “As for who I am, I’m pretty sure you figured it out by now.”

  He was right. We stood in silence as if some solution would appear without our input. I remained motionless for several minutes until the stall tactic grew tiresome, even for my own reasoning.