Marked for Vengeance (Book One: The Alyx Rayer Chronicles)

by Pierce, SJ

  He turned the bottle up to empty it completely and thought back over his encounters with Alyx -- how nervous she had been, how evasive and rude she was when he asked her questions. She clearly had something to hide. And why would she spy through that window of all windows? He then remembered that Oman ordered him to keep the room “locked tight”. What was she really after?

  Ok, I need to stop this, he determined. Entertaining his fears would only make his dream harder to forget. He turned around and headed toward the kitchen. The studio now encouraged his ‘impractical worries’.

  He tossed the empty bottle into the trash and leaned against the counter, resting his forearms atop the smooth granite. His ring clanged against its surface, and he looked down to study the engraving, this time thinking of his father. He glanced at the clock on the stove. Eight thirty. There was a good chance that his dad would still be awake. A conversation with him would definitely get his mind off of his woes.

  He made his way to the living room to grab the phone, hoping his dad would feel well enough to speak this time, and if he was, would also let Micah speak with him.

  The only grandparent Micah had ever known was ‘Grandaddy Pat’, and their distance limited the relationship greatly. Rachel’s parents died in a plane crash when he was an infant, and the only memories he had of them were what they showed him in pictures and old stories. Isaac felt partially responsible for him not knowing his only grandparent that well because he was the one who moved away from Ireland, but he also knew that he wouldn’t have done anything differently. If he hadn’t moved to Atlanta, he and Rachel wouldn’t have married, which also meant that Micah wouldn’t have been born.

  He dialed the number to the hospice in Dublin, and the receptionist sent him through to the nurses’ station yet again. “He’s actually doin’ better today,” Bridget said. “So I was lookin’ forward to lettin’ you speak with him. Hold on.”

  As Isaac paced the living room, the phone rustled around on the other end. Her voice spoke softly to him in the background. “Mr. Walsh, this is your son.”

  After a few more seconds of rustling, a noticeably weaker, scratchier version of his dad’s voice greeted him on the phone. “Hello, me boy,” he croaked.

  Tears prickled his eyes. The devastation of hearing his dad’s waning voice, which used to be so strong and husky, never got any easier. If his dad would allow it, he would take the next flight over there and hug his fragile neck.

  He fought the sob back and inhaled a deep breath so he could answer. “Hi, dad,” he said, lightly kicking the leg of the coffee table.

  “Don’t you worry yourself with me,” he said, sensing the grief in his son’s voice, “I’m better than ever.”

  Isaac closed his eyes and smiled. “Of course you are.”

  His dad had a tendency to downplay his condition. If his arm had been cut in two, he would more than likely say it was “only a scratch”. He never enjoyed a big fuss at his expense.

  “What’s goin’ on with you this week? I’d like to hear about somethin’ that doesn’t have to do with IV’s, narcotics, and catheters,” he said jokingly.

  Isaac wanted to give him a sympathetic laugh, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. He didn’t find any of what he said to be a laughing matter. “Oh, not much, just the usual… work and paintin’. Micah’s doin’ well in school. Everyone is good.”

  His dad coughed a rattling cough. “Tis good to hear, son. ‘Tis good to hear.”

  Isaac played with his ring again and paced between the living room and kitchen. “There was something I wanted to ask you about, though.”

  “Ok, shoot.”

  “That ring you sent me, the heirloom. Is there any significance as to what’s on it?”

  “Not that I know of. When my father gave it to me, he told that it meant somethin’ prophetic, but that’s about it.”

  His words stopped Isaac short. Prophetic? “Are you sure?”

  “Yes son, I am. As a matter of fact, after he told me that I did a little research on it me-self, and both the eagle and a tree are symbols that represent a prophet. Why do you ask?”

  Holy shit. “No reason,” he said with an almost imperceptible crack in his voice. “I’ve been wearin’ it a lot lately and was wonderin’ what it meant. I haven’t seen that symbol before.”

  “Just make sure it stays in the family. It goes way back through our bloodline. It would be a shame to break the tradition, ya know.”

  “I know, dad. I promise.”

  “Hold on, son,” he said and covered the phone with his hand. The nurse’s voice in the background spouted orders.

  Isaac clinched his jaw, irritated that they already made him hang up.

  His dad broke off into another round of chest rattling coughs and brought the phone to his ear. “They need me hang it up and rest some more. Ol’ Bridget here wants to pump me full of Morphine. But don’t you worry about me, I’m doin’ good. Give the little lad a hug for me. Love you boys more than anythin’.”

  Isaac hung his head. “Alright, dad. Love you too,” he mumbled. The nurse had squashed his hopes for Micah to speak with his only living grandparent, but for Isaac to speak with him for that long was a touching treat.

  He placed the phone on the charger and rested on the couch to reflect. The only sound in their flat came from upstairs as Micah peeled back the covers for bed. The symbols are prophetic, he mused. Maybe the old man’s words held truth, after all. Now there were two revelations that aligned with what the visitor advised him of; someone watched him, and apparently his family ring indicated there might be more to his heritage than he realized – a bloodline of visionaries, perhaps? And his dreams, his vivid, realistic dreams. Could that mean that they were, in fact, a premonition of the future? Oman seemed to think so.

  He found his former comfort in the assumption that his experience was ‘just another dream’ dissolving, but with the acceptance of that also came the acceptance that something might happen to Micah. Maybe it’s all a coincidence, he reasoned and pushed off the couch to lock up for the night. A paranoid coincidence.

  He double checked the dead bolts on the door, and on the way back to the couch he went up the stairs to check on Micah. As he crept to the side of his bed, Micah peeked up at him with one eye. “Not asleep yet,” he whispered.

  Isaac chuckled. “Alright, son. Sorry,” he said and headed downstairs to his own bed.

  He sat the cushions in the floor and unfolded the mattress. As he lay staring at the ceiling, he debated whether or not to turn on the TV. Despite his fatigue, he wasn’t keen on falling asleep just yet, so naturally, his mind wandered back to Alyx. How earlier that morning she was -- what he had hoped -- a prospective first date. She had gone from that, to a cold-hearted snob, to a possible window-watching threat to his family. All of those things packaged into this beautiful woman. That was one thing he still couldn’t reconcile – that if all of it were true, that she was this dangerous person that Oman had warned him about in his dream. I guess you can’t judge a book by its cover.

  He rolled to his side and kicked the blankets to his feet. It was only a matter of time before he drifted off to sleep again, but he closed his eyes and surrendered to it all the same.

  * * *

  Sometime during the night, Isaac’s mind drifted to the same dream, as always. He stood amidst the open grassy field with a dark sky full of stars overhead. He held up his arms to observe the cloak he wore; a purple, velvet robe whose sleeves hung past his hands. As he examined this new addition to his recurring dream, a light sobbing from behind startled him and he turned to see his Dark Angel sitting in the grass, holding onto a man that lay naked in her lap.

  Her face looked different this time. He could actually see it now. She had round lips and smooth alabaster skin that glistened as tears streamed down and dripped onto the man she cradled. Her almond-shaped eyes that looked woefully at his lifeless body weren’t an intense dark black as they were before. They were a normal, dark brown wi
th the whites showing. She reminded him of someone, but the velvety haze of dreaming made it impossible for him to place it.

  His eyes wandered down to the man. Blood poured from the gashes in his stomach and side, pooling onto the ground around them. His heart stopped when his eyes trailed to his face – it was him.

  He stared in horror. His face lay in the crease of her arm and had frozen into a tortured expression. His eyes remained open with no light within them, only the unmistakable widened pupils of death’s hold. He lifted his hand to reach for them, and when his sleeve slid back on his arm, he noticed that his own hand shined with blood. He lifted the other and his fist clinched a gold dagger.

  He dropped the blade into the grass and attempted to turn and run, but found that his body was numb, immovable. His lips parted to cry out as he had done before, but nothing escaped.

  He searched frantically for something else to focus on -- anything except the monstrous imagery in front of him -- when something new caught his attention, something he hadn’t seen in past dreams. A tall figure stood in the distance.

  He squinted to determine their identity, but the darkness veiled their features. The figure floated toward them in a deliberate, gliding motion, and as it approached, the first thing he recognized was the long, black beard that lay atop his white robe. Oman.

  As he watched his unhurried arrival, something nudged his shoulder, rocking him sideways. He cut his eyes to the side, but nothing lingered there. Another nudge, this time stronger, knocked him onto the grass. As Oman’s bare feet came upon them, one more nudge shoved him forward, and his dream spiraled into black.

  He sprung into a seated position on the bed. A shadow stood off to the side in the darkness, shouting at him with a muffled, broken voice as though it were behind a glass door. He pivoted his head, and the owner of the troubled cry came into focus. Micah?

  “Dad!” he shouted. “You awake now? DAD!”

  Isaac gasped as reality rushed to meet him, and he grabbed his son’s arm to steady himself. Micah rested beside him on the bed. “Are you ok?” he asked worriedly. “I was ready to push you off of the bed to get you to wake up. You wouldn’t quit moaning.”

  Isaac wiped the sweat from his neck. “Sorry, son. I must have really been asleep. Thank you for wakin’ me.”

  “Can I get you anything? You want some water?” he asked as he rubbed Isaac’s shoulder. “I’m not used to being the one who comforts.”

  He rested against the back of the couch. “No, I’m good. I just need a minute,” he said and patted his leg reassuringly. “Head back to sleep now. I’m fine.”

  “Ok, dad,” replied with a wide yawn and padded across the concrete floor to his room.

  Isaac reached for the remote on the end table. Even if it meant infomercials were the prime choice, after a dream like that sleep wouldn’t come easily again tonight. Once he set the channel to the least annoying panderer, he determined that a glass of water might do him well, after all. The last thing he had to drink for the night was a beer, which left him somewhat dehydrated.

  On the way to the kitchen, he noticed he hadn’t shut the studio door before he went to bed, and his unfinished painting of the Dark Angel stared back at him. His insides shuddered. The imagery of her kneeling and staring at the ground evoked the horror of seeing his bloody lifeless body cradled in her lap. To keep it from harassing him the rest of the night, he went to shut the door and stopped as he reached for the chain, remembering that the Dark Angel in his dream looked different this time, almost recognizable. Wait a minute.

  He edged closer to the painting and placed his thumb over her face to cover the black eyes he had painted. If he replaced his Dark Angel’s muddled face with hers…

  “Alyx,” he whispered. They had the same hair, minus the white streak, and the same body. He stumbled away from the painting as though the revelation had shoved him with all its might. No WONDER I thought I’d recognized her at the café, I’d been dreaming about her this whole time!

  Oman’s words of caution rumbled through his mind again, that he was a “prophet” and for him to stay “safe”. The pieces fit together too perfectly now for all of it to be a coincidence. As he thought about what this would mean for Micah, and now him, anger swelled inside him like a rising tide.

  He reared his arm back.

  Rip! His fist went through the middle, tearing through her pink face.

  Wham! He struck it again on the side and it flew across the room, hitting the wall.

  He would be damned if anything happened to either one of them. They had survived too much to let it all fall apart. All they had were each other. If he was to be taken anywhere as the old man suggested, it wouldn’t be without his son. And if his dream was a prophecy for his death, there had to be a way to change it.

  * * *

  Alyx’s eyes flew open. Her aching bladder screamed for relief. She rolled the side to get out of bed when her heart dropped. Where am I? The darkness inside the room made it impossible to know for sure, and the last thing she remembered was someone catching her as she fainted in front of her complex.

  She bit her lips closed. She didn’t dare make a sound in case she had been kidnapped.

  As she stared into the darkness, her eyes slowly adjusted. Shapes came into focus around the room. Her head gently turned to stare at the closest thing to her, and she recognized her Tiffany-style lamp on the bedside table. Her hand flew to her chest as she exhaled. “Whew!”

  She swung her legs over the side of the bed, and a phone chimed in the living room. Her head cocked to the side. Benjamin’s phone?!

  He was the one who had ‘rescued’ her during the night?

  She cringed at the thought. It had been days since she had spoken with him, and he had found her falling over drunk, smelling of a grimy bar no doubt. She didn’t want to go through the living room and face him, but it was either that, or pee in the bed.

  She tiptoed to the door and cracked it open just enough to get a decent visual. The TV flickered, illuminating the room, and he lay on the couch in his scrubs with his back facing her, his broad shoulder lightly rising and falling. Yes! He’s asleep.

  With the smell of a strong pot of coffee tickling her nose, she skulked past him and into the bathroom. She gingerly closed the door behind her, and despite her care, it creaked loudly, like a banshee tattling on her attempts to deceive him. She scrunched her face with irritation. Geez! She never noticed it creaked that noisily, or at all, really. Even so, she prayed it didn’t wake him. If she could get back into bed, it would buy some time to rehearse her explanations and the inevitable words of her final goodbye.

  She flicked on the light and looked down as she made her way to the toilet. She still wore the same clothes, complete with the smell of musty cigarettes. Ugh, cigarettes! Chunks rolled up her throat. She cupped her hand over her mouth and whipped around to face the toilet, her body convulsing as it attempted to rid itself of the poisons. She moved her hand, but the only thing that escaped was a dry, crackling gag.

  She swallowed the chunks back down and peeled off her tights to sit. When she reached for the toilet paper, her sleeve wafted another wave of the odorous scent. Her mouth watered, and she paused mid-reach. Her dinner forced its way back up.

  She snatched the trash can from the floor beside her and placed it in front of her face in time for it to burst through her lips, smelling of partially digested hot wings and stale tequila. Three successful heaves later, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and stood to tug her shorts up.

  She staggered to the sink to wash her face with cold water, and as she bent over to cleanse her skin, the door creaked open. Benjamin placed his hand on her shoulder.

  Crap!

  “You alright?” he asked through stiff lips.

  With her chin tucked into her chest, she shoved her hands under the running water and pinched her eyes shut. She nodded in response as she brought the first pool of water to her face. What make-up hadn’t rubbed off on he
r pillow washed down the sink in colorful, wispy streamers.

  “I’ll get the coffee,” he said and darted to the kitchen.

  Here we go, she lamented. Their ‘talk’ was only moments away for which she was terribly unprepared.

  While he clanked around with the coffee mugs, she blotted her face dry and made her way into her bedroom to change her clothes. If she got another whiff, more vomit would ensue.

  She held her breath as she yanked them off and rummaged through her drawers for a fresh pair of flannel pants and a t-shirt. After slipping them on, she went to meet Benjamin who sat on the couch with her steaming cup of coffee, eyeing her with disappointment and a set jaw. She wouldn’t be the only one with hurtful words that morning.

  With her head hung, she rubbed her forearm consolingly as she approached the couch and bent over to grab a blanket from the floor. She wrapped herself into a cocoon and pooled into the leather cushion beside him, unable to look him in the eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered as he handed her the pink, ceramic mug.

  “So,” he said with an edge to his voice, his body turning to face hers, “would you like to explain what’s been going on with you lately?”

  While she thought of a response, she fought to keep her eyes glued to the mug. His disappointed scowl from moments earlier was still freshly seared into her mind. It was misery enough to continue to suffer through his sharp tone -- he had never spoken to her this way, the mere sound of it bruising her spirit as though he had beaten her with a heavy wooden stick.

  Because she didn’t have time to prepare a speech, her first instinct was to play dumb, but the words “what do you mean” wouldn’t form in her mouth. She knew what he meant. To buy time, she sipped the coffee and sat it on the table in front of them. Her next impulse was to say “I don’t know”, but that wasn’t the truth, either. All she could do was sit quietly, stare at her lap, and find a way to conjure up a candid explanation.

  It was one thing for her to deal with her own fragile emotions, but to be the cause of someone else’s psychological demise was another. How would she begin to explain to him that this would be the last day of their union, and then watch his heart break as her words slashed through him. She pictured herself holding the machete high above her head, waiting to make the first blow.