by Mike Duran
A face with an ugly scar across its mouth.
The Indian called this person the Great Branded One. Fergus simply called him Scarface. Whatever his real name, Fergus realized that the Shadowfolk must want this man. They must really want him.
As Fergus stood overlooking this unholy sanctum, watching the harpy morph before the megalith, something else sounded. A raspy slithering, a hive of disquieting motion. It came from overhead. Fergus gritted his teeth and slowly raised the sputtering lamp.
The ceiling of the chamber was alive with movement: dark, inhuman forms, an underbelly of dark sinews, contorting in anguish.
The rocks were alive with fetch. Grappling, clinging, suctioned to the ancient stone.
Had he not been so overwhelmed, Fergus Coyne would have blown up the mine then and there. Instead, he shrieked, dropped the lantern, and fled Otta’s Rift, realizing what they had only once feared—the gateway to hell was opening.
Chapter 17
The door did not swing properly on its hinges. Having spent one summer as a construction apprentice on some new tracts of homes, Tamra noticed those things. The average person took it for granted that when a door opened, it didn’t drag and it stayed where you left it. However, the door in front of her—the solid core door with minor ornamental trim, drifting open on Book Swap—had several things going against it, the least of which was bloated wood due to being left unsealed. However, at the moment, this ill-hung door was not nearly as interesting as the guy fumbling behind it.
A faint yelp escaped her lips as she stumbled to a stop in the doorway. The two of them stood, squared off, staring at each other.
Several books lay toppled at the man’s feet. A large watercolor of an elderly lady hung behind him, and stacks of books teetered against wooden cases nearby. The place was musty, and she wondered if it had a water leak somewhere. Yet her gaze did not leave the young man. A disfigurement marred one side of his face, and, despite her best effort, Tamra could not keep from staring.
“I’m sorry.” She finally shook herself. “I–I’m here for a book.”
He peered at her for a moment, and then said with an embarrassed chuckle, “A book. Of course.”
She followed suit, and they both laughed, the nervous, polite kind of laughter that people use to disarm tension.
“I’m sorry if I scared you.” Tamra let her gaze drift about the cluttered little cottage, looking for evidence of water stains or crumbling plaster. “The door was open, and I—”
“No. No problem. I was—” He rubbed his hands up and down the front of his thighs. “Cleaning up. I–I was just cleaning up.” Then he began randomly straightening nearby books. Moving excitedly, awkwardly.
It gave her a moment to try to identify what was wrong with his face. He had a deformity or birthmark—she couldn’t tell. And she dare not be caught staring. As he aimlessly rearranged books, he glanced at her. She smiled and quickly looked away. He was probably used to people staring at him, and Tamra felt guilty for being just like everyone else.
After watching him fumble between crates of books, she cleared her throat to get his attention.
“I’m sorry.” He rose, brushing off his hands. “You’re looking for a book.”
Another round of shared, nervous laughter.
“Actually,” Tamra said, “I’m looking for Zephaniah.”
The name seemed to stun him.
A moment of clumsy silence passed. Then his face flushed, and his surprise gave way to annoyance. “Zeph,” he said flatly. “It’s Zeph.”
That’s when she saw it clearly—it was a scar that stretched from his left nostril to his right chin, a pale furrow that left his lips cloven at the intersection, revealing a moist glint of teeth.
She quickly returned her gaze to his eyes. Yet it was too late—he knew she was staring at him.
His defensiveness withered, and he looked away with his shoulders slumped.
She peered at him. “So are you …”
He nodded. “I’m sorry. No one calls me that. I just … I haven’t heard that name in a while. Yeah.” He straightened and composed himself. “I’m Zeph. Zeph Walker.”
He extended his hand and offered a shy, apologetic smile.
She wanted to ask him why the name evoked such a hostile reaction. It was different, that was obvious. But not to the point of embarrassment. Instead Tamra stepped across the threshold and shook his hand, fighting to keep from letting her eyes wander to the ugly scar.
“So, uh …” He stepped back and scratched behind his neck. “Did someone send you?”
“It was my grandmother. She told me to come here.”
“Your grandmother?”
“Annie Lane. She said I should talk to Zepha—I mean, talk to you.” She cast an embarrassed smile.
“Annie Lane?” His eyes drifted in thought. “I don’t think I know her.”
“Well, apparently she knows you. She lives up at Marvale.”
“The retirement complex?”
“Yeah.” Tamra nodded. “She’s been up there a coupla years. Quite the lady, trust me. She’s lived around here all her life. And you?”
He nodded, but his gaze had grown distant.
Tamra shifted her weight. “I didn’t even know this place was here. I usually go over to Spellbinder’s.”
“Most everyone does. But as you can see, this is no Spellbinder’s. Heck, it’s not really even a bookstore. More like a repository. Came with the place when I bought it. I’ve just kept the dream alive, I guess. Got a few loyal customers and, being that reading is such a dying art, I figured keeping the place open might earn me some humanitarian points.”
“I could use some of those myself.”
“Kinda runs on its own. The motto’s simple.” He pointed to a whiteboard and read the phrase written there. “LEAVE ONE. TAKE ONE. That’s it. No money’s exchanged. No orders placed. It’s low maintenance. Runs on the good ol’ honor system.”
“Cool.”
“Oops! I’m sorry.” He pivoted out of the doorway and motioned for her to enter. “You wanted a book.”
“Yeah.” Tamra extended the sticky note. “Kind of an oddball title. But that’s my grandmother.”
Zeph took the note and looked at it.
She studied him as he did. He had a nervous way, she thought, like a dog who’d been kicked one too many times. She could tell he spent time in the sun, and even though his frame was lean, his upper body seemed sturdy. His features were rugged, intense, and if not for the ugly scar, he would be a handsome guy. She found herself wondering how it happened and what type of trauma and esteem issues Zeph Walker had endured. As usual, the urge to “fix” things stirred inside Tamra. Nams called her a “fixer,” using the term derogatorily. And as Tamra had learned, fixing things was a lot easier than fixing people. She needed only look at her parents for confirmation.
Zeph stared at the note as if it contained a secret message. Finally he said, “Mystery Spots and Magic Landscapes.” His words seemed eerily detached.
“Kinda weird, huh?”
His lips parted, eyes passing through various shades of emotion. Then he slumped forward, as if he’d been punched in the stomach.
For a moment Tamra thought something might be wrong and instinctively reached to steady him. As she did, he looked up. The sinews in his neck were taut. A shadow had passed over his face.
“Look.” He handed the note back to her. “I can’t help you.”
“Huh?”
“I said I can’t help you.”
Tamra took the note. “But my grandma—”
“Tell your grandmother it’s over!” He curled his fists into balls, the veins in his neck straining.
She flinched at the rage in his tone and stepped back into the doorway.
But something else happened when he spoke, something she could not put a finger on. The air seemed to tingle, awaken with a static charge, as if his words had flipped a molecular switch that left the atmosphere thrumming. Had s
he not been so startled by his reaction, Tamra would have pulled back her flannel to see if the hairs on her arm were standing up.
He looked to the ground, shamed. Then he mumbled, “It’s over, okay?”
Then Zeph returned to one of the nearby crates and sifted through its contents.
The bristling in the air had vanished—a figment of her imagination perhaps. She gaped at him and what had just transpired. After a moment, she shrugged. “Okay, then I guess it’s … over.”
She looked at him again. When he did not return the gesture, she turned to leave.
“When I was born,” Zeph said, “my mother said I cried so loud I almost sent the doctor into cardiac arrest.”
He was standing now, eyes unfocused, a nostalgic detachment glazing his features.
“She said my voice nearly blew a fuse in the house, almost short-circuited the entire block. That’s when she knew I was called.”
Tamra peered at Zeph Walker.
“Look.” He seemed to return to earth. “I’m sorry. Really, I am. She means well—I’m sure she means well. Just go back and tell your grandmother I’m done with all that. It’s over. It’s past tense. Zephaniah Walker is dead. Tell her that. Tell her he’s dead.”
She looked at him a long time. Perhaps some people couldn’t be fixed. Or rather, maybe they chose to stay broken. She wondered if Zeph Walker was one of those people. The chosen broken.
“All right.” Tamra yielded. “I’ll tell her.”
He nodded.
As she turned to leave, Tamra added, “I work at Farner’s. The hardware store. Swing shift. If you happen to find that book—or just get a hankerin’ to intervene and help a seventy-two-year-old widow with two grandchildren and a really big heart—you can call me there. Or come by.”
He remained stoic. Then a coy grin slowly crept across his face. “Okay,” he conceded. “If I get a hankerin’.”
“By the way, I’m Tamra. Tamra Lane. And I’m sorry for scaring you.”
He issued a soft snort of laughter. “You didn’t scare me, Tamra.”
She left Book Swap with more questions than when she’d arrived. How did Nams know about Zeph Walker? How did he get that scar? And why did the mention of that book upset him so? Whatever the answers, Tamra could not help but feel that something much bigger than she could imagine was unfolding around her.
She closed the gate behind her. Dusk had drawn its dark lines around the alleys and trees. Tamra straddled her scooter and prepared to put her helmet on. That’s when she noticed Zeph Walker was braced in the doorway, thumping his forehead with the heel of his hand.
She peered at him a moment, wondering what he was doing. Nams had said he was different. But as she drove back to work, Tamra found herself wondering if Zeph Walker’s difference was more than skin deep.
Chapter 18
You will be a remnant. You will stand in the gap.
At the time Annie had no idea what those words meant. But for the last fifteen years they had sustained her. And now, both the remnant and the gap were becoming clearer.
Through the curtains of her bedroom window a wedge of sapphire revealed twilight’s descent. Despite her granddaughter’s concerns, Annie could not stop now, not when she was getting so close.
Especially after this new piece of evidence.
She reached under the mattress of her bed and produced the documents she had found earlier. The leather cover was warped and scarred. Annie released the braided strap, and the journal opened, swollen by its strange contents. She began leafing through the arcane volume and its documents, a mismatched collection of material: grainy photocopies, anatomical sketches, and medical examinations of someone named “Subject X.” Diagrams and terms raced by her—Planetary grids. Temporoparietal junctions. Catatonic schizophrenia—jargon far beyond her understanding. Interspersed were sheets crammed with words in code-like facsimile.
Annie lifted a mimeographed page that bore a United States military seal. What in the world? She studied this page, wondering over its authenticity. This was more than just the personal diary of some senior citizen. But what was it? And what was it doing in a retirement home on the southeastern slopes of the Sierras?
The sketch of the multiheaded avian peeked from between the pages. Annie slipped the picture out and studied it, searching her mind for recollection. Where had she seen this before? Bat-like wings trailed behind a human torso, its four faces and angry black eyes unsettling. That’s when it struck her.
She rose from the bed, went to her bookshelf, and removed a massive clothbound volume with cracked spine and fragile yellowed pages. This particular version of the Enciclopedia de ángeles had been translated into English. Tamra had tracked down the encyclopedia of angels for Annie, buying it online from a quirky New York book warehouse.
One could not read the Bible without encountering angels. Stories about angelic messengers, angelic warriors, and guardians of God’s children filled Scripture. The heavenly beings had always seemed to retain their cultural mystique. However, Annie found Hollywood’s fluffy portrayals of the mighty messengers hard to stomach. Likewise, much of the information in this volume veered into occult arcana and superstitious mumbo-jumbo. For this reason she always approached her study of angels with a degree of skepticism.
She sat on the edge of the bed and plunked the encyclopedia down next to the manuscripts. Opening the book, Annie coughed at the fog of dust and began turning the pages, trying to find the picture that had impregnated her mind. Past archangels, baals, and celestial hierarchies she went. Until her eyes widened. Staring at her was the image she had remembered: a crude picture of an angel with four faces.
Cherubs. One of the most powerful of heaven’s angels, hybrid winged creatures with the face of a man, an ox, a lion, and an eagle. Annie lifted the sketch and held it beside the book. It was like looking at a negative. The sketch in this journal was a rendition of a biblical cherub. There was no mistaking it. Only this version was much darker. The foul, bat-winged, multiheaded cherub chilled her deep inside. She set the picture aside, almost out of necessity.
Amid the documents spread atop her comforter she spotted what looked like a blueprint. Its edges were brittle, and she unfolded it with care. It was dated 1928, and she quickly realized it was a topographical rendering of the Marvale property, well before the construction of the retirement facility. Several abandoned mines dotted the foothills, as did the Granite Bar aquifers. She located Servile Gulch as it wound into the foothills and intersected the old mule road, and then Quartz Creek, following the blueprint until she located Camp Poverty.
The ruins on the property’s west end had supposedly been used by miners in the late 1800s as a camp, long before Silverton’s inception. While the structure had been of some historical significance, it was not maintained, fell into disrepair, and eventually was barricaded when the Marvale facility was built. Now the rock and cement building was just a home to rodents and dusty memories. Symbols and notations had been scrawled on these blueprints, delineating particular areas in and around Camp Poverty.
Yet it was not the blueprint of these ruins that intrigued Annie most. It was what was underneath them.
A series of vaults and subbasements appeared on the map, branching into long perpendicular shafts before dead-ending in the distant foothills. She had been a Marvale resident for well on two years and had only heard rumors about such a subterranean complex. Of course, residents rarely went that far into the foothills. Camp Poverty was nearly a half-mile hike uphill. It was scenic but far too wild. Besides, Endurance started as a mining town. There were probably many unknown tunnels beneath the city. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder if the military had actually been interested in the site. And with all that was going on in Marvale, her acquisition of these documents did not seem like a coincidence.
It made her decision easier.
She folded the blueprint, bound everything in the journal, and returned it to its spot under her mattress.
Sliding open the top drawer of the nightstand, she removed the Velcro cuff, then the mini-Maglite and her Swiss Army knife. Even though Tamra disapproved of Annie’s sleuthing, her granddaughter had unwittingly become a great resource for gadgets. Annie lifted the hem of her skirt, a mid-length canvas La Rambla, and clasped the cuff to her thigh.
She had acquired the spelunker’s cuff from Easy Dolan. The Velcro armlet was designed to hold tools for cavers, a hobby that Easy had undertaken in his youth, along with other exotic hobbies. Being that the sport required grappling, crawling, contorting, and the negotiation of precarious pitches, the cuff allowed the spelunker to do his thing hands-free and still have the necessary tools accessible in a pinch. While not nearly as strenuous as spelunking, Annie thought the device would come in handy for her own endeavors. With a little tweaking, she’d managed to make it fit her right thigh. Now, instead of a pickaxe or spike, it carried a pen light, a stainless steel multipurpose tool, and a blank sleeve for emergency purposes.
Miss Marple would have been impressed.
Annie quickly inserted the Maglight and the Swiss Army knife and let the skirt fall back into place. She went to the coat rack near the door and slipped into her favorite sweater.
Before she began stirring up any more commotion, Annie needed proof. And now she sensed she could get it.
As she stepped into the hallway, the aroma of cooked meats and vegetables confirmed that dinnertime was upon them. Perfect time for a little jaunt. The television blared from inside Vera’s apartment. Perhaps the woman was going deaf along with whatever other changes she was undergoing. Annie glanced at Eugenia’s door, but there was no evidence that her once best friend had recently come or gone. She hurried down the hall toward the Back Nine and the northern courtyard.
She passed Easy Dolan’s apartment, reached the end of the hall, and stopped. Annie turned her gaze to the spot where she’d found the journal.