The Darkness of Shadows

by Little, Chris

  He took a long drink from the chocolate goo and burped. “Excuse me.”

  I smiled. “Would you like to take some cookies for the road?”

  “Oh man! Would I?” He pulled a cloth bag from his back pocket and shoveled crumbs in. “My family’s going to love this!”

  “Maybe you could come back and we could talk some more.”

  “If you bake me something.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He shuffled his tiny work boots on the table. “I mean, if you want to.”

  “Deal. What do you like?”

  “Surprise me.” He scanned the yard and faded into the night.

  Val was still asleep when I woke up. I needed to replenish my cleaning kit and restock my ammunition. The place was just uptown, so I figured I’d be back before she got up. Plus, I had Watchers watching me, I think.

  The scents of hot cider and apple fritters snuck in the open truck window and ambushed me as I waited at a red light.

  I should just go home. I didn’t need the most delicious fried dough with chunks of apple laced throughout, encased in a sugary glaze—

  The Donut Shoppe takeout line was crazy busy. The seating area was all but empty as I settled in to enjoy the artery-clogging snack.

  “All shall be well—Natalie, how are you?” Walter said.

  I sighed and put the fritter down. “Fine, sir, thank you. How are you? Thank you for the books.”

  “I’m happy to help. Would you mind if I joined you?”

  Ever notice how people who ask that question never wait to hear the answer?

  “Ah, nothing like a good cup of tea!” He took the lid off the paper cup and the distinct aroma of something nasty hit the air.

  “Sir, I have a question, if you have time.”

  “Of course.”

  I lowered my voice. “Is there any history of … well … mixed talents in the community?”

  “Everyone is born with a singular gift—no ifs, ands, or buts.” He reflected a moment and furrowed his brow.

  “Sir?”

  “Your parents spoke about altering things a bit to produce a blended talent. It was just talk.”

  Sure it was. Family planning at its best.

  “Let’s say they did it,” I said. “Produced a half-Healer, half-Necromancer. Would the shield still work?”

  Walter tapped his nose as he thought. “Impossible. Only a pure Healer can form a bond with a Protector.”

  I had nothing left to ask him.

  “A sprite?” Val wrapped her fingers around the coffee mug.

  “Yeah.” I was having a hard time believing it too.

  She thought a few minutes. “What did Mr. Sprite tell you?”

  “You’re never going to believe me.”

  “Try me.”

  “Nigel gave me a quick lesson about our brave new world and some of its inhabitants.”

  “Like what?”

  I gave her the condensed version.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” she said, holding her head. “And you went out without me?” She grabbed the grease-stained bag and breathed in the calories. “Oh man! You’re forgiven, but you should’ve waited.” She took a huge bite and the crumbs sprinkled onto the table.

  I shoved a plate and napkin toward her.

  “Thanks.”

  She stared at the bag. Nothing got between Val and food.

  “I got you two.”

  “Okay, I’m done,” she said, licking the glaze off her fingers.

  “I’m going to your mom’s.”

  “Why?”

  I didn’t want to rehash this, but I didn’t see another option.

  “I know you don’t like it,” I said, “but I feel like your mom is tied up in this somehow.” She opened her mouth, but I raised a hand. “Listen—I don’t know how, exactly. But everything we’ve heard points in that direction. Don’t you think it’s at least worth checking out?”

  I watched her weigh the idea. Before, she hadn’t believed a word of what Walter said. Now that some of his claims had been proven true …

  “All right,” she said.

  Mrs. Guerrero wasn’t home, so we had some uninterrupted snoop time. No yearbooks in the family room, so they had to be upstairs.

  Mrs. Guerrero’s bedroom suite had a sitting room/library with a fireplace. It was her sanctuary. It was off limits to everyone. A place you shouldn’t invade, unless you needed answers and knew she was gone.

  The nausea was growing. This was a direct violation of Mrs. G’s wishes, a titanic betrayal of trust. She told me she didn’t know my father. A stranger told me she did. Why was I questioning her?

  I turned the doorknob.

  “We shouldn’t,” Val said.

  “You can wait downstairs if it bothers you so much.”

  No alarms went off. No guard dogs snarled hello.

  A room that spoke of elegance greeted us. Family photos from all phases of the Guerreros’ lives were displayed.

  I pulled a yearbook out from its neighbors in the bookcase. We sat on the couch and paged through Mrs. Guerrero’s past.

  My heart hit my rib cage. There was a black-and-white shot of a very young Mrs. G and my father. He was standing behind her, arms encircling her, with his chin resting atop her head, both of them smiling and happy.

  Val was staring. “Oh my God.”

  I would have said, “I told you so,” but I thought if I opened my mouth I might throw up.

  “It was her first year of school,” Val said. “First time away from home.”

  “Must have been a big adjustment.”

  “You know how close she is with her family.”

  More candid shots followed. Walter was in a few. So much for them not knowing each other.

  “She must’ve been really shy. Had trouble making friends.”

  And my father preyed on her weakness.

  “Do you want to stop?” I know I didn’t, but this was Saint Rita we were talking about.

  “Let’s keep going.”

  Yet another weapon of mass disruption was unleashed.

  “Jesus,” I said.

  “What the hell?”

  It was a shot of Mrs. G and my mom.

  End of yearbook. The other volumes shared nothing.

  “There has to be more,” I said.

  “You’re like a shark scenting blood,” Val said. But she didn’t try to stop me.

  A beautiful antique armoire was begging to be opened. Archive boxes awaited our prying eyes.

  I ran a finger down the dates. “This is her first year of college.” I grabbed it and sat. Groups of photos were tied with cloth ribbons. “Oh boy.”

  Val scooted closer. “Please don’t tell me you found evidence of a love child.”

  “No—seems like your mom took a little time off.”

  “Let me see.” She scrutinized the photo. “This is Grandma and Grandpa’s house.”

  I recognized the Betancourt’s home in Florida. Mr. and Mrs. Betancourt were a debonair couple. Their children not only inherited their good looks but the style gene as well.

  We flipped through the first stack.

  Mrs. Guerrero definitely wasn’t herself: her long hair was pulled back, half-circles beneath her eyes darker than night, and she was seated in every shot.

  “She probably got mono,” Val said.

  “Yeah.” I flipped through another stack.

  “She had a double major. She didn’t know how to pace herself. Makes sense, right?”

  “Right.”

  What I saw wasn’t mono, it was the thousand-yard stare. I knew it well—afraid to let the light in for fear it would feed the monsters.

  “Wait! I think this is when Great-Grandma had a stroke,” Val said. “Mom went home to help. That’s it. It has to be.”

  I gave her a sideways glance. “Yeah.”

  “Will you stop that?”

  “Valerie …”

  She crossed her arms over her stomach. I was surprised she didn’t have both han
ds over her ears while yelling, “la-la-la-la-la!”

  “It was your dad’s grandma who had the stroke, not your mom’s.”

  “I …” Val swallowed. “What do you think happened?”

  “My father got to her.”

  In these shots, Mrs. Guerrero was never alone, flanked by family, protecting her. In later shots, Lieutenant Guerrero started to visit.

  The next box began Rita’s life with Miguel. I handed the stack back to Val and she refiled them in their proper places in the armoire.

  I got up and stretched. The bookcase by the fireplace looked interesting. Classic literature. Biographies. One book was out of alignment. I pushed it a bit and was met with some resistance. I tugged it forward and then pushed it again.

  The whole bookcase shifted back and slid to the left, revealing another room.

  “What did you do?” Val said.

  “It was like that when I got here.”

  The room was the mirror image of the one we were in, except volume upon volume of leather-bound books glared out at us from the bookcases. Betancourts, Gannons, Bensons, and more names than I could count had authored this preternatural library. Gently, oh so gently, I touched the binding of a tome, a pristine copy of The Art of Healing.

  This was mind-blowing.

  “Look at this.” Val was at a book podium in the corner.

  She was paging through an illuminated manuscript. She stopped at the hierarchy of Healers. The family trees reached throughout history. The Betancourts were royalty, and the Bensons were close behind. I recognized names from the Betancourt side: uncles, aunts, parents, grandparents.

  “Your mom’s a Healer,” I said. “Wonder if your dad was her Protector.”

  Val grunted, committing the pages to memory. “I need to get out of here.”

  We put everything back in its proper place, and shut the door behind us.

  We pulled into my driveway and shut the engine off.

  “Want to stay for a while?” I said.

  She nodded. The betrayal Val was feeling echoed within me.

  Mrs. Guerrero lied, and Lieutenant Guerrero swore to it. There was a technicality here, a loophole that covered this. It’s not a lie if no one asks you about it—Mrs. G’s private life was exactly that, hers and private. But I had asked her about it, and now it affected Val and me.

  “Mom’s got a MOAS bigger than you and me put together,” Val said.

  A MOAS—mother of all secrets.

  “We’ve been lied to our entire lives.” She stalked to the fridge. “I need a drink.”

  I followed close behind. “I won’t let you drink yourself stupid over—”

  She slammed the fridge door, a Coke in either hand, and returned to the table.

  “I can’t believe you’d—”

  “How the hell am I supposed to know what would trigger a relapse for you?”

  Her head was bowed. “Because you know me better than anyone else.”

  I popped the sodas open and slid one in her direction.

  She took a long drink. “What the hell are we going to do?”

  “I have to talk to your mom,” I said.

  “We both do.”

  Miguel and Rita Guerrero were my saviors. They were everything parents should be. I trusted them, loved them. They were also pretenders. How could I have been so stupid? My heart ached like somebody drop-kicked it off the edge of the Empire State Building.

  Val’s cell phone screamed for attention. The conversation was brief and in Spanish.

  “If you don’t stop grinding your teeth, you’re going to need some major dental work,” I said.

  “Got to take care of something. Please stay put until I get back. Then we’ll go to Mom’s.”

  “You need to be extra careful. God knows what other mythical creatures abound.”

  “Pfft, I’ll be fine. See you in a few.”

  Confrontation isn’t in my wheelhouse. I understand surreptitious parts of people’s lives, and they’re not anyone’s business but for those people to tend and protect. But I needed Mrs. Guerrero to help me understand—maybe then I could look past the lies.

  “Child, come in!” Mrs. Guerrero said. “Come sit with me. You sounded terribly upset on the telephone. I will make some tea and we will talk.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What is wrong?” She put fragile cups at her place and mine.

  “I went into your library.”

  Her eyes widened. “You were in my bedroom?”

  “How’s that make you feel? Violated? Betrayed?” So much for holding my temper.

  “How dare—”

  “I needed answers.”

  “Why did you not come to me?”

  “I wanted the truth,” I said.

  She pulled together her battle plan as she raised one finger in my direction.

  “First, you must tell me what you know.”

  The tone was as normal as I could manage. “You’re one of them, a Healer, like my mom. My father’s a Necromancer. And I think Val’s a Protector. I’m not sure what I am.”

  She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Oh my Lord.”

  “And this was none of my business?” I said.

  “I—”

  “You’re a liar.”

  “Watch your tone, young lady.”

  “‘Always tell the truth,’ that’s what you and Lieutenant Guerrero taught me. Unless it doesn’t fit into your lifestyle, of course—”

  “We were protecting you!”

  “Could you have healed me?” I hadn’t even known that’s what was bothering me until I said it. “Fixed my knee? Made the scar on my face disappear?” Rage and hurt began boiling over.

  “It is … complicated.”

  “What does that mean? You didn’t feel like it, so you let me suffer?”

  “I do not appreciate—”

  “ENOUGH!” I slammed my hand on the table, making the delicate teacups jump with fright. “I don’t appreciate being lied to by someone I consider to be my—I have a right to know!”

  We waited until the cups stopped rattling.

  “What you have said is true,” she said. “I am a Healer, as was your mother. But in order for me to have helped with your injuries, I needed to touch you. You would not allow it. You never slept. I tried—”

  “If you’d told me the truth, maybe I would have! I could’ve had a chance …”

  She reached across the table but stopped as I became more defiant.

  “You slept with my father,” I said.

  Mrs. Guerrero had prosecuted gang members, rapists, murderers. I’d never seen her look shaken—until now.

  “Did you or didn’t you?”

  Taking a sip of tea bought her some time.

  “We were very young.” There was a long pause. “Our first year of college. I thought I was in love, but … His ideas were groundbreaking. Blending the gifts of a Necromancer and a Healer was unheard of. His methods—”

  “I lived his methods.”

  “He became obsessed. Abusive. I could not—”

  “You lost your mind.” It wasn’t accusatory.

  Her shoulders folded inward.

  “You and my mom were friends.”

  She chose her words with care. “It is true.”

  More silence.

  “That’s all you’re going to say?” I flexed my fingers, trying to disperse the anger flowing through me.

  Mrs. Guerrero began rubbing her temples. “We were extremely close. Much like you and Valerie. We were going to change the world of healing with our ideas.” She shook her head. “Karen made choices with deference to William. Ones I could not abide by.”

  “She was sick, right? Schizophrenic? Bipolar?”

  Mrs. Guerrero shook her head. “We thought when she had you, she would change. But she was not equipped to have children.”

  “You mean she was a selfish bitch who never cared about me?”

  “Natalie—”

  “People don’t
change, they just hide who they are to fit in. That quote you have on your desk? The one that says, ‘The world is a dangerous place to live; not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don’t do anything about it’? You knew what they were capable of. You did nothing.”

  “We never thought she—he—we never thought they would put their theories into practice.”

  “Did you warn her about my father?”

  “Miguel and I tried. Karen would have none of it. She said I was covetous of her relationship with William. His darkness drove her to drugs and alcohol. It was the only way she could cope.”

  “And abusing me.” I should’ve been feeling something, but I was as anesthetized by the story as my mother was by her “coping mechanisms.”

  “Why do you keep those yearbooks and pictures?”

  “To remind me of what not to become.”

  Lies and secrets—my life was so full of them I couldn’t tolerate the added weight of the truth. The words became too much too bear, crushing me, pushing me closer to the precipice.

  “Please let me tell Valerie what you have learned.” Tears glittered but didn’t fall yet.

  “What you tell Val is your concern, not mine. But if you don’t tell her the truth, you’ll lose more than your secrets.” I stood up.

  “Where are you going? We are not through discussing this—”

  “Yeah,” I said, “we’re done.”

  When I left, it was raining leaves. I clicked and crunched my way through the puddles of nature’s fallen. This was the last time I’d come here—to the house I’d considered home and the people I’d once considered family.

  I guess they were never really mine.

  Val’s ring tone made itself known. I pulled over to the side of the road.

  “Hey,” I said. “I really need a friend right now.”

  “Nat, it’s me, Tina.” She was whispering.

  “What do you want? Why do you have your sister’s phone?”

  Silence.

  “I’ve got stuff to do. Bye,” I said.

  “Wait!” the whisper said. “We’re in trouble. We need your help.”

  “Who?”

  “Me and Val. We’re with Mr. Young—”

  “If this is your idea of a joke, it’s not funny.”