The Warrior

by Kay Camden

  She removed some cash and held it straight between two praying hands, eyes closed, bangs falling over her fingers. The magic took affect with a static charge that skimmed across my skin. When she handed the cash back I wasn’t just salivating over the food it would buy, but the promise of all the magic I would force her to teach me.

  Inside she took a paper menu from the counter, and we took turns circling items with a borrowed pen. From the cashier’s raised eyebrow it didn’t seem like the normal way to do things. Sloane didn’t bother explaining she’s deaf, and I didn’t bother explaining I’ve never left my house, have only eaten meals cooked by a gourmet chef, and only know about fast food from TV commercials and internet ads. It’d probably be easier for me to pretend I’m deaf too. It’s not as hard to accept. I simply handed over the Bevan-blessed cash, guessing it would smooth over the cashier’s memory of this strange encounter and Sloane’s slasher-movie getup. Then I stood there and tried not to gawk at the uniformed people behind the counter, the little plastic benches in the dining area, the food ads plastered to the windows. Every inch of space lit by so much terrible artificial light it was hard to believe anyone ever used those plastic benches for anything but open heart surgery.

  Then we brought the bags back to the car and here we are, stuffing our faces with the weirdest junk food I’ve ever had. If anyone shows up looking for us, we can speed away. Not that we’ll be able to stop eating, but it’s a nice thought. I’ll need to remember there’s a separate entrance and exit to this parking lot, and to take the correct one this time so Sloane doesn’t throw another hissy fit in the seat. As if it matters—we’re the only people out at this hour. Yeah, I ran over a few curbs, but this car is built for that kind of abuse. Okay, when day hits maybe I should just let her drive.

  I say into my phone, You don’t eat meat? and show her the screen. Her answer is the blankest of stares, and I can see she thinks she’s being judged and definitely not going to answer. I don’t know why I asked, because of course it would be awkward to eat furry creatures after sharing brain space with them all day.

  “Hey, your loss.” I really wonder how much she can read from lips. Probably not much when I’m chewing like a slob. “Hope you’re enjoying that veggie burrito.”

  She’s totally being judged. Bevans are animals because they’ve commingled with them so long. It’s not my fault they chose to be savage instead of civilized. When she starts rewrapping the remainder of her last burrito like she can’t handle one more bite, I steal it and finish it for her, Bevan corruption and all. Hey, hunger calls. Thankfully mine has no morals.

  I’m slurping the last of my coke when the text from Aaron comes in with the cottage’s address he got from his dad along with a warning: Trey Bevan still owns that place. He lived there with Mom. It was and still is Bevan territory. Be careful.

  I return a thumbs-up emoticon and enter the address into my car’s navigation. Sloane’s gotten out to toss our trash, and now she’s standing under the parking lot light straight-up hanging out with the moths. Girl’s definitely cracked.

  Another text comes in from Aaron. You know what you’re doing, right?

  I type back, Nope! then I delete it. He’s a deadbeat brother, but he did deliver on that address. Making him worry would be funny but the fallout might be inconvenient. Totally, I say instead. Then I add, Now go work on your thesis or something.

  He won’t reply again, but I watch the screen anyway. His obligatory once-a-month contact with me has been met, and now he can return to his life with a clear conscience. I reread my answer, feeling so disgusted by my wuss-out that I have to remind myself why I changed it. The first answer would’ve raised doubt, and who knows what he’d do to try to save me. But me pondering consequences of my actions is such a new thing, I’m not sure how I feel about it.

  The food high reminds me of a different high, its absence proven by how blurry my eyesight is, how heavy my limbs are. How easy it would be to succumb to sleep right now. I find my pills and pop one as Sloane takes her seat, eyeing me like she has some nugget of wisdom for me. The moths must have explained the meaning of life. I start the nav and we pull away, destination: Trey Bevan’s abandoned cottage in the Virginia wild. As suggested by his very kidnapped daughter. I’m being lured onto Bevan land with no plan and no backup. I so totally don’t know what I’m doing.

  Chapter 11

  Sloane

  Rex can’t drive. I thought maybe the dark of night was the problem, but now the morning sunlight spreads from the horizon to turn the sky a wild pink and he still can’t drive. No, correction: He can drive. Just not between the lines. Or correctly use turning lanes. Or properly use clearly marked entrances and exits to parking lots. More cars are out now, carrying angry-faced drivers cutting around us, middle fingers stabbing out windows. He’s going to get us killed in a road rage incident.

  So when we arrive at what should be the entrance to the driveway but instead looks like an overgrown hole in the woods and Rex stops in the middle of a 55 mile-per-hour road to scrutinize it, I yank his sleeve, hoping to encourage him to take the plunge before we get rear-ended. He shifts gears and turns in. At least it’s paved. If it wasn’t, we’d have never found it. The pavement has preserved enough of the path so the woods haven’t completely reclaimed the driveway.

  The tunnel of trees and underbrush thins; I spot a swatch of white through the green. Unbuckling my harness, I lean forward, heart thumping hard to see this forbidden place, the cottage my dad built for his ex-wife who’s also Rex’s mom. My dad, living here with Rex’s mom. It’s so freaky and disturbing.

  It appears like an apparition ahead. Gray roof, stained with age. Ivy-covered stone chimney rising from one side. The shutters are a green so faded they almost match the dirty white body of the house. One shutter sags, swaying in the breeze. If houses have souls, this one is broken. It’s more sad and neglected than I expected, and I wonder what happened here and why my dad abandoned it. Feeling the sadness in the air, it’s very hard to blame him.

  Rex seems unaffected by the heartbreaking vibe because he’s gone to his phone. I lean and see him writing a text to Aaron: Wrong address. Nothing’s here. Or maybe it burned down?

  I poke him in the arm and point ahead, giving him my best it’s right there, dumbass expression. He shifts forward to peer out the windshield, looking completely through the house and all around like it’s hiding far in the distance.

  Again I point, pumping my finger twice toward the house as if to say, right there. He looks at me like I’ve lost my marbles. You don’t see it? I sign, proving I’ve lost my marbles by signing to someone who doesn’t know ASL. I take his phone, swiping into the writing app we’ve been using to talk and typing it out.

  See what? he types back.

  The house right in front of us!

  He lowers the phone to look again, still focusing completely through it. He really can’t see it.

  I type: Drive. I’ll tell you when to stop.

  He puts the car in gear, and we crawl forward. As the tires bump across something in the road, he jumps in his seat, head jutting backward like the house just sprang into view. One second I’m ready to say “told you so” and in the next I’m overcome by a pounding alarm—something wrong, something about to be wrong, something we would’ve been prepped for if we’d have just picked up on the clues—

  My head snaps as he slams the brakes. He’s curled forward, released the wheel, released the brakes because we’re now rolling back. I scramble to remember which one’s the gearshift and which one’s the brake—they both extend high—find it and set it. Veins bulge in his neck. He’s strangling himself in his seat harness. I burst from mine and wedge my hand under his seized arm to release his but all it does is give him more slack to hang himself in. I see he can’t help it though, his back is curling forward with such force he can’t possibly be doing it himself. Muscles contract in his arms and th
ighs. He’s fighting against some imaginary force and losing.

  I push out of the car, run around to his side, and yank the door open. Pressing him back in the car is a wasted effort—he’s curling too hard out of it. His face is quickly going from deep red to purple. Next will be blue and then he’ll be dead. I shove his head back with all I have, awarding me with a few inches of slack in the seat harness to get it released and off him, only for him to fall out of the car like a corpse frozen stiff in the fetal position. I kneel beside him, trying to find his hand. Maybe somehow I can pass strength. I need to gather my calm and think. That’s when I see the smooth stones running in a line under the car, behind both tires. Marked with my family’s symbol, the same as the one on my amulet.

  Boundary spell. Of course! I kick the closest stones out of line, breaking the circle that will be surrounding the house. Rex uncurls, rolling to his back. His fists open, palms facing the sky as his chest rises and falls in the short hurried breaths of someone deprived of oxygen for too long.

  I’m sorry, I sign, his eyes sliding slowly over to me. That was my fault. I should have known. I’m so sorry.

  He wets his lips, closing his eyes. Thinking about what I’m trying to say must be too taxing for him until he can catch his breath. This was another opportunity to easily kill him, and this time it’s my dad’s magic, most likely designed to protect against—and attack—Rex’s own Moore blood. Almost like this moment was foreseen and my dad knew I needed help, needed someone else to pull the trigger after I’d lined up the shot. It doesn’t surprise me that I reversed it. What surprises me is this new war I’m fighting, these battles to save Rex Moore when I’ve been taught my whole life I was born to kill him.

  But maybe there’s a different interpretation to that destiny. To destroy does not necessarily mean to kill. Maybe my job is to disable and disarm him. Not to end his life, but end what makes him a threat to my people. When I gathered those foul pieces, bundled them up, and yanked them out of him, that’s exactly what I did. He’s not a threat to me anymore. He had his chance to kill me, and he didn’t do it. Saving his life each of these times hasn’t been a betrayal of my duty but a preservation of the work I’ve done.

  He opens his eyes. They’re a strike of blue, a rainforest-bright lizard eye on an otherwise camouflaged body. In them I see gratitude and a biting curiosity that gets more intense as he holds my gaze. Again he’s wondering why I saved him. He must be flashing back to our first encounter and every one after that, and I see the one-eighty of our lives is as jarring and stomach-stealing for him as it is for me. His next step is missing; if he takes it he might fall off a cliff.

  Well, my next step was just rebuilt. I see where it leads me. And I can’t take it without him.

  *

  Rex hangs back on our walk to the front door of the cottage, not afraid but cautious. After he got to his feet, he dug through his car for a sheathed military knife that’s now attached to his belt. That kind of weapon won’t help him against my dad’s magic. I should explain my dad would never double up boundary spells. He’d just overpower the one spell to the extreme, making a second spell unnecessary. As we just witnessed.

  The door is unlocked, because why bother locking it when a circle of stones renders the whole place invisible? I wave Rex forward; he stalks in warily, not wanting a repeat of what just happened anytime soon. I can’t blame him. My dad’s spells aren’t pretty things.

  Then we’re inside and I’m consumed again by this house’s broken soul. He heads farther in and to the right, out of sight, when all I can do is stay planted in the little entry hall and try not to let the sadness press too hard on my chest.

  A small table hugs the wall beside me, a perfect spot for dropping keys. What’s on it now are picture frames lying facedown in the dust. Hanging above them is a clutter of dark violence so similar to the cloud I plugged into for power in that bedroom in the Moore mansion. It’s the residue of some long-ago action that never found peace. I raise one picture. A younger version of my dad stares back, intent, his arm hooked around the neck of a tall, gorgeous woman. Uncle Christian stands beside them with his hands in his pockets and that hotshot smile I know so well. I set the picture up so Christian’s smile will warm the room like it always does.

  I lift the second frame and find another photo: that gorgeous woman holding a newborn baby. The picture is too old to be Rex. But that’s got to be his mom Kate, so who’s the baby? I flush like I’ve unearthed some frightening secret I was never meant to see. I slam the picture back to its facedown position, horrors filling my head. My dad had a baby with her? I have a half sibling?

  Rex bumps my arm and I look up at him, still only seeing that photo. I watch him set it up next to the other one. He does a double take before picking it up for a better look. Recognition settles in. Oh, he says, setting it back down.

  I point to the baby.

  I don’t get his spoken answer, partially because it’s hard to read, partially because I’m freaking out. He shows me his phone: My brother.

  But that doesn’t make sense. His brother’s dad is Christian. This is my dad’s house. We both look at the other picture, the one with the three of them. Oh, I form on my lips.

  Oh, he says back, nodding, his eyes going averted and tight. I can’t decide which person in the picture is the target of his resentment.

  I take his phone and type: Weird.

  He types back: Fucked-up.

  I type back: Your mom and my dad. Also weird.

  He types back: Also fucked-up.

  I type back: Your dad and my mom.

  He wrinkles his forehead, shifting his eyes away to ponder that. I wonder if they even told him. Then I see Oh my god, yeah, you’re right, on his lips, and he absentmindedly straightens both pictures, aligning them with the edge of the table.

  We look at each other then, mutually grossed out, trying to figure out if there’s any way we could be related. If either of our sets of parents were still a couple, we’d be step brother and sister. But if that were the case with either set, Rex and I wouldn’t exist. We seem to arrive at the same conclusion because we both shrug at the same time.

  He types into his phone: There’s no food.

  Well that’s good, because it would be decades old and only be an inedible temptation. He checks his watch—a strange thing to do after looking at a screen that displays time, but maybe he prefers seeing time in analog. I leave him to go on a hunt for the bedroom to scrounge for a change of clothes.

  The closet and dresser are both filled like people left this house and didn’t bother bringing anything with them. Kate’s clothes are dated, and it would be too weird to wear them around Rex, so I go after my dad’s stuff which is pretty much what he wears now: jeans and T-shirts. There’s a suit and a couple button-down dress shirts I could easily cut the sleeves off to make a cool summer dress. With a few mods to his shirts and some of Kate’s reluctantly scavenged tights, I can make some of them work. His white undershirts fit the best but ugh, white? Maybe I can find a black marker or something to smudge them up. A black marker that isn’t dried up after sitting in a house for a hundred years.

  At the back of the closet I even find a gym bag, so I load it up and drag it out to the living area. I get a pair of scissors from the kitchen and get to work, cutting and tying in the right places to turn a man’s shirt into a girl’s sheath dress. After I have a few ready to wear, I pick the best one, grab a cobweb-covered bar of soap and an old bottle of shampoo—oh, elements! Shampoo!—from the bathroom, and find Rex in the backyard, staring at a twisted tangle of overgrown rose garden.

  I hold up the soap and point out past the yard. I know he has the water jug in his car but I’d rather find a stream. He doesn’t appear to like the idea, but he seems anxious to get back to his vacant staring. He tilts his head like go ahead, so I set off through the waist-high weeds. Deer paths are easy to find when the land
is this untouched, and soon I find a sluggish rocky stream that’s cool, clear, and just perfect.

  Soap is an amazing invention. Shampoo is witchcraft more hardcore than Grandma Sloane’s. I was worried about the modded clothes being too dusty, but after being shaken out they smell way cleaner than the dirty rag I took off.

  Rex is missing from the house when I return, so I explore the bathroom drawers and find a set of sharp scissors perfect for trimming my bangs. I go uneven again, the up and down pattern different than last time. Straight is boring. And too hard to achieve anyway. Did you butcher your bangs on purpose? my dad always asks, fully knowing I did. If Dad’s not there, Marcas will be sure to do the line. He loves to play Dad’s backup. Then comes Mom’s line: A rule-breaker just like her dad. After this it becomes some private joke between the two of them. My dad says, “State trooper?” without signing, and my mom gives him a look of death. Marcas told me the ‘state trooper’ part. We both decided we probably don’t want to know what it means.

  I miss them so much. The stupid jokes, the predictable lines. They’re the only ones who completely understand me. It’s not fair I’m here and not with them. But it’s not about fairness. Fairness doesn’t fit into destiny. I can’t argue with centuries of planning. I can’t argue with prophecy. I can’t question the stars.

  Now there’s trimmed hair in the sink and no water to help gather it up. I clean it the best I can and continue my search of the drawers, finding everything else I could possibly need: toothpaste, bobby pins, razors, and gold in the form of a new-in-box first aid kit. What a grand find for two kids on the run from serial murderers. I pack the stuff in the gym bag and go out front to look for Rex.

  The hatch of his car is open. And there’s Rex but the black tee and camo pants are gone and all I see is skin. Too much skin. He’s taking his own bath from the water jug in his trunk. Tipping the jug for a handful to splash his face. And even after I’ve figured this out, I stare longer than any Bevan should ever stare at any Moore like that. I know what trained muscles look like on a boy. I’ve seen the boys on the wresting team at school. Never like this though. It’s never been so …