"No. Raina brought him up to torture Miriam during the darkshine." Delano's brow lifted. "He got caught on Earth longer than he expected."
Weldon rubbed the stub of his severed fingertip, staring at the hat on the table as if it was a relic from a distant, dead culture. His full moon eyes shot up, burning as hot as embers. "Why didn't ya call me?" Frost crackled down his beer bottle and onto the tabletop, curling a napkin's corner. "I'd've hopped the first flight! We had an agreement, remember? We made a deal after that bastard—"
"I seized my one moment," Delano said. "You prefer I didn't?"
Weldon frowned. "No, no. 'Course not." The flame in his eyes fizzled. He took another drink, then inhaled a sharp breath and turned his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. Thida massaged his shoulder as his grief poured out silently in the trained way of one beaten for displaying a hint of weakness. At least fifteen years' worth of training, I wagered. The waitress dropped off the beers, then left quickly. The frozen napkin became sodden. Weldon yanked down his cheeks with a raspy breath, then shook his hand in front of his chest. "Thida, get your checkbook." His voice cracked. "We didn't give the man enough."
Delano's thumb traced his beer's mouth. "Nonsense. I keep my promises."
Weldon glanced up, and the men's eyes locked. Tension rose from the table, like mist from the bottles and knives and the salt and pepper shakers. The shadows shivered. An invisible curtain drew open, revealing not friends, but confidants. Weldon had witnessed Delano's shames. Delano had attended Weldon's offenses. They knew the details of those nasty deeds for survival as intimately as a serial killer knew the locations of his victims' shallow graves. Delano's mouth tightened. Weldon's eyebrow twitched. Battle had bonded the men like DNA, yet reuniting exhumed those old skeletons. I saw not men sharing drinks and a plate of nachos, but gladiators pitted in an arena, swords drawn, desperate to silence the other from ever testifying about their crimes and humiliations.
I swigged my beer with a wince, suddenly not wanting to glimpse Delano's mind.
Thida pulled Weldon's face to her's, breaking the men's stare. She kissed him, open mouthed, until his shoulders loosened and magic hummed beneath the table. I shuffled uneasily in the booth, averting my eyes. Delano slouched, drank, listened to the encompassing revelry, unperturbed. A blender whirred. Bottles clinked. A party across the bar burst into bellowing cheers.
Weldon rested his forehead on Thida's, the spell now broken. He murmured beneath the bar's music and hum. Her giggle suggested he whispered something erotic. So did the glint in his eye, and I suspected Thida sat nude in his imagination.
Weldon exchanged his hat for the mining master's. I noticed, unlike Thida's pointed ears, Weldon's had the changeling fold, and … No, wait. Only one of Weldon's ears was folded. The other's tip had been sliced off.
"So." Weldon turned to his friend. For that's what they were again. "How'd ya kill the bastard?"
"I rammed a rifle up his ass and unloaded."
Thida cringed and crossed her legs. Weldon's eyebrows arched high enough to support the ceiling. "Well, then." He cleared his throat. "Tit for tat, I guess," he said, and swilled his beer.
"Miriam told him to trim his nose hairs."
Weldon choked, spraying beer. His trembling hand pawed the tabletop for a napkin. "Jesus…" His wide eyes blinked as he dabbed his face, as if the dim bar morphed into the dankness of a deep mine, the tinkling glasses now plinking chisels. He stared at me as if I'd rolled Goliath's head across the table.
"Was Greeson what the rebels paid you for?" Thida asked.
"No." Delano recapped the past two weeks, and described his role in the rebel's greater plan.
"Wait a minute." Weldon wiped his forehead. "Y'all gotta shot to bump off some big-dogs?"
Delano nodded. "The rebels aren't much more than desperados, but it's a chance. Maybe their only."
"Del, honey, ya need to tell the community," Thida said. "They might join you."
Delano scoffed. "They wouldn't even help me retrieve Miriam."
"This is different," Thida said. "We're pushed into a corner, and there's a mumblin' this meetin's about somethin' more. They probably realize there's no other way out, and are ready to fight."
Delano snorted. "One trespasser distorts a territory's magic. Can you imagine hundreds? We'd be an army wielding malfunctioning weapons."
"We dunno that for sure," Weldon said. "Alone, we will be hunted to extinction. Potential backfires are worth riskin'."
Delano groaned. "Most are still angry I trespassed, and won't want to give me control. Let alone partner with faeries."
"They will if their lives are at stake," Thida said. "And your territory, your rules."
"Besides, you led the revolt which freed us from the mines," Weldon said. "You're more than qualified."
I gaped at Delano. "You did?"
"He never told you?" Weldon scowled. "Why the hell not, Del?"
"Because I didn't lead anything. I merely…" He circled his hand, conjuring the words. "Initiated it."
Weldon snorted. "I'll say. With a pick into a guard's ear."
My brow perked. "Really?"
Weldon shivered. "Blaargh! I still hear that sound, decades later."
Delano plucked his beer's label. "Yeah. Me, too."
I opened my mouth to ask details, but Weldon spoke first. "No picks this round, my friend. You have night magic and an army of darklin's. The Realm is screwed." He guffawed. "Oh, Lord! My evangelist father would be in hog heaven."
Weldon cleared his throat and stood, the table becoming his podium. "I say, I say, Armageddon is upon us, ladies and gentleman. Be not fooled! For Satan himself is transformed into an angel of light, and Lucifer the light bringer shall rise from his Realm to wipe humans from this world. Repent!" he said, punching the air. "For the dark ones shall storm in the night and reap the wickedness from Earth with cold and shadows, their darkness and their famines. Their blood scythe eyes shall seek out the sinners and the deserters of the righteous path and cast them straight to hell! Can I hear a hall-e-LU-jah?"
"Hallelujah!" a passing drunk stranger hollered, and slapped Weldon a high-five. We all laughed.
Delano chuckled as Weldon plopped into his seat. "Start emptying your savings and stock funds now."
"Amen, brother!" Weldon and Delano clinked bottlenecks. "Straight into my coffers."
Delano grinned. "I've missed you."
Weldon pretended to fire a gun at Delano. Back atcha, buddy, the gesture said, and I realized the crucifix was tattooed on his trigger finger. "Looks like we'll be fightin' together again. Thida and I will join ya, no matter what the community decides. And I for one can't wait to pump buckshot into the faeries' sunny asses."
I crunched on a nacho. If the darklings united to not only survive, but to fight, then we had a shot. We had a good shot, not the wish and a prayer plan with the rebels attacking the consulate. I licked the chili off my thumb. I didn't care which darklings joined our fight, positive the worst darkling was a better ally than the best sniffer.
Delano was vocally unconvinced, but joined in hashing out ideas for attacks with Weldon and Thida, as well as strategies for keeping his sanity with darklings swarming his territory. As the night aged, the conversation shifted to chit-chat. Delano did a great job veering topics away from himself, and I only learned his Realm name was Fendrel Deivesp. No wonder he never told me.
Eventually, road weariness and alcohol took its toll, and we returned to our hotel. Delano passed out on his bed as fast as his head hit the pillow, smelling of hops. I watched him from my blankets, excited about tomorrow, but terrified of every day thereafter. I knew direct warfare was inevitable—it was the silent footnote of every conversation, every day. Now it felt in motion, gears chugging and tracks pointing in our direction.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
I plopped at a table in the shopping mall's food court, and sipped my coffee from the far-too-expensive coffee shop. Other than my anxiety about tonight,
the day had been uneventful. I had bought makeup from the far-too-expensive make-up store, allowing the sales woman to make the selections as I stared woefully clueless at the bottles and powders and brushes and creams. The bags at my feet were stuffed with basic clothing, a Las Vegas snow globe for Orin, and black shoes from the clearance rack to match anything. I'd justified buying a sexy heel instead of a boring flat because it was more darkling. Besides, my thigh had two weeks' worth of healing, the heel wasn't that high, and I'd probably sit most of the night.
I traded my sneakers for the high heels to break them in, weaving my toes through the maze of straps. I admired them, tapped my toes on the tile—click! click! click!—then sipped my coffee. A middle-aged gay couple sauntered by, their young son toddling between them. The heavy-set one laughed about something I couldn't hear over the mall's buzz, then they disappeared into the sea of humans, thoughts of Sam and his young lover drifting down their wake. I propped my chin on my fist, wondering if they were together, if they were happy, if Sam thought about me. My thoughts then shifted to the night he tried to kill me on a rural road, and my mood soured. I hope justice rammed him hard. If not legally, then karmically.
A sign advertised the mall's complimentary wi-fi. My finger tapped the coffee lid. It's been over five months, and not a whisper from Sam or the media. He's leaving me alone, so let him stay gone. I chewed my lip, thinking. Although Sam was gone physically, he did plague my thoughts like a rash I couldn't scratch away. Peeking into Sam's life will validate my choices, I reasoned with great conviction. It'll scrub him from my brain, help me move on. I typed Sam's Facebook page into Delano's iPhone. Besides, it's best to know what your enemies are doing. How else can you be prepared?
The web browser's blue bar crept and my heart raced, but when Sam's avatar popped up, anxiety drifted away. I knew that face, that body, that man, but it was similar to glimpsing a tabloid celebrity in the checkout line. No emotion, no connection, merely a presence forced into my life. Yesterday's news ready for the recycling bin.
After a quick glance, of course.
I sipped my coffee. My shoulders relaxed as my finger flicked the screen. The rear of seven squad cars stretched across his main page. He had changed his profile picture from him in his sunglasses and OSU cap to his campaign banner. That's apparently going as planned, I thought, irritated the scumbag who should be behind bars not only escaped scot-free, but was running for the office he desired. Just because he's running doesn't mean he'll win, I reminded myself, ignoring that the county's current Sheriff was retiring and Sam had been the whispered favorite for three years.
Cellphones rang and smoothie blenders whirred. I skimmed his page. Campaigns. Sports. Political squabbles. Current events. Friendship dramas. Who gives a crap? Genocide was in full-swing to eliminate a species whose disappearance would destroy these niceties, along with the humans who cared so much.
Humans.
They were no longer people. No longer my people. I wasn't quite a darkling and I wasn't quite a faerie. Often I didn't know what I was, but I knew I was no longer one of them. I scrolled past a Chuck Norris meme, feeling like a spy in the world of deer or squirrels or dung beetles. I can't believe I once cared about such triteness. Except, as I paused to read an article about a snake attack Sam posted, I realized I not only still cared, but missed it. I pushed away the embarrassing twinge and clicked into his albums.
I was surprised to find myself in his photos, his arm around my shoulders and smiling. Such a liar. Post a picture of those hands around my throat and show the public who you really are. My spine shivered and I brushed my neck.
Cheater, cheater, marriage eater. Had a wife but didn't need her.
Otherwise, Sam's campaign dominated the albums. His official poster showed him in uniform, his arms crossed, a voting checkmark in a Sheriff's badge. His slogan read: Samuel Thatcher for Sheriff. That was all he needed. The county loved the man they believed he was. I finished my coffee, scanning photos of his campaign launch barbecue. My eyebrows jumped. Sam's lover lingered in the background, tagged Mark Jespersen. I tried creeping his page, but it was locked. I scanned the barbecue's sixty-something photos. Sam and Mark never stood together, but often glanced in each other's direction.
Still together. Still a secret.
I expected anger or pangs of the gut wrenching betrayal which ransacked my nerves that miserable Christmas, but I stared at my husband and his lover and felt only sadness. Nobody deserves to be someone's dirty secret. Worry gnawed. Someone slurped an empty cup. I hoped the magic in me that extracted the poison in humans was what had extracted the poison out of Sam. I hoped it stopped with me. But when I viewed my husband's barbwire smirk and his six-shooter eyes, I knew I hoped for a pipe-dream. I rubbed my face wearily. I hope Mark's smarter, and secure enough to leave when the rages start.
The last photo displayed a close-up of a cranberry colored ribbon, the kind you see to support various causes. I tapped to read the text.
Families of Brainwashing Victims.
I blinked. Huh?
I returned to Sam's homepage and scrolled to where our lives fractured. The ribbons appeared more and more as I closed in on January.
"I created a support group for families who suffer losses through brainwashing," Sam had posted on Valentine's Day. "Maybe together we can find peace & support. :( "
WHAT? I felt my eyes blaze red, and not from night's magic squatting inside me. The bastard had 564 likes, 492 shares, and nearly a hundred comments declaring their love and support for him, and how caring and wonderful and admirable he was to use his tragedy to help others. Tears pricked my eyes. Nearly 3,000 miles away and he still used me to boost himself.
I stopped on a post in late January. "The house seems empty. Not sure how to feel."
For a moment I thought he missed me, and a fleck of regret existed. But the comments ranged from generic sorries to snide remarks. Sam liked them all, including the "It's not you, Sam. She was always weird. Lol," from his mother. And Keith's: "You're better off without her."
I leaned back, numb despair creeping into me. "God, I was stupid."
What did you expect? Sam chided inside my head. I could almost smell his Camel cigarettes. You deserve it for stalking my Facebook.
I paused at the seven patrol cars headlining his page, and noticed each bumper carried a cranberry ribbon. My lips pressed tight. My insides felt
[burning, burning, dark and burning]
tight and sick as every horrible moment of our marriage swooped into me at once. I stared at his updates, his photos, his 665 friends, his perfect little fucking life without me. Tears stung my eyes, my knuckles white against the phone. It's not fair! He should be rotting behind bars! His career should be ruined, not advancing! He's the bad guy!
But what could I do? Call the police? And say, what? Hi! I'm the woman the media insisted was kidnapped on Christmas. Well, my husband, who spent tons of money and resources to find me, tried to murder me five months ago. No, I'm serious! I'm alive because a darkling—Yes, a darkling. It's a night faerie—intervened and … hello? Plus, any attempt to convict Sam would throw me into the spotlight, highlight my position to the Realm, and unravel everything I'd gained since escaping him.
Cheater, cheater, marriage eater. Had a wife but didn't need her.
My shoulders drooped. Sam's not worth it, I thought with a sigh.
An infant wailed in a passing stroller. My lips pressed tight. But he isn't worthy of freedom, either.
My bladder twinged, requesting a restroom stall. I stood to toss my empty cup, then froze with a gasp as an idea struck me.
I can't do that! my brain's knee-jerk reaction squealed. It's childish and mean!
Well, so what? Trying to murder me and my friends isn't mature or noble.
But I needed access to Sam's accounts. Surely he changed the passwords.
Don't make waves, Miriam, my mother chirped inside my head. Be the better person.
I bit my thumbnail. Better pe
rson? How? I wondered. Isn't that coded manipulation? I scowled, my core burning like an ember. Yes. They're magic words to transform me into a doormat. Words to manipulate good people so abusers can continue their abuse, unaffected. My eyes narrowed. "Screw that."
I plopped onto the seat and tapped the phone's web browser, my shoulders hunched to hide the screen. Moments later I stared at Sam's detailed bank reports. My insides sizzled. "You still believe I'm your meek mouse," I whispered. "You think I'd never dare."
I glanced over both shoulders, my heart jackhammering. Up popped more browser windows. Soon, $10,000 from Sam's savings account was donated to an Ohio charity for battered women.
Cheater, cheater, marriage eater. This will teach to not mistreat her.
I beamed, my insides buzzing like provoked wasps. I knew Sam would report fraud as soon as he saw the transaction and keep everything hushed. My chest jiggled from suppressed, nervous giggles as my thumbs typed. Were you stupid enough to keep your email passwords the same? I grinned as his correspondence popped up. I sent an email to the charity director stating how I, Samuel Thatcher, wanted to donate a sizable amount of my campaign fund to help those who suffered the rages of bad men. I then emailed the local newspaper's public relations coordinator, requesting a press-release about the donation and to please set a time with the Sheriff's station in the morning.
My spine straightened. I felt smug, knowing his pain would help women who'd lost their voices. But then that flame guttered. It might help his campaign. My toes tapped beneath the table. He might appreciate it if it gets him elected.
I gnawed my thumbnail, thinking … thinking … What would I never do? What would he never expect? I giggled and typed gay porn magazine subscription into a search engine and received a whole new level of education. My bladder screamed, but I refused to obey, as if a restroom wielded the power to destroy this opportunity. I had Sam's credit card memorized from years of paying bills, and found it active. What will Del think? I snorted a giggle. He'd laugh and high-five me and flirt about the sexiness. Oh God, he's such a bad influence, I thought, tapping another order button.
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