by Sara Beaman
I shoot my best death glare at her and try to squeeze my hands out of the metal cuffs.
She reaches for a tray of implements. A moment later, she comes at me with a syringe and plunges it into my right bicep. I feel a brief pinch; my muscles immediately slacken. With the gentlest push, she rolls me onto my back. My legs flop away from my stomach of their own accord.
The room goes blurry; darkness falls. Right before I pass out, I can see, very faintly, the woman drawing lines on my naked body with her felt-tip pen.
///
And then I’m back in the car.
Adam is staring at me, his jaw slack. I wipe drool from my mouth with the back of my hand and try to ignore him.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
What do you think? I bring my knees up to my chest, cross my arms and hide my face inside.
“Do you want us to pull over?”
I shake my head. Tears well up in my eyes, but I choke them down; I’m not going to do that now, not in front of him.
“I’m so sorry you had to go through that. I had no idea it was that bad.”
His expression makes me cringe. I really wish he’d stop looking at me like I’m some sort of beat-up puppy or something—it’s only making me feel worse.
He looks at his feet, chagrined.
I feel an unexpected pang of guilt. None of this is really his fault. I can’t blame him for what happened to me, even though I’m so angry I kind of want to.
“Of course you want someone to blame,” he says. “I understand that quite well.”
It’s not your fault, okay? I clench my teeth. It’s Mirabel’s fault.
“Yes, it is.”
I want to kill her.
He gives me a slight, sad smile.
What?
“So do I,” he says. “But it’s not as simple as that.”
///
A few hours pass. Aya and Haruko make idle conversation. Adam doesn’t say much of anything. I pass the time brushing out my tangled hair and staring out the window. I'm exhausted, but I don’t want to sleep; I don't want to dream. At least the pain is dying down. The sensation in the area around my scar has downgraded from an intense searing to a dull ache and has also started to itch, which I suppose means it’s healing.
Soon we’ve passed through Tennessee to Kentucky and are closing in on our new destination. Adam has taken over the role of navigator, a job at which he doesn’t seem too adept. He says he’s been to this woman’s estate once in the past, and he says he knows where he’s going, but apparently he can’t read a road map, nor can he read the street signs in the dark. We have to keep making U-turns, doubling back, sometimes tripling back. He says we’re making slow progress towards the estate, but it’s not easy to believe him.
“Wait,” Haruko exclaims as we turn onto a steep, shoulderless road. “Three?!”
“Three what?” Aya asks.
“There are three of them. Not one.” She glares at Adam through the rear-view mirror. “No one said anything about multiple revenants...”
“She’s been living out here alone for two centuries,” Adam says. “How could I have known she’s gotten housemates all of a sudden?”
Haruko grips the steering wheel as if trying to break it in two. “What the hell are we supposed to do now? We don’t have time to find another place to sleep. We’re pushing five-thirty.”
Adam is silent.
“We just have to go to Tara’s house,” Aya says. “We don’t have a choice.”
Within minutes we crest the hill. Adam directs us to turn left onto a dirt driveway, and we arrive at the estate, if you can call it that. It’s not much to look at—just a single-story structure with decaying whitewashed walls. The house is surrounded by an overgrown garden that threatens to consume it whole; snaking vines and tendrils obscure one whole wall. No lights are visible from inside.
Two figures have already started approaching before Haruko can park: a young-looking black man with solemn features and an even younger-looking white kid with red hair and a scowl.
“Stay in the car,” Adam tells me. “Try not to let them see your face.”
He, Haruko and Aya climb out. I take my hair out of its ponytail and let it hang down along the sides of my face. I listen keenly to what’s going on outside.
“Who are you and what are you doing here?” says one of the men. His voice is high; he sounds almost like a teenager.
“We are so sorry for disturbing you,” Aya says. “We would like to speak with Tara, as we hold her work in great esteem—“
“She’s not well.”
“Gabriel,” the other man says, “calm down.”
“I’m terribly sorry to hear that,” Aya says. “We had no idea. We don’t want to cause you any trouble, so we’ll be on our way—“
“No, there’s no reason for that,” the man with the deeper voice says. “My mother isn’t awake right now, but if she were she’d offer you shelter during daylight hours.”
“Who are you?” Gabriel demands.
“My name is Aya,” Aya says. “I’m an apostate of Thalia.”
“You have a last name?”
“No,” she says.
“My name’s Haruko Schuster,” Haruko says. “I’m a Warden.”
“You aren’t Jennifer Schuster’s daughter, by any chance, are you?” asks the man with the lower voice.
“I am, in fact.”
“I’m Adam Radcliffe, of the House of Mnemosyne,” Adam says in little more than a grumble.
Someone walks over, crunching leaves under their feet, and stands right next to me.
“Who’s that in the car?” Gabriel asks.
“No one,” Adam says. “A human.”
Everyone is silent. Then Gabriel crouches, puts his face by the glass and knocks on the window hard. I jump and look away, shrinking into myself.
“Leave her alone,” the other man says. “Is she redlisted, Mr. Radcliffe?”
“Of course.”
“Very well,” he says. “I should introduce myself. My name is Vincent. Like Tara, I’m an apostate of Coventina. Let me show you inside.”
“I don’t like this,” Gabriel says, “and I don’t like them.”
“I don’t care,” Vincent replies.
There are several seconds of silence.
“You all go ahead,” Adam says. “I’ll start unloading the car.”
I wait to look up until Adam opens the car door by my side.
“I had no idea the two of them would be here,” he says, his tone quiet and contrite. “This is bad. The kid, Gabriel... I don’t like him.”
Did you read his mind?
“Sort of. I can’t get any more than loose impressions with four people around. But I didn’t like what I got.”
Four? There are five of us.
“Haruko doesn’t count.” He glances back toward the front door. “Stay here. I want to see if I can get you inside without him seeing you.”
Okay...
He closes the door again, pops the trunk and removes two suitcases. The doors lock with a bang as he walks away. I hide my face in my hair again and wait, feeling like a mouse among cats. I sip at my cold coffee and take deep breaths, trying to calm myself, but it’s useless.
I keep my face hidden behind the veil of my hair even as I hear them return to the car for the rest of the luggage and walk away a second time. Minutes pass. I start to wonder if Adam doesn’t plan to leave me out here for the day. I guess I might be safer out here. The sun would protect me.
After maybe fifteen minutes, Adam returns. He unlocks and opens the car door.
“Come on,” he says under his breath. “Aya has him distracted.”
I nod and stand up, grabbing the black backpack from the seat next to me. It’s much heavier than I expected; it takes a great deal of effort just to haul it onto my back.
“I’ll take that,” Adam says. He grabs it from me before I can protest.
Adam leads me inside the crumblin
g house, past a narrow hallway that seems to lead around the entire perimeter of the building, surrounding what amounts to a smaller, windowless house inside the larger structure. He opens a door to the interior and gestures for me to enter first.
The space is dank, heavy with earthy moisture and nearly pitch black. As Adam shuts the door behind us I feel an awful sense of dread, a feeling of being buried alive, and it’s all I can do not to run for the exit.
Adam opens a door to our left. The room beyond is windowless, long and narrow, illuminated by a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling that flickers erratically. The room is furnished with an antique-looking couch and several overfull bookcases. Numerous photographs hang on the walls.
I follow him inside. My eyes fall on a framed picture of a strawberry-blonde woman whose perfect features I find sickeningly familiar. I take several steps backwards and run into someone. Vincent. I didn’t hear him approach. I look at the floor, hoping he didn’t see my face.
“Everything all right?” he asks.
“Yes—everything—everything’s fine,” Adam stammers, sounding nearly as alarmed as I am. “I know this is a strange question, but who is the woman in this photo?” He points at the portrait.
“Her? Her name is Claire Llewellyn. She’s Tara’s daughter. My sister. Why do you ask?”
“I’ve seen her before,” Adam says.
“I’ve never met her myself,” Vincent says. “She’s many years my senior, and Tara speaks of her little.”
“Did they have a falling out?”
Vincent walks back to the door we entered through, closes and locks it. He walks to the far side of the room and locks the door on that side as well.
“I see,” Adam says. “Not a falling out as such. She fell in with someone else.”
“Yes. Someone with influence.”
Vincent catches my eyes as I look up.
“Someone who looks quite a bit like your traveling companion,” he continues.
My cheeks burn.
“I know what this looks like, but she’s not my concubine,” Adam says. “She’s not redlisted. We’re trying to bring her to Red Hook to meet with Desmond Schuster. We’re hoping she can testify in front of the Watchers of the Americas. Testify against Mirabel.”
“Why on earth did you bring her here?”
“We got her out before they could do the voice modification. But she’s mute,” Adam says. “And obviously she can’t testify if she’s mute.”
Vincent frowns, a line appearing between his eyebrows. “I don’t know if I can help you,” he says. “And Tara...” He shakes his head.
“What’s wrong with her?”
“She’s foresworn blood,” Vincent says. “She’s abjectly withered.”
“Just... blood?” Adam asks. “All blood?”
“She won’t even take mine.” Vincent looks to me. “Here. Will you sit?” He gestures to the couch.
I hurry to the couch and sit down. The cushion is hard.
He kneels in front of me, his eyes at the level of my throat, a look of deep concentration on his face.
“Something is wrong,” he says after a long moment. “Something subtle, with her nerves. It’s not something I have the skill to correct.”
“Shit,” Adam says.
Vincent stands. After a long pause, he asks, “She’ll testify against Mirabel?”
I nod vehemently.
“Very well,” he says. “I will attempt to revive Tara.”
“Thank you,” Adam says, sighing.
“Keep her away from Gabriel,” Vincent says. “Claire was the one who sent him here—ostensibly to watch over Tara in her weakened state, but...” He trails off.
“I understand.”
“Come with me,” Vincent says. “There is a room around back where she can sleep.”
We follow Vincent through the door on the far wall into what looks like it might have been a dining room at one point. It’s currently set up as a guest bedroom, with two cots made up in fading, mismatched linens.
We continue through another door to a second bedroom, this one smaller than the last. A sink, cabinet and tub sit along one wall. There is just enough space along the other wall for a double bed on an old-fashioned brass frame. A door on the back wall presumably leads to the outer hallway. Adam puts the black backpack down by the bed.
“I have to apologize,” Vincent says. “We don’t have a toilet. You see, we don’t usually entertain mortal visitors...”
I shrug. It seems like the least of my concerns.
“There are some towels in the cabinet,” he says.
I nod.
“I will need to go into town now if I am going to be able to revive Tara,” he continues. “Mr. Radcliffe, you couldn’t, uh, ask Gabriel to come with me, could you?”
“You mean compel him? No.” Adam shakes his head. “I can’t.”
“I see.” Vincent brings a knuckle to his lips. “In that case I will do my best to be brief.”
With that, he leaves through the door to the outer hallway, closing it behind him. I sit down on the edge of the double bed.
“I can wait out the day in here,” Adam says very tentatively, “if that would make you feel more—“
No.
“All right,” he says, “but I don’t feel safe leaving you by yourself.”
It’s fine. Gabriel hasn’t seen my face.
Adam’s mouth flattens into a tense line. He sits down on the rim of the bathtub and folds his arms across his chest.
I look away. I just want some time to myself.
“All right. I can understand that. We’ll just lock both doors and...” He trails off.
You’re awfully concerned about me.
“Is that a problem?”
I shrug. So what exactly is it that you want me to do?
“What do you mean?”
This entire business with testifying.
“Right. Okay, well, here’s the deal. Revenants are governed by a body called the Watchers of the Americas, and within it there are... not political parties, exactly, but factions. The Wardens control most of it, but there are factions even within the Wardens.” He scratches under his chin. “Haruko’s uncle, Desmond Schuster, is the de facto leader of one major Warden faction—the only one with any interest in neutralizing Mirabel.”
Okay...
Long story short, we hope that if you testify in front of the Watchers, it can help us build a case against her,” he says, shrugging. “And hopefully allow us to have her replaced.”
You don’t think it will work.
“No, I don’t,” he says. “But I had to tell Haruko something to convince her not to shoot you. And I needed to tell Vincent something to convince him to help us.”
So what do you want from me?
“Do I have to want anything from you?” He stands up. “Why don’t you get some sleep. Maybe take a bath. Hopefully there’s hot water.” He walks over and locks the door to the outer hallway.
So now you’re just going to go? I think, frowning.
“Didn’t you say you wanted to be alone?”
I sniff loudly. Fine.
With that he leaves, closing the door to the other bedroom behind him.
I stare at the closed door for a moment, then get up and lock it, annoyed. I was going to ask him for more blood and then tell him to leave.
Am I using him?
What a stupid, naïve thing to think. He shot me. He owes me. And he’s clearly using me, even if I don’t know for what.
I look at myself in the mirror over the sink, shudder, and consider the bathtub. But it’s too cold and I’m too tired to want to take a bath. I unzip the black backpack and look for pajamas, but I don’t find any. I strip naked and slip under the blankets.
I fall asleep with the lights on.
12
A Dream of Flight
{Adam}
I gave up trying to sleep after a week of consistent failure.
I started taking an hour
or so every day around high noon to write in a notebook. I’d never been able to keep a journal before; I’d always given up after a few entries and abandoned the practice. Whenever I returned to what I’d previously written, I’d get so annoyed by my own thoughts that I’d always end up ripping the pages out or throwing the whole book away.
As I began recalling events in order to write them down, I realized I could remember ever minute of my afterlife thus far in detail. I had a condition, it seemed, the technical name for which was hyperthemesia. Eidetic memory, in other words. The inability to forget.
Even still there were things I refused to write down. I wrote nothing about my life before dying. I wrote nothing about Alison.
I felt guilty over what happened to her, of course. Guilty and ashamed. Still, I was somehow relieved to be dead, to be removed from the situation. I was relieved to be done with my career, my research, the slow grueling march towards tenure; relieved to be separated from my few surviving family members, my colleagues, my students; relieved not to have to worry about the banal details of everyday life any longer. The relief seemed wrong, even immoral, but there it was.
Maybe it was better not to care. I couldn’t hope to get Alison back. I couldn’t hope to get my job back. Even if I could figure out how to get Julian’s memories back, and even if he released me, I couldn’t move back to Baltimore. I had no idea where I’d go if and when I left the estate. I was dead. A non-person, really. My accounts were frozen, if my brother hadn’t emptied them already. My social security number was rendered invalid.
At times I entertained the fantasy of working a night shift at a hospital somewhere, anywhere, maybe out on the West Coast or the Midwest, somewhere I wouldn’t be recognized. But I knew this too was impossible. I couldn’t expect to work among other doctors without anyone noticing I didn’t have vital signs.
There was only one thing from my living life I had any hope of salvaging, and it was Elena.
I’d met her while I was still in graduate school for clinical psychology, before I ended up in medical school instead, before I met Alison. I was under her supervision as a research assistant. She was married, she had a young son, and she didn’t seem particularly interested in me, but I was young and stupid and she was gorgeous and intelligent and helpful and kind. It was hopeless. I was hopeless.