For once, he texted back immediately: No need to fear.
Not afraid, just annoyed, I replied.
I was exhausted and fell into bed, mindful of how grateful I was for the financial inheritance from my father’s parents. Yes, I seriously resented the spiteful motive behind it—a bribe to persuade my mother, pregnant with me, to abandon my father and annul their marriage—but the money kept me from having to worry about employment right now. The way I saw it, I had a job; it just didn’t pay. Transforming Masonville’s spiritual atmosphere deserved my full-time attention. My online college classes got the leftover scraps.
I turned onto my side and fluffed my pillow, wondering if Custos would show up outside, or maybe even inside my room tonight, and how it would feel to be near him now that I knew who he was. A superior among superiors. I never would have imagined I could have admired him even more.
As usual, I had a restless night. I slept past noon the next day, and I might have slept later had an annoying racket not woken me. I didn’t have to open my eyes to know something was traipsing around on the balcony outside my room. Then came the distinct sound of my half-dead potted plant—a housewarming gift from Ray Anne’s mom the day I moved in here—toppling over, the clay pot shattering.
As I lay there in my sunlit room—groggy, working to pry my eyes open—I sat up and spotted Daisy next to the bed, her gaze fixed on the locked double doors that open to the balcony. Was some injured bird flapping around out there, or . . . ?
My good-natured Labrador retriever lowered her head and growled, flaring her gums. So, maybe the demon woman was back, lurking on the balcony, trying to scare me in broad daylight. Whatever the commotion was, I had to get up and face it.
By the time I slid on a pair of jeans and peeked out the sheers, the noise had stopped. Sure enough, my potted plant was in a broken heap. But there was no person or animal out there, earthly or otherwise.
I opened both doors, invigorated by the feel of the warm summer breeze against my bare chest.
I took a deep, energizing inhale, walking out onto the balcony, three times the size of the one at my old apartment. I reached to grip the wood railing in front of me, but something in my peripheral vision stopped me mid-stride. I turned to my left, and there she was. Veronica, in a flimsy white tattered dress that draped below her knees, her back pressed against the handrail. My stomach dropped like I’d been pushed off the balcony. Her feet were bare and muddy, just like the pair that had climbed my window the night before.
She smiled, but her green-eyed glare was narrowed and hostile. “I see you, Owen.”
My knee-jerk reaction was to dive back into my room and slam and lock the doors. But after a few panting exhales, I threw the doors open again, ready to confront the demonic imposter and drive it away with the Name above all names. But it was already gone.
I didn’t waste time pacing around and coming unglued. Instead I took Daisy outside for a potty break and scanned the property. I looked over my shoulder a lot, but I refused to be scared or let my focus be derailed.
Daisy sniffed the wide-open lawn, and I shook my head, annoyed by my latest realization: dark forces insist on playing mind tricks, even when their charade is a tired act.
That wasn’t Veronica—not today and not at Ray Anne’s yesterday, brooding over Jackson’s crib.
I went back inside the building with my dog, and the pastor’s administrative assistant—a plump, friendly lady—spotted me. She stopped me, handing me an envelope she said had arrived in the mail for me today. From the Hilltop Unit penitentiary.
Another one? Seriously?
Back in my room, I trashed the letter without opening it and got busy cleaning up the broken clay pot and mound of soil on my balcony. But curiosity got the best of me. I dug the letter out of the trash can and ripped into the envelope, unfolding a piece of notebook paper identical to the first, a childish handwritten statement in the center, in pencil again: You’re as easy to break as your pitiful little plant.
Then a signature: Eva.
TEN
ANGER WELLED UP IN ME like a tsunami barging past the shoreline, gaining momentum with every passing second. I didn’t have to put up with this—Veronica’s threats and bullying. And using a fake name, Eva, was as childish as her handwriting.
I wasn’t surprised she was tag-teaming with enemy forces to conspire against me—against Ray Anne and Jackson, too. But I wanted her to know I was onto her. I wasn’t the same naive guy she’d met months ago.
I decided I’d make the three-hour trip to Gatesville, Texas, tomorrow. Just show up unannounced at the Hilltop Correctional Unit on Saturday, when they were open for visitors, and tell the witch to her face that if she didn’t stop playing evil mind tricks on Ray Anne and me, I’d . . .
Okay, I couldn’t come up with any leverage at that moment, but I still felt the need to confront her.
I stopped by Gentry’s house again, but he wasn’t there. How was I supposed to warn and protect someone who was always physically or mentally not home? And as willing as Ray and I were to try to intervene somehow on behalf of the thirteen targets, we had yet to figure out who all but one of them were. But I already knew that just because an assignment is from God doesn’t mean it’s easy.
Ray Anne had plans with her mom that day, so I sat alone at a table in a coffee shop with my Mac and forced myself to do schoolwork, even though a statistics course had nothing to do with anything that mattered in my life.
A snooty-looking lady in a floral dress was seated at the table next to mine. She kept taking lingering glances at me, looking me up and down and mumbling under her breath. The man sitting across from her did the same. But that was nothing new. Ever since I’d intruded on the occult ceremony and rescued Jackson, certain people around town—occult members, obviously—would recognize me and spew curses at me. I knew that’s what they were doing because it never took long before one or two of those hideous black serpents would come out of their mouths, squirming down their bodies and snaking their way over to me—identical to the one I’d watched crawl out of Hector’s mouth and slither undetected through Riley’s lips last school year. But every time a serpent was loosed at me, the Kingdom of Light aura glistening around my feet prevented it from climbing on me.
So I didn’t flinch. Just sat there sipping my frap, ignoring the couple’s abuse.
I happened to glance at the date before I closed my laptop—August 30. Yikes. The sun was setting on my mom’s birthday, and I hadn’t stopped by or even called her. I hurried to H-E-B to buy a box of her favorite Godiva chocolates and a card. A funny one. Sentimental never fit her.
I picked out some flowers, too. While the shackled florist, who looked about my age, tied ribbon around the bouquet, she kept nodding off. Not physically; her shadowy soul bore the burden of Slumber’s presence. But I only witnessed her condition after eyeing a gruesome skull tattoo on her hand and wrist that made me feel sorry for her. Trying to be cool, I guess, she’d permanently memorialized Murder’s face on her skin. It looked just like the Creeper that used to stalk me.
I made the short drive to Mom’s. Even after her life-saving surgery, she rarely reached out to me—only when she needed something—but I’d been making a point to call and say hello a couple of times a week. My way of being caring without having to endure going to see her. The last time I’d sucked it up and stopped by the house about a month ago, it was beyond filthy, but more than that, she was still drinking. Never mind that alcohol had nearly killed her. I didn’t trust myself to see the wine glasses scattered around without going off about it. But today, I had to put up with it.
I parked outside my old house, my mom’s childhood home, and stood in the driveway a few moments, marveling at the manicured flower beds and new outdoor lighting, plus the fresh paint job on the two-story farmhouse. Major improvements I’d never dreamed my mom would actually get done. But not everything was pretty. A Creeper had tagged the word doomed across my old second-story bedroom windo
w—the black, scribbled letters so fresh, they were dripping.
I rolled my eyes.
I used my key to let myself in. My mom entered the living room from the kitchen, dragging her numerous chains. She reached out like she couldn’t wait to squeeze me. Weird.
And that wasn’t the only thing that was different. She had on trendy jeans and a blouse with no wrinkles, her brunette hair was curled and long enough now to sway past her shoulders—and shackle. She hadn’t looked this pretty and healthy since . . . well, ever, that I could remember. And yeah, she was wearing makeup and had also gained a little weight, thank God, but it was more than that. She was smiling from ear to ear, beaming despite having no internal light to speak of.
I handed her my gifts, and she held me in another tight embrace, like she was an affectionate person. “Thank you, Son. I’m so glad you’re here.”
Most people would probably celebrate their mother’s apparent life improvements, but it was so out of character for my mom that my stomach sloshed with apprehension. “Um . . . who are you?”
She laughed—a fun-loving, easy laugh. Again, so not her, especially considering she and Wayne had recently called it quits. My mom couldn’t handle breakups.
I smiled back at her but was still leery. For some reason this whole experience was intensifying Strife’s hostility in me.
I took a wide-eyed glance around the living room. It was spotless. Like, impeccable. And instead of the stink of fermenting alcohol, the room smelled like roses. There were a dozen light pink ones in a crystal vase on the coffee table. And as if things weren’t already over-the-top, she had jazz music playing. “What’s going on?”
Mom escorted me by the hand to the sofa, practically dancing, her chains scraping the hardwood like old times. “Have a seat, sweetie.”
She’d never once called me sweetie.
I moved a throw pillow, meticulously tilted the same angle as the rest. She sat facing me, scooting until her knee touched mine. She reached for my hands. “I’ve made a decision, Owen, and I’m not going back.” She squeezed my fingers and smiled. “I’ve quit drinking. For good this time.”
My stomach grumbled, but not with hunger. Right or wrong, I was agitated. How many times had she promised before? Gotten my hopes up, only to relent and relapse? All her failed attempts had ever done was cause me to resent her even more.
But sitting across from her now, face-to-face, I wanted to forget the past and be kind. Find a way to genuinely believe her and tell her congratulations or something. But I couldn’t shape my mouth around any words at the moment.
I was used to her mostly pulling away, but today, she leaned toward me—close enough that I could tell there was no alcohol on her breath. And come to think of it, no metal mask on her face. If anyone would bear the mark of Addiction’s presence in Masonville, it was her. And surely I had enough compassion for her that I’d have seen it if it were there.
Right?
“I know I’ve committed to sobriety before, Son, but this time is different. I give you my word.”
Her word? I resisted an eye roll. “How’s it different?”
She tucked her chin and blushed, grinning while nibbling her bottom lip. An all-too-familiar gesture.
“Mom, tell me you’re not doing this because you’ve met some guy and convinced yourself if you clean up your life and pretend everything’s good, he’ll actually stick around.”
I’d seen that one play out more than once. It always ended in shouting matches and slammed doors, my mom begging some two-timer to stop packing his suitcase and realize how much she’d changed for him. All for him. Then would come the screeching of tires down the driveway, at which point my sobbing mother would lock herself in her bedroom and binge drink while I figured out how to fix dinner for myself and do the laundry when I was too little to pour the heavy bottle of detergent.
I wiped my clammy palms on my jeans and took a deep breath, working to tame the scalding lava of old resentment—a brewing volcano of unforgiveness that, if allowed to erupt, would earn me chain links around my neck. Cumbersome soul-baggage I’d already shed—twice.
“I’m doing this for myself, Owen. For you, too.”
“That’s your only motivation?” I searched her face. “There’s no man involved?”
“Sometimes fate sends people into our lives to help us,” she said. “What’s wrong with that?”
As an atheist, I’d never believed in fate, but it sounded more ridiculous than ever now, knowing how strategic God and forces of evil are. But my mom didn’t believe in God.
No, it was worse than that. I think she was terrified of him.
She clutched my hand in both of hers. “Owen, do you remember when you were four years old, and you fell into that sewer pipe in the field behind our apartment and got stuck?”
“Kind of.” Most of my childhood memories were cloudy.
“It was the middle of December, and by the time I found you, you were freezing and struggling to breathe. There was no time to call for help. But right then, that kind man showed up, and his arm was just long enough to reach down and pull you out—surely you recall that.”
“I remember you carrying me home, but I don’t remember any man rescuing me.”
“Well, Son, my point is, sometimes it takes another person to help us out when we’re stuck in life, but that’s a good thing—nothing for you to be upset about.” She reached and hugged me again. “You mean the world to me, Owen, and I want to change for you.”
Her tender words were as unexpected as the mopped floors. And was she saying I was her motivation to change?
She held both my hands now, her eyes pooling. “What do you say?”
I had seconds to choose a response. To interrogate her about her motive or express faith in her. I cleared my throat. “I’m proud of you.” It wasn’t easy, but I’d pulled it off. And sincerely wanted to mean it.
“Thank you, honey.” A third icy-metal hug. More than she’d given me over the course of the last year, I think. “Oh, I have something for you. Wait here.”
She went bouncing up the stairs, all peppy, while I stayed on the sofa, still admiring the place. I wasn’t surprised to find a cleaning service’s business card on the coffee table. I already knew this had to have been a professional job. But the next card I spotted took me off guard—handwritten, tucked among the pink roses: You deserve this, Susan, and much more. Love, Brody.
I leaned back into the sofa cushions, way back, and popped my knuckles. I didn’t know if Dr. Brody Bradford had arranged for the lawn and house to be overhauled, and maybe even paid for it, or if my mom had done it all herself to impress him, but either way, their doctor-patient relationship was obviously more than that now. And her supposed commitment to sobriety was one-hundred percent about another man—a conniving manipulator steeped in the occult, depraved beyond comprehension.
While at death’s door, my mom had committed to put me before her boyfriend for once—Wayne, at the time. But her pledge obviously hadn’t lasted any longer than their unstable relationship. There was a lot she didn’t know about Dr. Bradford, but she knew that he was the last man I’d want coming around our fragile two-person family.
How dare she say she wanted to change for me? I had nothing to do with this.
My mom returned with a plastic bin the size of a shoebox and held it out to me. “I gathered your childhood keepsakes.”
Was I supposed to be grateful that she didn’t want them anymore? Or that everything she’d kept of mine from birth until my high school graduation fit into one small container?
“Thanks.” I took it without looking at her, aware I was in serious danger of giving in to bitterness toward her and compromising the condition of my soul. I also knew if I didn’t get up and leave, I’d probably say something that would draw Creepers to the scene.
She followed me to the door, her brow furrowed. “You’re leaving already? Why?”
I stood with my back to her, my hand on the doorknob,
working my hardest to tame my tongue. But that had never been a strength of mine. “For a second there, Mom, I thought maybe I could believe you.” Resentment took over. “But I should’ve known better.”
I could have said a lot worse, but I’d still crossed a line. I hadn’t even made it to my motorcycle when a Creeper, Accusation, rose out of the cement, hovering in the driveway, looking between my mother and me. I recognized it as a longtime stalker of hers, even though I was the one to blame for its arrival this time. Mostly.
She took steps toward me, her brow furrowed even deeper now. “Why are you being so discouraging, Owen?”
I sat on my bike, eyeing her distraught face. Because we both know you’ll always be a miserable drunk.
I saw it for what it was—a thought Accusation had hurled at my mind, hoping I’d stab her with it.
“I’m sorry, Mom. I really do wish you the best.”
I shot the demon down.
My thoughts went in the right direction after that—toward the right kingdom—even while my emotions kicked like a pent-up bull.
Lord, help me. I prayed it under my breath all the time lately.
And I prayed it the whole time I backed out of my mom’s driveway. And the entire drive to my shabby room at the church. By the time I was seated in my spot on the floor, I’d found the strength to ask God to help my mom, too. That felt like a victory, along with the fact that no Creeper had detected unforgiveness and pursued me and pinned me down, coiling chain links around my neck. Still, I’d be more at ease once Ray Anne looked me over and confirmed there was nothing on me.
I called her, and neither of us felt like spying on any Rulers in the woods tonight. We weren’t easing up on our mission—not at all. We were just sick of staring at evil. We agreed to do something normal, like take Jackson out for ice cream.
It should have been a relaxing, easygoing evening, especially after I got to Ray’s house and she assured me there was no metal on me. But this is my life we’re talking about, remember?
The Defiance Page 9