“No!” he said, wincing in obvious pain. Blood from his mouth began trickling down the side of his face. “Vieni qua. Come here.”
Stunned, Drew obliged, kneeling next to the man.
“What happened? Who—”
“Not time now. I go. I go.”
The priest’s body lurched, his attempts to draw in air proving futile. The man’s green eyes, vibrant in the dream, were now wide and rich with pain. He opened his mouth and struggled to speak but nothing came out. Drew leaned in. The man sucked in a tortured breath, and then exhaled the words all at once.
“Protect the little girl.”
The priest’s right arm inched upward, and he pressed something warm and metal into Drew’s palm. The act proved to be his last. Blood spilled from his mouth, his body convulsed, and then lay still. Even before looking in his hand, Drew could tell the object the priest had given him was another medallion. He peered down at an exact duplicate of the one in his pocket.
- Chapter Eleven -
Three days prior to Night of Nights – Naples, Italy
Sitting at the same table, at the same café on Via Medina in Naples where Tapusscar had seen the American couple the day before, the leviathan pondered his next step.
If only I’d have known he had the medallion on him.
But the foul-up was not his fault. A bribed baggage handler was supposed to steal the bags, but the Americans weren’t on their scheduled flight. By the time Tapusscar had gotten to the hotel, the luggage had been unpacked, and the medallion was missing.
That damn priest jinxed me.
Returning to the Master without the medallion meant punishment beyond what most people could imagine. Trying to hide from Luzveyn Dred was not possible. Tapusscar knew that he would stick out anywhere. The size of his head was massive, and from the front, it appeared disproportionately flat, as if he were a mongoloid. His skin had never healed from the acid torture he’d experienced as a youth. It had expedited the premature loss of his jet-black hair. Standing six-feet-six-inches tall, weighing over three hundred pounds, completed his personification of a giant, albeit some would say a grotesque giant. He had no illusions about his physical appearance, but he didn’t want pity.
The worst moments of his life came during those apologetic smiles at him after a mother had reprimanded her child with the line, “Honey, don’t stare. It’s not polite.”
Once, only once, he’d taken revenge on a child. Not one who stared, but one who made faces. His mother did not admonish him, nor pay much attention when her son wandered alone into the bathroom. During fits of rage, Tapusscar’s mother had often snarled at him, “Sometimes I wish you’d never been born!” After the reprimand he gave the face-maker, it was certain the boy would have wished the same.
Tapusscar’s parents had not been perfect, but they taught him manners and prepared him for the world. Growing up destitute in communist-run Bulgaria had not provided him an easy entry into life. His father was harder on him than most of his friends’ parents, but in the end, it served Tapusscar’s destiny as a warrior.
Beginning on Tapusscar’s tenth birthday, his father, who made his living on the docks of the Black Sea, instituted a daily ritual. Every morning, in order to remind him that life was an ongoing war, Father initiated a fist fight with him. Invariably, Tapusscar had been left a crumpled mess in the corner of the kitchen floor.
The waiter brought his coffee. “Macchiato, si?”
“Yes, leave it.”
Tapusscar drank his coffee macchiato, Italian for marked. It came with just enough milk in the rich espresso to give it a slightly lighter color. He could drink it black, he preferred the taste that way, but ordering it macchiato reminded him of his markings. He was proud of his scars.
Sometimes, Father had taught him strategies to better defend himself. Father took pride that Tapusscar never lost a fight at school. Also, after each morning beating, Father promised that on the day Tapusscar beat or even fought him to a tie, he would learn a great secret. However, after three years of beatings, Tapusscar decided he’d no longer participate in the morning ritual. He announced he wouldn’t fight his old man. Outraged, more at his pacifism than his insubordination, his unwavering father beat him until he required bed rest for a week. Tapusscar’s spiteful mother even interceded on her son’s behalf, demanding no morning “workouts,” as she called them, for a month.
Thirty days later, Tapusscar awoke intending to continue to display defiance. However, Father stayed a step ahead. Holding him down, he poured acid over Tapusscar’s neck and scalp. By the time Father applied it to his face, Tapusscar had already promised never to stop fighting.
As though the memory reminded him of the consequences that awaited should he betray the Master, Tapusscar shuddered – fortunately, no one was around to see his weakness.
The hot Sirocco winds had arrived; Night of Nights would soon follow. Perhaps at one time, Tapusscar could have been saved by religion, but now it was too late.
*
*
*
“What are we going to do when we get home?” Nadia asked Drew for a third time, as their 747 made its way toward a connecting flight in London. Soon, they’d be bound for California. Drew had asked himself that question a hundred times over the past few hours. No answer had come.
Blurred with emotion, images of the day engulfed his thoughts. After the priest had died, he grabbed Nadia from the hotel, and hailed a cab that whisked them to the airport. He was not proud of leaving the body of a murdered priest lying in the bowels of a church, but the words came back to him.
Protect the little girl.
Drew had no idea if the priest referred specifically to Alexis – how could he have? But getting back to her was now a priority and he’d be damned if he was going to tell Nadia why. Old-timers of AA had frequently told him to “take the next indicated step” during his first year of sobriety. Now, it was one of the many mottos engrained into his life’s fabric. At that moment, the correct action was to avoid the rolling metal disaster headed down the aisle towards them. The flight attendant peddled free booze throughout the business-class section of Flight 789. It was the worst possible time to want a drink.
Back in the day, he’d not been particular about the alcohol he poured into his body. Memories flooded back: a champagne toast at an outdoor wedding, a pineapple sweet Mai Tai on a blistering afternoon by the pool, Chivas whiskey smothering clinking ice at an elegant club. Hell, he’d even settle for a beer.
“I will have a Coke,” he said, preempting the attractive, smiling woman before the cart had even stopped rolling.
From the window seat, Nadia chimed her order. “Vodka and tonic.” She glared at Drew while the flight attendant prepared the drinks. “Honey?” Her eyes implied the rest. I’m not going to ask again. What are we going to do?
“Nadia, I don’t know. First, we’re connecting to a flight in London. Next, we’re flying to LAX. Then, we’ll rent a car and drive it down to Oceanside. All right?”
He gathered by her reaction that his sarcasm had earned him at least an additional hour of silence, unpleasant perhaps, but silence nonetheless. In Drew’s imagination, the priest wagged his finger at him while he said it, “Protect the little girl!”
This time, he looked at her when he spoke. “Hon, we need to make sure that Alexis is all right.”
Her sideward glance and body language responded for her. She said nothing.
Drew had thought Alexis’s prior nightmares were a call for attention, that she resented the idea of being left behind. But now, he didn’t know. Nothing seemed as simple as it had two days ago. He felt the medallions in his pocket, and was grateful that he had many airborne hours to mull the situation over. Perhaps the can of soda would help.
“One Coke…and here is your vodka tonic. You folks just let me know if you need anything else, okay?” She winked at them for no apparent reason. “Now, you folks have a nice flight.”
The first few sips of so
da proved less than inspiring, so Drew reached for a trusted friend, his iPod. Nadia read a magazine. He could tell she was pretending not to watch his every move. He perused his musical options, settling on one of his favorite albums, Stomach Her Pain by Turksen Tet.
Prior to drinking himself into oblivion for the last time, he’d discovered the enigmatic, local artist at a popular coastal bar. Later that night, Drew had gotten into a drunken argument with friends, refused their ride home, drank shots until closing time, and ended up passed out in the back of a cab. Before making a spectacle of himself, he’d enjoyed the performance of Tet and his band.
The title song in particular, Stomach Her Pain, a rock ballad, resonated in him long after the concert ended. Tet had written the song for his dead girlfriend, and the emotions that inspired the lyrics were undeniable. She long suffered from what Turksen Tet referred to as, “the unspoken epidemic of the new millennium, self-mutilation.” The ugly phenomenon had gained popularity with teenage girls and young women in their early twenties as a way to alleviate stress. After his girlfriend’s suicide, Tet became an active spokesman and public educator about “cutting.” As the singer/poet had explained during a radio interview, “Putting herself in physical pain, on some level, temporarily alleviated her mental and emotional anguish.”
After years of self-mutilation, his girlfriend bore an extensive network of scars across her midsection as testament to her deeper, emotional issues.
Self-imposed limits which you thought held true
Self-inflicted scars from wars you never knew
I ask you, can you stomach her pain?
As the lyrics spilled out of Drew’s headphones, he remembered Tet’s performance that night. Each word of the singer’s raspy voice conveyed intense emotional pain.
We’re livin’ in cities, mirror’d glass reflects the past
takin’ in promises we know will never last
When everyone is broken, when all have lost their way,
The last thing left upstanding is your pretty baby’s pain
Drew mouthed the words of the verse. Next to him, Nadia seemed to flip her pages harder, but Drew couldn’t hear.
Can you stomach—can you live with it?
Can you stomach her pain?
Can you stomach, can you live with it?
Can you stomach her payyy-yea-yain?
Turksen Tet had stood on the stage. He was tall and thin, his long, straight, brown hair covering his black, leather vest. Tears streamed out of his hazel eyes and ran down his pockmarked face. The rest of the band had remained silent as the lead singer struggled to eke out the final verse.
Then when she’s gone, every moment swept away
Your fingertips remember the skin that bled in vain
When you’re lookin’ in the mirror
When you’re takin’ out the trash
Ask yourself this question, or your love will never last
Can you stomach—can you live with it?
Can you stomach her… pain?
The following day, waking up hung over, embarrassed, and finally having hit rock bottom, Drew had attended his first AA meeting.
As Invisible Roots, one of Tet’s softer more soulful tunes began playing, a thought came to him. Someone he knew might provide the connections to help them. The odds of this person being a “savior” might be slim, but Drew Faulkner was used to long-shots. At one time, the prospect of him going to bed without alcohol in his blood seemed like a one-in-a-million chance. He flipped the drained can of soda upside down and placed it inside the empty plastic cup. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep.
- Chapter Twelve -
Three days prior to Night of Nights – Oceanside, California
Sobbing, the five-year-old blonde girl opened her brown eyes to darkness.
Alexis had been waking up like this a lot, but no one was coming to snuggle with her. Drew and Mommy were away (and Granny didn’t wake up easily). She stopped crying and listened. The dreamers, the lights in the sky, were gone.
It was okay. Alexis was getting used to calming down all by herself, like how her preschool teacher Miss Rachel had taught. “Take deep breaths and imagine a beautiful garden. You can imagine animals, flowers, or even angels helping you to calm down. Soon, your troubles won’t seem so close.”
Alexis wanted those monsters far, far away. Mommy always told her they were just bad dreams and they would stop. But they didn’t stop.
They were getting worse.
As far back as she could remember, Alexis had dreamt of falling, the gray monsters, of a hood being placed on her head, and then she’d seen all kinds of terrible things. People with knives. Blood. And then, usually, the shadow thing came.
The first time, the shadow had been nice.
“Do you want me to bring your daddy back for you?” he asked.
“I have a mommy,” Alexis said. “I don’t remember my daddy.”
“No, you don’t, do you,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “I could be like a daddy to you.”
“No thank you. I have a mommy.”
Alexis could hear the voices in the sky talking to her, calling for her.
“Who are you?” she asked of the voices.
“We are the dreamers. We want to help. Let us help you,” the voices said. There were thousands of them, and Alexis could tell that some of the voices were lying. They didn’t really want to help. They wanted—
In a whisper, the shadow told her to pull down the voices from the sky.
“Even the angry ones?” she asked.
“Yes, yes. Especially the ones that sound angry,” the shadow said. “Do not be afraid, my child.”
“I’m not your child,” Alexis said. “And I’m not going to help you.”
She wished she hadn’t said it, because then the shadow showed her terrible things. Things he did to those bad men. He had tied them to a pole and—
Alexis realized she wasn’t doing a real good job of thinking about her garden, so she lay still in her bed, making sure to keep her eyes open. She didn’t want to fall asleep again.
It was still dark outside. She looked at the Tinker Bell nightlight that Granny had put next to her bed. Next month, Alexis would turn six-years old. Mommy had promised her a pixie haircut for her birthday. Alexis wasn’t sure what kind of haircut that was, but she knew Tink was a pixie, and Alexis imagined looking just like Tinker Bell.
Maybe Tink would keep her safe? Alexis got out of bed and went over by the light. She sat down cross-legged and let her face fall into her blanket. Alexis had been afraid to tell Mommy about some of her dreams because sometimes things from her dreams really happened after she had them. Alexis had dreamt about Drew long before Mommy met him; sometimes, he was there with her when the dreamers came down from the sky. Once in a while Alexis mixed up what were dreams and what were things that really happened.
Again, Alexis tried to picture her garden, but couldn’t. She didn’t feel any safer, and she was so tired. She wanted to sleep in a grownup’s bed and hoped the shadow would leave her alone if she did.
So she snuck into Granny’s room.
Making sure not to drag her blanket on the floor as she tiptoed, she was really quiet. Very slowly, Alexis moved into the warmth under Granny’s covers.
Mommy didn’t care if Alexis slept in Mommy’s bed when she was scared. Granny, though, almost always put her back into her room alone. Sometimes in the mornings, the large woman let her cuddle in her soft, feathery bed. Alexis hoped she didn’t get sent away this time.
Granny’s heavy breathing stopped, and then she sighed long and hard. Her eyelids fluttered and she looked at Alexis. Then, she wrapped her huge arm around her and pulled her right up close. It was as if Granny had never scolded her about coming into her bed. She hugged Alexis like she wanted her to stay forever.
“Alexis, I have for you surprise.” Granny’s just-waking-up words came out silly.
When Granny said ‘surprise’ she usually meant som
ething fun. Alexis squeezed her blanket in excitement.
“Your mommy and her boyfriend are coming to bring you home.”
She was never sure why Granny called Drew “your mother’s boyfriend.” Alexis didn’t like it, but this news was good. She asked, “Granny, the two weeks are done?”
Granny chuckled and was quiet for a while before she talked. “No, child, they are coming home early. I think your mommy missed you very, very much.”
“And Drew, too?”
“I suppose so,” she said with a sigh. “Now you can sleep here with me so you are good and rested when they get here.”
*****
Alone in Granny’s bed, Alexis was startled by a loud noise. A clanging bell rang from inside the closet at the far end of the room. The door creaked. It looked ready to burst from its hinges; its wood grains stretched and twisted creating small, hideous faces that mouthed silent screams.
She yanked the covers over her head until it was quiet. Slowly, she peeked out. The door was still closed and the noise had gone away. She remembered what mommy had said.
“Dreams can’t hurt you, baby. Don’t be afraid.”
Alexis imagined what was behind that door—visions of gray monsters and the shadow were interrupted by a sudden thought.
What if Granny is trapped in the closet?
She couldn’t be. Her grandma was a big person and big people can take care of themselves. Alexis couldn’t wait to be big. It meant—
But what if Granny needs help?
Alexis carefully eased down from the bed. Her feet made two soft thumps one after the other on the carpet. She waited just to make sure nothing heard her. She was very quiet as she bent to check that nothing was under the bed. Then, she tiptoed toward the closet door. Halfway there, she realized that her hands were empty. She’d forgotten her blanket.
She looked back to the bed and saw it up top, scrunched on the side of Granny’s comforter and a pillow. Something about the way it was twisted and coiled made it look less like her blanket and more like a snake. A snake that could stick long fangs into your arm or leg before you could move away. But it wasn’t a snake. She knew that. It was her blanket. She wanted to go back and get it but she was almost to the closet door. Going back meant she might not be brave enough to get back out of bed again.
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