The Complete Set

by Ainsley Shay

  He never said a word.

  Her dress floated around her feet. The soft material swayed along her body, and it seemed so out of place in the dreadful fortress. A tiny voice in her head shouted at her to run, run as far and as fast as she could. But there was nowhere to go. Guards of Skelside surrounded her. Without choice, she followed the new guard through the courtyard. They passed between two guards standing on either side of formidable doors. A salute passed between the three of them. The guard closest to her politely bowed and said, “Welcome to Hell, my Lady.” While the guard opposite him, roared with laughter.

  She no longer felt the distress of meeting her husband to be. Now, she feared that she would never meet him. Looking back at the setting sun as she followed the guard into the castle, she wondered if this would be the last time the warm rays would ever touch her skin.

  I woke on the couch. The screen on my phone said it was 3:00 p.m. The sky was dark with low rolling clouds. Another storm was coming our way. The journal was in my lap and opened to the last entry. The lines patiently waited for the next dream, another episode conveniently came while I had napped. I was being harassed by an onslaught of fucked-up ancient history. I had a feeling this was only the beginning of the season. Snow wouldn’t be here for another half hour, so I picked up the pen that had fallen to the floor and started writing.

  7 days after ~

  The heavy iron door closed behind her. Fire blazed from the torches that hung on the wall. Their light danced elegantly on the jagged walls.

  The roaring laughter from the guards was replaced by silence. A haunted glow lighted the corridor they’d passed through. Catherine hugged herself tightly and stayed as close to the guard as she could without touching him. The corridor led them through an archway that opened up into the belly of a vast dome-shaped room. An enormous chandelier hung from the center of the ceiling; hot wax dripped from at least a hundred candles. Each drop froze on top of the iron edges of the chandelier; drop upon drop, forming the piles of wax into inverted icicles. The heat rippled the air, filling it with black smoke.

  Following the smoke to the ceiling, she saw a beautiful painting covering the massive dome. Strokes of colors were brushed to perfection in the most magnificent array of brilliance she had ever seen. But as she studied the mural, she realized it was not beautiful—it was horrifying. Her hand slowly covered her mouth and her mind raced—no God-fearing person would paint something so wicked.

  The painting revealed the devil himself, falling from heaven, dark wings extending from his back and horns protruding from his head. She saw his once angelic face twist into sinful serenity. Beside him, another angel fell, who was even more striking than the angelic devil. The unmistakable smile he possessed was more than just pure evil; it construed that he had just received everything he had ever wanted.

  “He did.”

  She looked to the source of the voice. It was the silent guard.

  “Pardon me?” Catherine said. She could feel his stare on her skin.

  The guard looked back to the painting and said, “He did receive everything he ever wanted.”

  “I... how did you—” She was interrupted by two guards passing by.

  She looked back to the painting. Heaven’s angels floated around the dome, their glorious light, shining wings, and beautiful, yet sad, faces watched as the tainted angels fell away from them. She felt the dread in her chest again. The smile on the fallen angel’s face reminded her of the seal on the guards’ uniforms. Her strength began to falter, and dizziness seeped in as she realized it was the not knowing of what was to come that frightened her most. Her body gave way, and she fell. The guard was instantly at her side, catching her in his arms without hesitation.

  I got up, lay on the bed for a few minutes, and imagined the angels’ haunted faces looming above me. Thunder cracked, jarring me back to the present. I was shocked at not only how the words flew like winged creatures from the pen and nested on the page, but how much of the dreams I remembered. As I re-read them, I was more convinced they were some part of a story; but why were they being told through me?

  The front door’s knob jiggled, and I jumped. On my way to the door, I shoved the journal under the couch cushion. Through the peephole, I saw Snow, her arm in position to bang on the door.

  My friendship skills needed some polishing. I had been so caught up with journaling; I had forgotten she was coming over. “Hold on,” I yelled.

  I unlocked the door, and she rushed through, “This thing is effing hot.” She set the pizza on the counter and rushed me. “How are you holding up?” she asked while hugging me.

  She pulled back and I said, “Being at the bookshop helps.” I gave her a half smile. It would have been the perfect time to tell her about Chandler and Blacwin. It would have lightened the mood. I usually told Snow everything, but there was something inside me that still wanted to keep them to myself for a little while longer.

  5

  Today would rate very high as being one of the worse days of my life. I would have rather done anything else than what I had to do. But, it had to be done, and I was the only one to do it. When I pulled up to our house, Ms. Nethers was outside watering her flowers. She had a sad expression on her face as she waved. I smiled, waved politely back, and was grateful she wasn’t up for a chat.

  I know I should have accepted Snow’s or Mr. Yves’ invitation to come with me, but for some stupid reason, I felt the need to do this alone. I turned the key and opened the door to what once was a place I loved. My legs felt like withering snakes. I managed to get inside and close the door before I collapsed. I knew coming home would be hard and I tried to prepare myself for it on the ride over. But, there wasn’t a method on this planet to prepare me for this. The breath I took was ragged and barely filled my lungs.

  After only a week, the house already smelled abandoned. The scent of my father’s cologne still hung heavy in the dank air. My heart thumped a painful beat. I flipped a switch. The light in the foyer lit the small area and seeped into the living room just beyond. Although the house felt entirely different, it looked the same as when I left to go off to school. The decor was a combination of family and bachelor. There were small indications that a woman had lived here once, but mostly it looked like a man’s decorating touch that was trying to make a comfortable home for his daughter.

  I tiptoed further into the house, past the sunroom, and followed the hall into the living room; avoiding at all costs glancing in the direction of the piano. Impossible. I found myself drawn to it. Like a stalker in the night, I silently went to it. A thin layer of dust muted the luster of the dark surface. With my finger, I wrote, I love you, through the dust. I sat on the bench and pressed down a key, then another. The deep sound resonated in the quiet house. I closed my eyes and imagined that I heard the songs my dad played while I sat next to him. Something terrible and fierce rushed inside of me and I banged the piano, slamming my fists onto the dark and ivory keys. An uncontrollable scream tore from my throat. I rested my elbows on the keys and grasped my hair.

  I don’t know how long I sat there with my heart on the brink of exploding with loss, anger, and sorrow. Finally, I stood, dizzy from the outburst, and went into the kitchen to splash water on my face. This was not how it was supposed to go. But, what was I expecting, to be emotionless while I packed up a few boxes and staked a For-Sale sign in the front yard?

  I took another deep breath and went down the hall toward my room. My father had kept it the exact way I left it. No, everything was not as I’d left it. The drawer of my nightstand was open and the drawers in my dresser were slightly ajar. When I looked in them, everything seemed to be there, but they had definitely been rifled through. I went down the hall to my dad’s room. The scent of his cologne was stronger in here. The doors of the armoire were open. Like my room, things looked as if someone had gone through them, too. The door of the closet was open; he always made sure it was closed when he left his room; his one of very few pet peeves. His clo
thes were all hanging in the closet. I ran my fingers over the soft fabric of his hanging shirts. I used to make fun of how boring his wardrobe was. He would agree and say, well, thank God you got your style from your mother. I heard his exact tone in my head and smiled to myself. There were a thousand memories of just him and me. He had been my world. My mother had left us when I was only a two years old. When he would tell me stories about her, I wanted so badly to feel something: a connection, a memory, a touch. But, it was rare that I felt anything. I was too young to have any real memories of her. So, I learned to miss her from the pictures my dad shared with me.

  The possibility of shutting down every emotion right then would have been more than helpful, but more than impossible. I picked up the picture on the dresser. It was of him and me at a baseball game here in town. I didn’t remember if we won or not, but it hadn’t mattered. He was laughing as he watched me take an enormous bite of a hot dog. I set the picture on his bed.

  His drawers looked the same as mine, rifled and picked through. Even as hazy with emotion as I was, I was positive someone was looking for something. But what?

  I went back out to my car and brought the few empty boxes into the house to start packing up a few important things. Mr. Yves had arranged for me to donate most of my dad’s clothes to the local shelter. I started in his room since I knew it would be the hardest part. I placed the picture I had set on the bed into one of the boxes. Then, I gathered all the other pictures from his nightstand and dresser. I used his favorite old t-shirts to layer between the frames to keep them from getting broken. I had never seen my dad wear most of the shoes in his closet. One by one, and tear by tear, knowing that now he would never get the chance to wear them, I put them into the box for donations. Sobs wracked through me while doing the menial task. I picked up one of the shoes and its weight seemed heavier than it should have been. When I looked inside, a cloth was balled up, taking up its length. I slid it out and set the shoe on the floor. Whatever was in the cloth was heavy. I unwrapped it. At first, it looked like a carving of a wave, a wave that looked very familiar. I turned the statue around. As if it had heated to a thousand degrees in my hand, I dropped it and quickly scooted back, never taking my eyes off it. “How the—” The walls seemed to melt around me and I forced myself to breathe.

  The statue was of a woman with hair that was a bundle of wave-like curls floating out in front of her. Her head was bent as she stared at the necklace with a pendant that hung from her delicate hand. She had no legs, only whimsical long curling lines that made her look more mermaid than human. She was stunning. She was familiar. Had my dad had this made for me as a present?

  It was a 3-D statue of my mom’s favorite drawing, the same as my tattoo. A note rested next to the cloth and I picked it up. I felt like I was spying on my Christmas presents, and he would surely scold me for it. Hesitantly, I unfolded the piece of paper.

  The tattoo hides the mark

  Wise, but she is still vulnerable

  You are her shield, protect her

  Otherwise, she is dead!

  ~ C.W.

  “The mark?” What mark, my birthmark? Dead? If it weren’t for the statue, I’d play completely stupid. Before I realized it, my arms were wrapped around my knees and I rocked back and forth. I stared at the object and the note that had my nerves electrified under my skin. The statue was the same as the tattoo I had inked last year to cover my birthmark.

  This was somehow about me; it was about my dad, my shield, who was now gone. I dug deeper into the shoe and found something else wadded into the toe of it. I pulled out a small, folded, sealed envelope and ripped it open.

  My Rainbow,

  Since the day you were born, I have tried to keep you safe. Though from whom, I’m not sure. A few days after you were born, I received a note, I thought, no hoped, that it was only a cruel prank. But it was clear by the time you turned five, I could no longer hope, there were too many signs that you were in danger. A new note came every year from C.W., whom I have never met, but over time have learned to trust. I believe that C.W. has kept you alive all of these years.

  There are only a few who want to find you, but they are not to be taken as a joke. Now that they have taken my life, they will come for you. Their only mission is you.

  I’m so sorry I have failed you. I love you more than you could ever imagine. I know that you are hurting right now, but remember, no matter what seems to be hopeless now, with time, it will be healed, understood, or made right.

  ~Love, Dad

  I pulled my knees up to my chest, lay my head on my knees, and sobbed... the note crushed in my hand. He died for me. People always say that to love ones, I’d die for you, but he really had. Is this what he wanted to talk to me about? Question upon question piled on top of one another in my head, and I didn’t know how to decipher them or even where to begin.

  One thing was clear; my dad didn’t die of a heart attack. He was murdered. Murdered. My mind repeated the impossible word over and over again. I wiped my eyes and nose on the sleeve of my shirt. The next breath I took swept through me with a frenzy of anger. An idea was forming and I wasn’t sure if I liked it. But, I had to find out who killed my dad.

  I decided I wasn’t leaving town until I did, or until they killed me.

  6

  I’d just walked through my front door when my phone rang.

  “What are you doing? And where have you been?” Snow asked in her full-on dramatic voice.

  “Hello to you, too.”

  “What? Never mind. What are you doing?”

  “I went to my dad’s house today.”

  The silence on the other end of the line was uncomfortable for an unknown amount of time, which was a rare occasion for Snow. “And... Are you okay?” Without waiting for an answer, she asked, “How come you didn’t wait for me to go with you?”

  “It was something I needed to do alone.” I set the small box with the statue and notes on the coffee table.

  “Yeah. I get that.”

  “Yeah.” It was quiet for a few seconds, and I needed to change the mood. I took a deep breath and said, “So, to answer your question, I’m not doing anything at this exact moment except talking to you.”

  “Listen, we’re going out tonight.”

  “I’m not really up for going out tonight. I’m looking forward to—”

  “Oh, come on, Iris! You need to get out of that tiny shack.”

  I fell onto the bed and pulled the pillow over my head, trying to shut out Snow’s voice. It was useless. Pushing the end button would definitely do it, but she’d just blow up my phone until I answered. “What if we do something tomorrow?” I asked, trying to avoid tonight. I knew I wouldn’t be good company after what I had found today.

  “Yeah, sounds great! But tonight, let’s go to that new little hole in the wall where they read poetry, sing homemade songs, and drink cappuccino out of mugs bigger than our heads.”

  “Snow, first of all, you don’t like poetry, and secondly, coffee makes you pee.”

  “I’m sure they have bathrooms. Come on, Iris!”

  I closed my eyes and thought of the statue and the note. A chill shuffled its way through me. God, murdered—the unrealistic word—that only happened in my little sheltered world of books—was now a very real part of my life. Today was possibly more painful than finding out my dad died. Today, he died all over again, and in the most horrific way, all while trying to protect me.

  “Iris! Earth to Iris!” Snow shouted into the phone.

  “I’m here. Calm down.” I got up, took the statue and notes out of the box and hid them in the back of the dinky closet.

  “So what time are you picking me up?” Snow asked.

  I fingered the frilly edge of the pillow and debated whether to go. I had to admit, when I was around others, I thought less about the bad things. Some other force inside me answered, “Seven,” I said. “I have to take a shower and change.”

  “It’ll be fun. I promise.”


  I could hear Snow’s scraping hangers as she sifted through her clothes. “You can’t promise that. You’ve never been there.”

  “Don’t be so negative. We’re together, so, hence… fun. Oh, and that’s the name of the place, Hence,” Snow said.

  “Hence... what?”

  “Hence nothing. Just Hence, or hence whatever you want, I guess, I don’t know. Who cares what it’s called? I’ll see you in an hour.” The line went dead.

  “Hence.” Snow pointed to the sign. “See, just like I said.”

  According to Snow, the coffee house had only been open for a couple of weeks, and already the place was a popular hangout. Spotting a table on the far wall by the stage, we made our way through the groups standing around talking. I saw a few people I knew and waved. On the back wall was a small stage with a couple of barstools and a microphone. A woman with long braids occupied one of the stools. She strummed an acoustic guitar while singing a homemade song, as Snow called them. Words of peace and love filtered through the overhead speakers.

  The walls in the coffeehouse were a splash of lights and darks. To everyone else, they were probably an array of bright colors; to me they were just a color wheel of grays. One of the walls had a painted mural of a thousand different ideas, symbols, heads of animals, sayings, all colliding and swirling intimately together. The décor was a mix of retro, flea market, the eighties, and modern. The eclectic blend felt comfortable and un-expecting.

  A waitress came over to us and took our order for two cappuccinos. The girl onstage ended her song, and most of the audience lamely clapped.