by Lori Titus
I got up and walked down the hall.
I’d left my cell phone in the car. I immediately thought of Natasha’s warning about walking across the floor. Old wooden planks sighed and squeaked in places under my weight. There was no way I was going to go all the way down and come up again unnoticed. Instead, I decided to grab a book from the study.
The room was fairly small but cozy. Bookcases covered the left and right walls. A pink, fuzzy bean bag on the floor appeared to be made for a little girl. Natasha’s, maybe? The expansive desk was made of shiny, dark wood, and it too was piled high with books.
Most of the volumes were leather bound, and a few were in Latin. Not wanting to stay too long, I grabbed the first book on the top of the stack. I hoped it wasn’t an encyclopedia or something equally as boring.
I went back into the room and had a quick look at Natasha. She appeared to be sleeping well. This was going to be a long night. I just wanted something to distract me from thinking too much about the woman sleeping a few feet away.
I got comfortable on the guest bed, my back against the headboard, and started to read.
The volume was titled The Book of the Others.
The yellowed, aged paper was smooth against my fingertips, delicate like old silk. There was script in the margins, in cursive. It was hard to read the cramped writing in the dimness, especially since the ink had smudged and faded in spots. Just how long had this been sitting around the house, apparently untouched?
I crept back to the bedroom. I looked into Natasha’s room. She sighed and stirred in her sleep, turned over and lay on her stomach.
I remember starting to read the book—or trying to. There were excerpts from other texts interspersed in the text, and some of those were in Latin. Others were in Arabic. I could understand bits of both, enough for me to get the gist. A quarter of the volume was dedicated to explaining the origins and types of demons. I only skimmed because there were hundreds of them from what I could tell: all imbued with their own powers and weakness. Some demons were native to earth while others lived in the underworld and dimensions alongside our own. There were demons who were born human, who made deals in order to become immortal.
Perhaps Ramshead was one of those? The man peddled demon contracts like some people bartered in stocks.
I wasn’t sure exactly what that made Natasha or me. Did that mean since part of our souls were in hock, we were no longer fully human? Did it mean we would change further? I didn’t find the answer in the pages I read, but the implications were more than troubling.
I read on and saw classifications of many things that I had never dreamed existed outside of a book or a television script. Some I had never heard of even in fiction.
The sections in English frightened me more, as I didn’t have to question whether I understood the meaning. Vampires, ShapeShifters, Werewolves. All of them had origin stories here. There were explanations of all the tribes of “Others” who lived hidden among human beings. There were hybrids, including a race called Lamia, a combination of human, Werewolf, and Vampire.
It wasn’t exactly bedtime reading; it did keep me awake. This was not a piece of fiction.
It was nearing three in the morning when I heard footsteps.
The door to the hallway was cracked open about an inch. I got up and hid behind it. I saw a figure on the stairway: a woman in a flowing black kimono. Her hair was tied back in a red scarf. Natasha’s mother.
She continued down the hall. After a few moments, I couldn’t see her from my vantage point anymore and I could only guess that she was standing in front of the door that led to Natasha’s room.
I turned just in time to see a shadow move toward me in the dark. One hand pressed against my chest as I felt cool metal resting against my neck.
“Who are you?” the woman in the kimono whispered. “And what the hell are you doing in my house?”
Chapter Thirteen
Natasha Taylor
As it turns out, having part of your soul grabbed out of your body is very much like being drunk while having a wrestler sit down on top of your chest. You can’t quite stay conscious, and you’re not certain that you could stop yourself from throwing up. You’re pretty sure you’d feel better if you did, but you can’t because that wrestler is there and you can’t move. I think I put up a good front but maybe not. Once I was in the car, I slipped in and out of consciousness every few minutes. Sometimes I woke, struggling for air, and then slipped into an uncomfortable slumber.
I don’t know if I was drooling or moaning or what when Chris pulled up to my house, but I felt like my throat was sore. He had a straight face like everything was fine when I woke up. I talked to him about what not to do in my house. I fell down on my bed. That’s all I remember.
Until I heard my mother cussing.
I jumped out of bed and ran because instinctually I knew what was going on.
I found Chris pinned against the wall, hands up, with my mother holding a weapon to his throat. The Deer Horn knife glowed evilly in the dim room.
“Ma’am, I can explain...” he said.
“Mama, let go of him!” I clutched my chest.
“Who is this fool, and what is he doing in my house?” she demanded.
I gave the only rational answer I could think of. “He’s my friend.”
“Then why the hell wasn’t he in your room?”
“He was drunk and needed to sleep it off so... I didn’t want him breathing on me all night.”
She took a couple steps back, turned on the light and looked at Chris.
“Ma’am, um, I meant no harm,” he said. It could have been my imagination, but I swear he dialed up the southern accent just a little. He batted his eyes at her. The hell. This asshole was flirting. Interesting that this was his first reaction when it came to saving his skin.
“What’s your name?”
“Chris.”
“Well, Chris, we have conventional rules around here. If you’re going to be sleeping with my daughter, you do it in her room. If she thinks you’re too drunk to be in her bed you sleep on her floor. Have the decency to at least introduce yourself to me. Ya’ll are grown folks, I shouldn’t have to wonder if some idiot broke in and is too high to get up—”
“We don’t live in that kind of neighborhood,” I reminded my mother.
“Tasha I wasn’t finished. And it can happen anywhere, I watch the news.”
I felt the heat of blood rushing into my cheeks. Behind my mother’s back, Chris was grinning like this was the funniest thing ever. In her day Katherine was no one to mess with. Still, I was certain Chris could have disarmed her without either of them coming to harm. He just wanted her to think she was in control of the situation.
Then Chris looked at me, and his face turned serious.
“You okay?” he asked.
I nodded. That set the room spinning. My chest still hurt and jumping up hadn’t helped. “Sure, I’m fine.”
I took a couple steps back and sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Anyone like to tell me what is really going on here?” my mother said.
“I think maybe it’s just been a long night, and it’s best if everyone goes back to bed,” Chris suggested. “I apologize, Mrs. Taylor. Natasha and I were just doing our best not to disturb you. It won’t happen again.”
Mama looked from one to the other of us. I knew she could tell this was bullshit. Not so much because I wouldn’t bring a guy home, but we both had clothes on and neither one of us smelled like alcohol.
She frowned at my new coworker. “What’s your last name?”
“Stuckey.”
I saw my mother’s expression change. “Where’s your family from?”
“South Carolina.”
“Which city?”
“Chrysalis.”
“You must be kin to Reverend Stuckey then.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m his son. Chris Jr.”
I saw something change in her eyes. She took a step back, and yanked the belt ti
ght around her kimono. The knife disappeared into the pocket of her robe.
“You know his Dad?” I asked.
My mother turned to meet my eyes. “Your Dad knew him,” she said, and swept out of the room. She left before I could ask further questions.
Once she was gone, Chris closed the door. “You don’t look good. Maybe I should call Ramshead.”
I lifted a hand in protest. “No, I feel awful but better than I did earlier.”
“What was that about?” he asked. “Did your family live down south?”
“No. My father traveled down there for work a lot though.”
Chris lowered his voice to a whisper. “Doing what exactly?”
“My father was a former priest, but after he left the clergy, he still felt compelled to help people. He used to take assignments ministering around the country, and my mom is still angry about it because he would spend days and weeks away from home. No big deal.”
I could have told him right then and there that my Daddy used to travel the country performing exorcisms. It just felt like I was trusting him far too much as it was—and what my father did for a living was the family secret. My parents didn’t even let other members of our family know about what his real work was. It was clear to me that I was in this trouble because of my family’s association with ridding the world of demons. The idea that Chris’s father knew mine felt weird.
“Okay,” he said simply. “Do you want to lie back down?”
“Yeah,” I said. “You know she’s really going to expect you to sleep on the floor, right?”
He sighed. “Well, shit. That’s better than her cutting my throat.”
WHEN MORNING CAME, I felt about eighty percent better. Not exactly normal but well enough that I could function. That weird hollowness in my chest was still there. I wondered if it would stay that way as long as my agreement with Ramshead was in force.
As it turned out, Chris seemed comfortable sleeping on my floor. I’d given him a pillow and a blanket, and at five in the morning he was still snoozing like a champ. It made me wonder how often he’d been on people’s floors and under what situation.
I nudged his shoulder with my foot, and he came awake. There was a moment of disorientation. He frowned but appeared to relax when he remembered his surroundings.
“Want some coffee?” I teased.
“I think I had better be on my way,” he said and sat up. He pressed the heel of his hand to his eye. “You look normal,” he said.
“Thanks,” I rolled my eyes.
He got up and stretched. I couldn’t help but notice the muscles in his arms or the sheer length of his limbs.
“Look, this isn’t the time or place but we need to get together and discuss what’s going on,” he said. “Somewhere away from that office. Give me your number and I’ll text you.”
“Aren’t we supposed to be at work today?” Just thinking about showing up at that office made me sick.
“We are,” he said. “Ramshead said you could come in at noon.”
“Great,” I said. The thought of that man brought a vile taste creeping up the back of my throat.
To keep my mother from complaining, I walked Chris out. I knew she was awake because I could smell breakfast cooking. When we came out she was in the downstairs hallway, wearing a white flowered robe, holding her coffee cup. Her eyes narrowed as she caught sight of Chris.
“Morning, Mrs. Taylor. Have a good day,” he said. Southern hospitality bull. He smirked at her like she hadn’t almost sliced his carotid artery open a few hours earlier.
“Chris,” she said with a nod.
He walked out briskly and didn’t look back. His car was just pulling away from the curb as Mama grabbed my arm.
“Are you going to tell me what you’re really up to with someone whose people ran in the same circles with your father? I see no good coming of that.”
“Los Angeles is a big place,” I said. “I happened to run into him by coincidence.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m taking a part time job and as it turns out he’s working there too. I didn’t know there was a connection until you brought it up last night. Is there some reason I should be worried about who his father is?”
Mama let my arm go. “Reverend Stuckey—Chris’s old man—is a fundamentalist preacher. Some people swore by him, others would tell you he was a religious nut,” she said carefully.
“How so?” I asked. “There’s a lot of ways to be whacko.”
“Child,” Mama sighed and retreated into the kitchen. But she’d brought the subject up and I wasn’t going to let her get away that easy. I followed at her heels.
“I’m not going to repeat anything you tell me about his family, if that’s what you think.”
“You’re saying there’s nothing going on between you and him?”
“Obviously,” I shrugged. “I just met him. Come on you’ve always met all my boyfriends.” That part might be a slight fib but only because I hadn’t brought anyone home recently. She wouldn’t have remembered them, so the exercise had seemed pointless in recent months.
She narrowed her eyes at me. “There’s something going on. At the very least you’re awfully chummy with this strange man you say you just met.”
I walked over to the refrigerator and took out a carton of orange juice. With my back turned to her, I poured a glass and tried to sound as casual about the whole thing as possible. My heart was thudding in my chest. “Let’s get back to what you were saying about his dad.”
Mama joined me at the counter. “Reverend Stuckey claimed to have visions. Prophetic dreams. Sometimes even waking ones. It’s hard to keep a secret like that in a small town. I gather there were people that didn’t know, but the ones who did, the true believers, looked at him like he was some sort of new age prophet. He didn’t advertise his ability, and he refused to make money off of it. When I met him for the first time, I told your father that Stuckey might be crazy but he wasn’t greedy.”
“Okay, so how did he know Daddy?”
Mama shook her head. “That town he comes from is a hotbed of paranormal activity. Stuckey called on your Dad four, maybe five times to come down and perform exorcisms. Those were just the times I knew about. Ezekiel never told me all of the things he did because he knew I wouldn’t be happy to hear about it.”
“Did Daddy believe him, about his dreams, or visions?”
“He did,” Mama said. “He was good about discerning who was authentic and who wasn’t.”
“They were friends?”
“Yes. I met him maybe twice. I hated when Reverend Stuckey used to call because it meant trouble of the highest order. Which is another reason I wasn’t too happy when his son turned up here last night. You sure there isn’t something more to this, honey? Nether demons out staring at us from the streets, and Stuckey’s son showing up not much later... it has to mean something. I just don’t believe in that many coincidences.”
“You remembered that, Mama?”
“Sure,” she replied. “Why do you think that I keep a knife handy?”
Chapter Fourteen
Christopher Stuckey
After I left Natasha’s house, I went back home, changed clothes, and headed into the office. My intention was to go in and ask Ramshead what my father had to do with him seeking me out.
When I got there, his partner was in his office, and it was obvious I had just walked in on an argument. I didn’t need a witness for what I was going to ask and I wasn’t going to approach Ramshead when he was already pissed. In the back of my mind, I still thought about the ill-fated receptionist standing on the edge of the building, and her eyes meeting mine the moment before she jumped. She hadn’t even done anything to anger him. He killed a woman to prove a point. Or maybe just for sport.
If I were able to dream anymore, I know I would have seen her in them. It made me think of a mission in Iraq, hunting down a tribal rebel leader. Our team tracked him to what was essentially a flopho
use where drugs and weapons were exchanged for money. When we got there, only one person remained inside; a local girl, no more than seven years old. One of the cowards we were pursuing thought it would be funny to leave her there for us. She was wearing a suicide vest. It was too big for her little body, and they used masking tape under her arms and around her waist to hold it in place.
There was a blank look in her wide, beautiful brown eyes. In that moment, I knew that I was looking into death.
I hadn’t been able to save her.
Watching the two men arguing snapped me out of my own thoughts. Henry Pollard was leaning over his desk, voice deadly low. I couldn’t hear what the man said but there was no mistaking the tone—whatever he was saying to Ramshead sounded like a threat.
I cleared my throat, and both men turned.
I hadn’t looked too closely at Pollard the first time we met. Now I guessed he was about the same age as Ramshead appearing to be in his late sixties. Henry Pollard had dark hair streaked with silver around his crown. He wore a light tan suit, and as required by the company dress code, a silk tie and cuff links. He looked my way and granted me a smile.
“Good day, Chris,” Pollard extended his hand to me and we shook. I could tell he was sizing me up in some way or another. I’d love to know exactly what these two talked about in private and how much of it had to do with the eventual fates of their employees. I wondered if they had cast bets yet on who would go off the roof first, or whether Natasha and I would maybe kill each other in a more creative fashion. That would be more fun for them, wouldn’t it? We weren’t more than entertainment for these men.
Ramshead interrupted Pollard’s brief welcome. “How’s Natasha? She’ll be along later this afternoon?”
“I think she’ll be okay,” I replied. “I can’t promise she’ll make it today but I let her know you wanted her here.”
Ramshead got up and crossed the room to where I stood. I had the distinct feeling he wanted to get out of the space behind his desk where Henry had him cornered.
“See,” Ramshead said to Pollard. “I told you she would be fine.”