Water of Souls

by Eli Constant

  Liam, who I’ve not heard from in over two months. Kyle still doesn’t know about him. Liam was the reigning king of the vanishing act whenever necessary.

  We’d spent many evenings together, with him formally tutoring me on the fae and so many other preternatural creatures I had no idea really existed. Like vampires. Vampires really exist, birthed from the lineage of Vlad Tepes. Liam said the dark fae court felt the wave of power in 1431 and they knew something dark had just been born into the world. It felt hard to believe, but then again necromancy hails from fallen Valkyries apparently, banished by the god Odin, and my ancestry leads to the Bager clan of Denmark and the origins of the Blood King.

  A really real Dracula doesn’t seem so farfetched when put into that perspective.

  I have several notebooks filled with information now. They’ve been added to the journals I’ve kept myself over the years, writing down what I’ve learned about my power—both from grandmother and from experience—as well as my grandmother’s ancient tomes. I’ve not shown anyone the last book. That large human-skinned volume that sends shivers down my spine. It is still hidden away...

  The nights of study with Liam had brought us closer together in a way, but we couldn’t be physical again. Liam was hurt when he found out I was officially dating Kyle, even though he himself told me he wasn’t allowed to have feelings for me, that it was against his duties as my protector. He’d pulled away. Not me.

  My gut told me that there was more to the story than what he told me, but whatever it was, Liam wasn’t expanding on the ‘why’ we couldn’t be together.

  I don’t like secrets, especially from a man I’m intimate with. It’s the only time his cockiness truly melted away. We’d gotten too lost in the moment maybe three weeks after I’d been released from the hospital. Things had... headed in a bedroom direction. He’d stopped us and I could tell that it had taken all of his self-control not to continue, to quell the fire between us.

  I hated him a little for that—for leading me on like we could actually meet the passion between us and bring it to fruitful life. The way men and women do when attraction reaches that peak point where one must fall into it or truly turn away.

  He’d wanted to kiss me again after he’d stopped us. He’d wanted to pick up with the light touches and teasing. He said it was torture, but a taste of me was better than nothing. I got the feeling he risked much to touch me that way, but I couldn’t do that. I wasn’t raised fae and I didn’t understand love the way he did—where monogamy could take a back seat to carnality. I identified too much with the human world. If you loved someone, you loved them. There was no push and pull of emotions to keep you always guessing if it’s real and lasting.

  Liam hadn’t liked the idea of having nothing between us, but that’s what I needed. So, he complied, doing it in less than a friendship capacity and more as a man having received an order from his Queen. So, he’d taught me about our world. We’d shared coffee, found a few laughs in between moments of tension. Then he’d left, without a word of explanation.

  And I wasn’t going to chase after any man (or fairy) that put duty before love.

  It made it easier for me, in the end, to give myself fully over to trying it out with Kyle. And I’m glad, because Kyle and I fit. Fit better than I ever imagined we would.

  Before Liam left, I did get him to finally tell me how he and Braeden were related. They’re second cousins, as far as human family dynamics relates to the fae. They’d never even met until that night in the warehouse; they only knew each other through family histories.

  A fae doesn’t choose the court it serves, you see. It is chosen for them. They are born into it or the magic within their bodies guides them to where they belong. Both Liam and Braeden were born into their respective courts and the magic inside of them agreed with the placement. Either way though, fairies are proffered no real choice in the matter. I’m not sure how well I like that. I’m not sure if there’s any way to change it, even if I am some all-powerful Blood Queen that will eventually preside over both courts. Maybe time will tell.

  “Tori?” Kyle’s voice reaches for me across the table top. “Earth to Tori?”

  I blink, coming back to life and realizing that I’m holding a forkful of eggs in midair. “Sorry, I’m a bit spacey this morning.”

  He smiles and it is wide and warm and wonderful. His teeth are a beautiful white against his dark curly beard. It’s his guileless eyes though; they are what make my heart lose rhythm for a moment. “Well, come back to the ground for now. I promise to take you out of this world soon, even if we don’t actually leave the bedroom.”

  Heat creeps into my cheeks, scarlet and embarrassing. He’s patient as the grave, but also ready. “Hush, you.” I look away, putting a bite of food into my mouth. I want to say something else, something like ‘just do me now. Right here, right now. On the table. I don’t care if I get eggs in my hair,’ but this isn’t the time or the place. We’ve waited this long. When the time is right, we’ll know it. And it’ll mean something more than a quick screw in the kitchen.

  Kyle doesn’t say anything back. He just sits there, eating his food and grinning like an idiot. I’m really, really glad that he can’t read my mind. If it were Liam across from me at the table, I’d be blushing a lot deeper.

  I finish my eggs before Kyle, standing up and going to the sink to rinse. “Jesus, I feel like a cow now, but those were delish.”

  “Tori,” Kyle says my name and pauses until I turn to face him, the water still running loudly, “You’ve got to stop that. You’re in great shape. You are beautiful. And... I’d care about you no matter what size you were. So, seriously, stop.” The grin is gone. I hate that I’ve done that.

  “Sorry. Old habits die hard,” I say, giving him a smile I hope seems absolutely genuine and somewhat apologetic. I’m glad he thinks I’m perfect; it’s how it should be in a relationship, I guess. But I still see all the flaws, even though I’ve been able to banish my sixteens and fourteens to the back of the closet and bring my size twelves out from hibernation. Though, I’m too practical to get rid of the larger sizes all together. You never know when a bout of depression will send you down ‘eat your feelings’ lane.

  Maybe I can’t block out the negatives because I’m wired to see the rot in people, the flaws they’d like to keep under wraps. Maybe that’s why I can’t seem to get past my own perceived issues. I suppose that’s all part of being human.

  Because I am only human after all... sort of.

  Chapter Two

  “Thank you for seeing me today, Ms. Cage. I know you may have heard from a few other funeral homes in the area that my request might seem... strange.” The small, frail man in front of me takes out a yellowed handkerchief and dabs his eyes, fighting back the dampness in them. He doesn’t strike me as an easy crier—the kind that tears up at animal adoption commercials with melancholy music used to ramp up the sympathy factor. For the record, I cry my damn eyes out at those things.

  He just seems broken and I feel in my gut that he’s only shed tears a few times in his life. And to do so, for him, means that something too tragic for words has happened. I know his type. I’ve worked with his type. For some reason, they make me sadder than the clients who grieve fully and openly, no matter the degree of loss.

  “To be honest, Mr. Barrington, I don’t know anything about your situation. Not yet. Even if I had heard something, I wouldn’t put any value to it until you told me yourself.” I fold my hands across my dark brown slacks and I give him my full, unwavering attention. I do it with a smile on my face that I hope is open and kind.

  Mr. Barrington sighs, his body quavering a bit with the release of air. “You don’t know what a relief it is to hear you say that. I’ve been to six different funeral parlors and crematories. They’ve all turned me away and the last two didn’t even listen to what I had to say, because gossip had spread.”

  I sit a little straighter, my interest piqued. “So, tell me what it is I can do
for you, Mr. Barrington.”

  “Call me Allen, if you don’t mind.” He fidgets a little and then stuffs his slightly-wet handkerchief into his pocket.

  “Only if you call me Tori.”

  He smiles; it’s genuine, but also small and shy. It’s the smile of a child who’s been abused trying to trust someone new. “I’d like to have a funeral for my son, Tori. No one will do it, no matter how much I offer to pay.”

  Nodding, I lean forward and get one of my rollerball pens out of the little holder that’s shaped like a tree trunk; it’s even made of wood. “Okay, that sounds up my alley. When did he die?”

  Allen looks away from me, gazing at something nondescript over my shoulder. “The thing is, I don’t know if he has, but I can’t keep waiting. I need closure. He’s been gone for so long.”

  “So your son is missing.”

  “For nearly a year and a half now.” Mr. Barrington reaches down to the floor and gets a picture from out of his tattered, leather briefcase. I can tell it was expensive once, by how the gold trappings still shine with care and the leather is still supple despite the wear. It’s the kind of bag you buy when you intend to use it for a good, long time, and don’t want to worry over it breaking or tearing. He was a man of means, or at least he used to be. Now though, by the out-of-date tailored, olive green suit and the polished shoes with the nearly worn-through soles, I think he’s well past his lucky days.

  “You’re looking at my clothing and wondering how much I could possibly offer to pay, aren’t you?”

  I start, focusing back on his face rather than his material things. Feeling my cheeks go hot with embarrassment, I stutter. “No, I promise that wasn’t it. I just... you seem to be a man who’s seen better days. That’s not professional to say or polite, but it’s better than what you were thinking.”

  “You’re right.” He slumps a little, losing some of the meager confidence he’d gained by my not having heard his tale of woe. “When Timothy went missing, I gave up everything trying to find him. I lost my job because I’d rather spend my days canvassing the neighborhood. I lost my house to the bank for not paying the mortgage. I was a banker once. High up on the food chain, not a single worry in my pockets.”

  “I can’t imagine what it’s like to be a parent and lose a child.” No matter how many times I’ve consoled a grieving parent, I will never understand the depths of their sadness. It’s impossible as an outsider, even though I can feel how their very blood sings with the loss.

  “It’s the kind of pain you don’t recover from, Ms. Cage.” He leans forward, the picture upside down and slipped between two fingers. He holds it firmly, but with the tenderness of care that only a parent has.

  I take the picture from him and I turn it around so that I can see the boy. I try to keep my eyes from widening when his face comes into view, but I am not totally successful. Raising my head, I look at Allen. His lips are parted, more words ready to spill out.

  “He was a good boy. Others didn’t see it, but I did.” He reaches down again and pulls another photo from his briefcase; he sits there, studying it. “Timothy walked to the beat of his own drum. He wasn’t born a male you see and he always felt there was something wrong with him. There wasn’t though, Ms. Cage. He was handsome and smart and kind. He just didn’t identify with the anatomy he was given.”

  The picture I am holding shows a beautiful girl with short cropped hair, so close it is nearly a buzz cut. Her eyes are framed by thick black glasses and her left ear sports a single heart earring. She’s wearing a man’s button up dress shirt under a dark grey pinstripe suit vest. The outfit is polished off with a red bowtie. She’s smiling for the camera, obviously proud and comfortable in her skin.

  There’s a little name tag on her lapel that reads “Timothy” with the words “Quickie Food Mart.”

  Allen hands over the second picture then. This one shows the girl with long, raven-black hair and she’s wearing a plaid dress. In this photo, she is not smiling.

  “His mother and I divorced because she wouldn’t recognize who he was. She insisted on calling him Amanda and dressing him like a girl. It broke his spirt and I wouldn’t have that. She turned cruel.” Allen has to get his handkerchief back out. The dampness is finally spilling over his eyelids to race down his cheeks. “I never really expected our marriage to work in the beginning anyways. She was young, flighty. I was already an old man grateful to finally be a husband and father that I was blind to how ill-suited we were. I’m amazed we made it as long as we did. Six horrendous years. When it became just Timothy and I, I was so happy. Like a weight had lifted off my shoulders.”

  “We don’t have Quickie Marts in Berkley County, Allen. Where do you live?” I place the pictures down on my desk, side by side. I am a stranger and even I can see how happy Timothy is in the first picture I was given. He’s smiling there. He’s himself. He’s natural. People say that god doesn’t make mistakes. Sometimes, I wonder if that’s true.

  “Georgetown. I tried every funeral home there and then one in McClellanville. Word had spread though. That’s why I pushed farther and found myself here.”

  “There are other homes though you could have tried, closer to your home.”

  “I was drawn here, Tori. That’s all the explanation I have.” His right hand lifts and reaches out to me. I pick up his son’s photos and hand them over. “He was perfect, Ms. Cage. A great student. He’d been accepted to Columbia in the fall. He wanted to be a lawyer. He just went out one night to a friend’s house in Carris and he never came back.”

  “I’m sure he was a wonderful person, Allen and I’m so sorry he’s gone.” I wonder for a moment, what would have drawn Allen to me. Normally, the spirits that die within this county feel my power and that compels their living relatives to give me the job. But Timothy was from a county over. I would have thought Georgetown too far.

  “Will you help me?”

  “Allen, you can’t be sure that your son is dead. He could have just taken off.” I try to be reasonable, my hands on my desk, palms up and trying to will him to understand the oddness of his request. “How can we have a funeral without a body? And what if he turns up tomorrow or the next day or a month from now? What will you tell him?”

  “My son is gone, Tori. I can feel it. In my bones, my flesh, my heart, my soul. He is gone. And he deserves a proper funeral.”

  “We can have a service here, but it would make no sense to go graveside, to bury an empty casket. And would people come?” I imagine for a moment the empty service room, the empty coffin, Allen sitting in a chair trying to get past his grief.

  “It won’t be empty.”

  “I don’t understand, Allen.”

  “Recently, I lost Timothy’s childhood dog to cancer. I’d like to bury him in his place. It will be like I am truly setting my son to rest. Timothy would have liked that. Rosemary was his best friend in the world. A dog always accepts, you see, no matter what you look like. They judge you on your kindness, not on your appearance.” Allen reaches down and gets yet another thing from his briefcase. It’s a pink collar, various colored tags dangling from the webbing. “She’s still with the vet at the moment, in one of their storage freezers.”

  I sit in stunned silence, not quite sure what to say. One glance at his face, and there’s only one answer. Only one response that will sit well with my conscience.

  “I’ll do it, Allen. I can’t pretend that I really understand, but I’ll do it. When would you like to have the service?”

  “Two weeks from today, if you can manage it. It would have been Timothy’s eighteenth birthday.” He’s stopped crying, the truly wet material of his hanky sat on his lap to dampen his pants. “You don’t know what you’re doing for me, Tori. You’re giving an old man some peace.”

  “That’s my job, Allen. I’m sorry you had to come all this way to find someone to help. It shouldn’t be that way. It’s nearly in our job descriptions to be understanding and kind.”

  When he stands, the
hanky floats to the ground as if it is caught in slow motion. A camera, frame by frame, watching its descent. He stares at it before bending down to pick it up along with his briefcase. “Isn’t life strange,” he murmurs, “that some things should happen so fast and others so slow. That sometimes, everything is backwards. Children should never go before their parents. It shouldn’t be possible.”

  “You’ll get no argument with me on that account.” I walk around the desk and pat him on the shoulder. “It’s going to be all right, as all right as it can be in this situation. We’ll give Timothy and Rosemary a proper send off. Something he would have loved. We won’t need to worry about the state and government regulations pertaining to the undead. So you’ll save money there—no need to chain and concrete. But, Allen,” I pause, fighting the urge to bite my lip, “maybe he’ll turn up. Don’t give up hope.”

  “He was easy to love, now, he’s hard to remember.” Allen is in a daze, perhaps from relief at finally finding someone who would listen and understand. I lead him to the door, applying gently pressure on his back. His head seems to clear a little when the wintery breeze outside hits him in the face. “Oh, I almost forgot. Timothy’s boyfriend would like to say a few words at the service.”

  I don’t comment on the boyfriend. “Sure, that’ll be special.”

  “You’re kind not to say anything. Most people I tell wonder why he wouldn’t date a girl if he identified as a boy. They don’t understand that loving someone has nothing to do with gender. At least, it didn’t in my Timothy’s case.” His hands are shaking a little, the briefcase knocking softly against his thighs with a soft thump, thump, thump.

  “Allen, I don’t judge. I try not to at least. Sometimes, I prove I’m human and I think things that aren’t understanding or kind. But I can say, honest to god, that I do my best to be accepting.”