Jessica stepped away from him, her lungs burning. She needed to be alone. Away from them all. Even Dillon. The memories were crowding far too close. None of the others knew what had happened to her and the discussion was skimming the edges of where she did not want to go.
“I’m sorry, Brian, I guess it just seems so much easier to blame someone else. I thought I’d gotten over that. I should have tried harder to put her into a hospital.”
“I don’t worship in your house,” Brian said. “I know how you feel. I know you keep battery-powered lights rather than candles in case your generator breaks down because you can’t stand to see an open flame. I know you don’t want incense or any reminders of the occult here and I don’t blame you, so I take it outside away from your home. I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to upset you, Dillon.”
“I shouldn’t have accused you. Next time, get rid of the circle so the kids don’t get curious. I don’t want to have to explain all that to them.”
Brian looked confused. “I didn’t set up for a ceremony anywhere near the trail, or that area.” His protest was a low murmur.
Dillon’s gaze and attention was on Jessica. She was very pale. Her hands were trembling and she put them behind her as she backed toward the door. “Jess.” It was a protest.
She shook her head, her eyes begging him for understanding. “I’m turning in, I want to spend some time with the twins.”
Dillon let her go, watched her take his heart with her as she hurried out of the room.
chapter
10
TARA HELD THE COVERS back to allow Jessica to leap beneath the quilt. Clad in her drawstring pajama bottoms and a spaghetti strap top, Jessica’s hair spilled loosely down her back in preparation for bed. She hopped over Trevor’s makeshift bed and slid in beside Tara. “Why is the room so cold?”
“Your mysterious window-opener has struck in Tara’s room,” Trevor said. “It was wide open and the curtains were wet from the rain. The room was all foggy, Jess.” He deliberately didn’t tell her about the magic circle made of incense ash on the floor beside the bed which both he and Tara had worked to clean. She would never let them out of her sight if she found out about it.
Jessica sighed. “How silly. Someone has a fetish for open windows. How about your room, Trev, anything out of place?”
“No, but then I set up the video camera in my room,” he said with a cheeky grin. “I thought someone had come in and gone through my things so I wanted to catch them in the act if they came back.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her.
“And just who did you suspect and what did you think they were looking for?” Jessica demanded.
“I figured I’d catch Brenda looking for the cash,” he admitted.
“Brenda’s nice now,” Tara objected. “She’s not going to go through your smelly old socks looking for the money everyone knows you stash in them.”
“Only you know that.” Trevor glared at her.
“Now I do,” Jessica pointed out with an evil smirk.
Tara wrinkled her nose. “He puts the money in his dirtiest, smelliest pair.”
“That is so disgusting, Trevor. Put your dirty socks in the clothes hamper,” Jessica lectured, “they aren’t a money bank.”
“So are you going to tell us whether or not Dad killed Brian?” Trevor tried to sound very casual, but there was an underlying hint of worry in his voice. “The suspense is doing me in.”
“Of course he didn’t. Brian’s religion is a very old one, the worshipping of the earth and deities that are in harmony with the earth. He does not worship the devil, nor is he into the occult.” She hesitated, looked at the two identical faces. “Your mother followed his example for a while but during the last year of her life, when she became so ill, she met a man named Phillip Trent. He was truly evil.” Just saying his name sickened her. She felt it then, that terrible coldness that could creep into a room. Unnatural. Unbidden. Beneath the covers she pressed her hand to her stomach, terrified she would be sick.
“What’s wrong, Jess?” Trevor sat up very straight.
She shook her head. It was a long time ago. A different house. That evil man was dead and nothing that he had brought to life remained behind. It was impossible. Everything had burnt to the ground, reduced to a pile of ashes. It was only her imagination that the curtain stirred slightly on a cold air current when the window was closed. It was only her imagination that she felt eyes watching her. Listening. To think that if she spoke of that time, something evil would triumph, would be set free.
“Your father knows the difference. Brian explained that he worships outside, rather than in the house, out of respect for Dillon’s feelings. I didn’t ask him about the circle in my room because I want to ask him about it in private. Dillon is protective of all of us. They’re good friends and they’ve talked it out.” Jessica shivered again, her gaze darting around the room to the corners hidden in shadows. She felt uneasy. Memories were far too close to the surface. She knotted her fist in the quilt.
Tara leaned close to her, studying her face. She glanced at her brother, and then put her hand over Jessica’s, rubbing lovingly. “Tell us the Christmas story, Jessie. It always makes us feel better.”
Jessica slipped deeper into the bed, snuggling into the pillow, wanting to hide beneath the covers like a frightened child. “I’m not certain I remember it exactly.”
Trevor snorted his disbelief but gamely opened the familiar tale. “Once upon a time there were two beautiful children. Twins, a boy and a girl. The boy was smart and handsome and everyone loved him, especially all the girls in the neighborhood, and the girl was a punky little thing but he generously tolerated her.”
“The true story is just the opposite,” Tara declared with a sniff.
“The true story is, they were both wonderful,” Jessica corrected, falling in with their all too obvious ploy. “The children were good and kind and very loving, and they deserved much happiness. Alas, they both suffered broken hearts. They hid it well, but the evil, wicked Sorcerer had stolen their father. The Sorcerer had locked him away in a tower far from the children, in a bitter, cold land where there was no sun, where he never saw the light of day. He had no laughter, no love, and no music. His world was bleak and his suffering great. He missed his children and his one true love.”
“You know, Jess,” Trevor piped up, “that whole one true love thing used to make me gag when I was little, but I think I like it now.”
“That’s the best part,” Tara objected, appalled at her brother’s lack of romance. “If you can’t see that, Trev, there’s no hope you’re ever going to get the girl.”
He laughed softly. “It’s all in the genes, little sister.”
Tara rolled her eyes. “He’s so weird, Jessie, is there hope for him? Don’t answer, just tell us why the evil Sorcerer took him away and put him in the tower.”
“He was a beautiful man with an angel’s face and a poet’s heart. He sang with a voice like a gift from the gods and wherever he went, people loved him. He was kind and good and did his best to help everyone. He brought joy to their hard lives with his music and his wonderful voice. The Sorcerer grew jealous because the people loved him so very much. The Sorcerer didn’t want him to be happy. He wanted the father to be ugly and mean inside, to be cruel the way he was. So the Sorcerer took away everything that the father loved. His children. His music. His one true love. The Sorcerer wanted him to be bitter and to grow hateful and twisted. He had the father tortured, a painful, hideous cruelty in the dungeons of the tower. The Sorcerer’s evil minions hurt him, disfigured him and then they threw him in the tower, sentenced to an eternity of darkness. He was left alone without anyone to talk to, to comfort him, and his heart wept.”
There was a catch in Jessica’s voice. They would never know completely what life had done to him, taken from him. The twins had been five at the time of the fire and they had only vague memories of Dillon as he was in the old days, the charismatic, joyful poet who brought such
happiness to everyone with his very existence.
“The children, Jess,” Trevor prompted, “tell us about them.”
“They loved their father dearly, so much so that they cried so many tears the river swelled and flooded the banks. Their father’s one true love comforted them and reminded them that he would want his children to be strong, to be examples of how he had always lived his life. Helping people. Loving people. Taking responsibility when others would not. And the children carried on his legacy of service to the people, of loyalty and love even as their hearts wept in tune with his.
“One night, when it was cold and the rain poured down, when it was dark and the stars couldn’t shine, a white dove landed on their windowsill. It was tired and hungry. The children immediately fed it their bread and gave it their water. The father’s one true love warmed the shivering bird in her hands. To their amazement the dove spoke to them saying that Christmas was near. That they should find the perfect tree and bring it into their home, and decorate it with small symbols of love. Because of their kindness, a miracle would be granted them. The dove said they could have riches untold, they could have life immortal. But the children and the father’s one true love said they wanted only one thing. They wanted their father returned to them.”
“The dove said he wouldn’t be the same, that he would be different,” Tara chimed in eagerly with the detail.
“Yes, that’s true, but the children and the father’s one true love didn’t care, they wanted him back any way they could have him. They knew that what was in his heart would never be changed.”
Outside Tara’s room, Dillon leaned against the door, listening to the sound of Jessica’s beautiful voice telling her Christmas tale. He had come looking for her, hating the sorrow he’d seen on her face, needing to remove the swirling nightmares from her eyes. He should have known she would be with the twins. His children. His family. They were on the other side of the door. Waiting for him. Waiting for a miracle. Tears burned in his eyes, ran down his cheeks unchecked, and clogged his throat, threatening to choke him as he listened to the story of his life.
“Did they find the perfect tree?” Tara prompted. There was such a hopeful note in her voice that Dillon closed his eyes against another fresh flood of tears. They were wrenched from the deepest gouge in his soul. Enough to overflow the banks of the mythical river.
“At first they thought the dove meant perfection, as in physical beauty.” Jessica’s voice was so low he had to strain to hear. “But eventually, as they looked through the forest, they realized it was something far different. They found a small, bushy tree in the shadow of much larger ones. The branches were straggly and there were gaps but they knew at once it was the perfect giving tree. Everyone else had overlooked it. They asked the tree if it would like to celebrate Christmas with them and the tree agreed. They made wonderful ornaments and carefully decorated the tree and the three of them sat up on Christmas Eve waiting for the miracle. They knew they had chosen the perfect tree when the dove settled happily in the branches.”
There was a long silence. The bed creaked as someone turned over. “Jessie. Aren’t you going to tell us the end of the story?” Trevor asked.
“I don’t know the end of the story yet,” Jessica answered. Was she crying? Dillon couldn’t bear it if she were crying.
“Of course you do,” Tara complained.
“Leave her alone, Tara,” Trevor advised. “Let’s just go to sleep.”
“I’ll tell you on Christmas morning,” Jessica promised.
Dillon listened to the sound of silence in the next room. The tightness in his chest was agony. He stumbled away from the pain, back up the stairs, back into the darkness of his lonely tower.
Jessica lay listening to the sounds of the twins sleeping. It was comforting to hear the steady breathing. Outside the house, the wind was knocking at the windows like a giant hand, shaking the sills until the panes rattled alarmingly. The rain hit the glass with force, a steady rhythm that was soothing. She loved the rain, the fresh clean scent it brought, the way it cleared the air of any lingering smell of smoke. She inhaled, drifting, half in and half out of sleep. Fog poured into the room carrying with it an odor she recognized. She smelled incense and a frown flitted across her face. She tried to move. Her arms and legs were too heavy to lift. Alarmed, she fought to wake herself, recognizing she had moved beyond drifting, past dreams to her all too familiar nightmare.
She wouldn’t look at them. Any of them. She had gone beyond terror to someplace numb. She tried not to breathe. She didn’t want to smell them, or the incense, or hear the chanting, or to think about what was happening to her body. She felt the hand on her, deliberately rough, cruelly touching her while she lay helplessly under the assault. She had fought until she had no strength. Nothing would stop this demented behavior and she would endure it because she had no other choice.
The hand squeezed her hard, probed in tender, secret places. She would not feel, would not scream again. She couldn’t stop the tears; they ran down her face and fell onto the floor. Without warning the door burst open, kicked in so that it splintered and hung at an angle from broken hinges. He looked like an avenging angel, his face twisted with fury, his blue eyes blazing with rage.
She cringed when he looked at her, when he saw the obscenity of what they were doing to her. She didn’t want him to see her naked and painted with something evil touching her body. He moved so fast she wasn’t certain he was real, ripping Phillip Trent away from her. There was the sound of fist meeting flesh, the spray of blood in the air. She was helpless, unable to move, unable to see what was happening. There were screams, grunts, a bone cracked. Shouted obscenities. The smell of alcohol. She was certain she would never be able to bear the odor again.
And then he was wrapping her in his shirt, loosening the ties that bound her hands and feet. He lifted her, with tears streaming down his face. “I’m sorry, baby, I’m sorry,” he whispered against her neck as he carried her from the room. She caught glimpses of broken furniture, of glass and scattered objects. Bodies writhing and moaning on the floor as he carried her out. His hands were bloody but gentle as he placed her in her bed, rocked her gently while she cried and wept until both their hearts were broken. She begged him not to tell anyone how he found her.
She had no idea how much time passed. He was filled with fury, his rage was still lethal. He was arguing she needed her mother, stalking from her room to cool off outside where he couldn’t hurt anyone. She scrubbed herself in the shower until her skin was raw, until there were no tears left. She was dressing, her hands shaking so badly she couldn’t button her blouse, when she heard the volley of shots ring out. The sound of the gun was distinctive. The smell of smoke was overwhelming. It took a few moments to realize it wasn’t steam from the bathroom that was making the room hazy, it was clouds of thick smoke. She had to crawl through the hall to the twins’ room. They were crying, hiding under the bed. Flames ate greedily at the hall, up the curtains. There was no getting to the others.
She dragged the children to the large window, shoved them through, following, dropping to earth, skidding on the slick dirt. Tara crawled forward blindly, tears streaming from her swollen eyes that prevented her from seeing. She screamed as she slipped over the edge. Jessica lunged after her. They rolled, bounced, sliding all the way to the sea. Tara disappeared beneath the waves, Jessica hurtled after her. Down. Into darkness. The salt water stung. It was icy cold. Her fingers brushed the child’s shirt, slipped off, she grabbed again, caught a handful of material and held on. Kicking strongly. Surfacing. Struggling through the pounding waves with her burden. They lay together on the rocks, gasping for breath, the child in her arms. Her world in ruins.
Black smoke. Noise. Orange flames reaching the clouds. Screams. Wearily she pulled Trevor into her arms when he joined them. Together they slowly made their way back up the path leading to the front of the house. She saw Dillon lying there. He was motionless. His body was black, his arms outstr
etched. He was utterly silent but his eyes were screaming as he looked down in shock at the blackened ruin of his body. He looked up at her. Looked past her to the children. She understood then. Understood why he had entered a burning inferno. His gaze met hers as he stared helplessly up at her, in much the same way she must have stared up at him when he’d rescued her. As long as she lived, she would never forget the look on his face, the horror in his eyes. Jessica watched his blackened fingers turn to ash, watched the ash fall to the ground. She heard herself screaming in denial. Over and over. The sound was pure anguish.
“Jessie,” Trevor called her name softly, his arm around Tara. They helplessly watched as Jessica pressed herself against the wall near the window and screamed and screamed, her face a mask of terror. Her eyes were open, but they knew she wasn’t seeing them, but something else, something vivid and real to her, that they couldn’t see. Night terrors were eerie. Jessica was caught up in the web of a nightmare and anything they did often made it worse.
The door to the bedroom was flung open and their father rushed in, still buttoning his jeans. He wore no shirt, he was barefoot. His hair was wild and disheveled, falling around his perfectly sculpted face like dark silk. His chest and arms were a mass of rigid scars and whorls of raised red skin. The scars streaked down his arms and spread down his chest to his belly fading into normal skin.
“What the hell is going on?” Dillon demanded but his frantic gaze had already found Jessica pressed against the wall. He glanced at his children. “Are you all right?”
Tara was staring at the mass of scars. She pulled her gaze up to his face with an effort. “Yes, she has nightmares. This is a bad one.”
The Wicked and the Wondrous Page 35