The Strange Path

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  She stared at him. This went beyond anything she’d ever conceived, blowing her perception of the standard vampire myth out of the water. “Other races of Sanguire?”

  “Certainly.African, Asian, Indian.” He leaned back, one hairless eyebrow raised. “I was told Daniel informed you we procreate through natural sexual channels rather than horror story blood-sharing, did he not?”

  “He did.” She frowned in thought, remembering something along those lines. “So what are we?”

  Dorst smiled. “I and Fiona come from the European contingent. We are here on sufferance, as guests in this country.” He tilted his head. “Until we know your ancestry, we do not know where you belong. It is assumed by your appearance that you are also European, but time will tell.”

  Her mind full of questions, she didn’t know which to ask first. Here on sufferance? Guests of whom? She remembered their discussion on politics the night before, coming to the conclusion that if there were different groupings of these people, then there’d be government of some kind to rule them. “Jesus.”

  “A bit much to take in?” He smiled in sympathy. “Don’t tax yourself overmuch with the details, dear Whiskey. First we get you through the Ñíri Kurám. Your education will follow in due time.”

  Whiskey swallowed, and nodded. She forced herself to focus on the Book in her hands.

  Dorst carefully instructed her on the pronunciations of the required chant, pointing out with one long finger the syllables and words on the page. It took nearly an hour before she could recite it without error. When they finished, she recognized the strange letters that made up the words.

  “How long have you paid for this room?”

  “Just tonight. I check out by noon tomorrow.”

  He sniffed, eying his surroundings. “While it leaves much to be desired, you’ll need a place to sleep after you’ve finished. I’ll pay the landlord for another night.”

  Whiskey shook her head. “No, don’t worry about it. I’ll find somewhere.”

  Dorst swept into a low bow, his voice reverent. “I beg your forgiveness, sweet Whiskey, but I am your Baruñal. Until you’ve completed the chants, and come into your full power, I will keep you safe.” He peered at her from his bow, his eyes sparkling with humor despite his stance. “When you’ve attained adulthood, you may take me to task for my presumption.”

  She stared at him a moment before giving him a slow nod. “Okay. You’ve got a deal.”

  “Thank you. I know how much of a sacrifice it is for you to give over control.”

  Whiskey’s brow furrowed. “How do you know that?”

  “Call it a hunch, one that I hope will pay off handsomely.” He grinned, and swept toward the door. Pausing there, hand on the knob, he looked back at her. “Remember. Someplace you feel comfortable and safe. Not here. But return here as soon as you’ve finished. You’ll need the seclusion and rest.”

  “I remember.”

  Dorst opened the door. “Do you still think we’ve met before?”

  She examined her feelings. “Yeah, I do.”

  He lifted his chin in concession, and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

  Whiskey looked down at the leather-bound Book in her hand. It felt alive, the light tan covering warm against her fingers. After a few moments, she stood and packed it away, collecting her things. Even if she were staying here another night, she wasn’t about to leave her gear to be pilfered by the management.

  Chapter Twelve

  Whiskey stared over Puget Sound. She sat on a bench in Olympic Sculpture Park. Dawn prepared its approach in an hour or so. The park technically closed, the cops in passing cars wouldn’t hassle her unless she lay down to sleep. Smoke from her cigarette coiled over her head. From here, the lights of Bainbridge Island sparkled in the darkness, reflecting in the water like sunken treasure. Traffic passing around her on Elliott Avenue and Broad Street picked up with early morning commuters, garbage trucks and delivery vans. There’d be more activity soon, though not as much as on a weekday. Overhead, stars sparkled faintly in a clear sky. Looks like another sunny day. The thought made her grimace.

  She looked at the Book in her lap, idly brushing stray ashes from its cover. Taking a final drag off the cigarette, she sent it flying as well. The red glow disappeared into a patch of grass, a slow tendril of smoke rising above.

  Wondering if she should get into one of those silly yoga positions, she frowned. She should have asked Dorst, but had been too baffled by the information overload he’d imparted. Too late. She supposed she could call him on the cell phone. With a sigh, she shrugged to herself and took stock. Seated, her legs crossed at the ankles before her, she assessed her body. Comfortable enough, she opened the Book.

  She flipped gently to the page Dorst had shown her, mindful of the Book’s age, and peered at the writing in the dim nearby streetlight. Relieved to see her memory held, she closed her eyes, and let her breathing slow and deepen. Around her she heard the intermittent traffic bypassing her by a few hundred feet. A hedge of flowers grew close to her, their delicate scent filling her nose as she inhaled.

  Relaxed, Whiskey began the chant. The words rolled off her tongue with a strange sensation. Here, alone and in the waxing light, she felt a jolt of surprise. They came alive with her voice, something that hadn’t happened when she’d spoken the phonetic pronunciations with Dorst. The louder she spoke, the more substantial the words became. Her eyes closed, she imagined them floating in the air before her in greens and golds, visible for anyone to see.

  She finished her first recitation, and began the second. Dorst had told her to run through each chant four times. Her blood tingled. She detected each corpuscle burning a path through her body. The sensation solidified in her chest, growing stronger with each syllable and every beat of her heart.

  On the third repetition, her senses heightened to extraordinary levels. The smell of flowers overpowered her, a seductive lure distracting her from the meditation. With an iron will, she ignored it, banished it. The scent all but disappeared at her command. Amazed, she continued to speak, the words so real that she tasted them as they spilled from her lips—sharp and sweet, hot and heavy.

  A combination of giddiness and fear jabbed at her spine as she began the final run-through. What’s happening? She felt a physical shift in her head. Fireworks exploded behind her eyelids, blinding her with their nonexistent glare. She heard her surprised grunt from far away, ears no longer hearing street sounds. As she uttered the final word, she heard distant music, a familiar tune. She couldn’t quite place the slow, seductive beat that pulsed in time with her heart. It drew her, irresistibly tugging at her as the brilliant colors in her mind’s eye solidified.

  Flash.

  She found herself in a darkened hallway, thick carpet cozying her bare toes. Clutched in her arms, a floppy teddy bear kept her company, and she squeezed him in wonder and recognition. Upsy Downsy. That was the bear’s name. Her grandfather, a man with dark hair and benevolent eyes, had given the bear to her. She hadn’t seen Upsy Downsy since the age of six when an older foster brother had torn him apart in front of her. Somewhere the music played, interlaced with snatches of conversation.

  Lost in the dream, she followed the sounds, shuffling down a set of stairs, holding the banister that stood tall by her head. Strange and familiar faces turned to her, conferring indulgent smiles, touching her light blonde hair as she passed, speaking fondly of and to her. With a sleepy grin, she accepted their attentions as her due, hugging one or offering her bear to another for kisses. The air smelled of jasmine drifting in from the deck outside.

  She wandered through the party, following the music, knowing instinctively what she’d find. They were in the living area, wrapped in each other’s arms, dancing. Watching for a moment, she saw the love her parents shared, floating in a misty haze of gold and green around them. She laughed, and tumbled forward, caught by Daddy, and lifted high into the air.

  “What have we here?” His sky-bl
ue eyes sparkled. “A night owl come to watch over us?”

  “It’s me, Daddy!”

  He peered closely at her. “Why, so it is! Look, darling! Our lovely daughter has joined us for a dance!”

  She giggled as Mommy put her arms around both of them.

  “Then we shall dance.” The dark haired woman smiled, and kissed her forehead. “Afterward, it’s back to bed for a story.”

  Delighted, she hugged an arm around Mommy’s neck as Daddy cuddled her. “I love you very, very much! Can it be the story about the elves and the shoemaker?”

  “Whatever you wish, beautiful lady.”

  The three of them danced together to the music as family and friends watched, and Whiskey wished that every night would be like this.

  Flash.

  Whiskey recoiled from the dream, if dream it was. With a cry she bolted to her feet, the Book sliding from her lap and along the concrete, coming to rest at the edge of the flower bed. Eyes wild, she took in her surroundings. The sound lay quietly before her, traffic still coursing upon the nearby streets, and the sky had begun to lighten.

  At least an hour had passed, though it seemed ten minutes in her dream.

  Feeling soaked to the bone, she wiped at her face. The thought brought a shiver as a gentle spring breeze caressed her sweating skin. Knees shaky, she sat on the ground beside the bench, wrapping her arms about herself, staring at the leather Book a couple of feet away.

  What was that? A memory, yes; Whiskey now recalled it well. She couldn’t have been more than four or five at the time. It was so vivid! She trembled again as she recalled the warmth of her parents’ embrace, her mother’s gentle perfume, the sound of her father’s laugh. She could see them so clearly. She’d been devastated when she’d forgotten what her parents had looked like. Now she eagerly committed their faces to memory, hoping she could hold the images forever. She swallowed hard, eyes stinging. A hollow opened in her chest, a swooping, falling sensation that occurred whenever she pondered her parents on more than an intellectual level. She forced herself away from the feelings, lifting her chin and inhaling deeply of the dawn air.

  When her emotions settled, she knuckled away unshed tears and rose. She stood over the Book, glaring at it with a curled lip. Tempted to leave it there, she remembered its venerable age. Dorst wouldn’t be pleased if she dumped an expensive antique somewhere. Besides, there were more meditations to get through before she finished. With a dissatisfied growl, she picked up the volume. The cover pulsed thickly in time to her heartbeat. She almost dropped it again, Fascinated and repulsed, she shoved the thing into her pack, and quickly closed the flap.

  ***

  The walk back toward the hotel became surreal. Colors leapt out at her, brighter than they should be, more vibrant. They rang with with a low-level tone, one Whiskey couldn’t quite hear no matter how she concentrated. As the sky grew lighter, traffic increased. She walked along the Alaskan Highway Viaduct in wonder, eyes darting everywhere, trying to catch everything. A furniture delivery truck blatted past, and her mouth dropped open in surprise. She smelled the sound, a combination of turkey and onions!

  What the hell did that chant do to me? She waffled between fear and delighted pleasure. Many a time in her life she’d taken hallucinogenic substances for just such a high. She’d never quite attained this level of clarity before. Somehow the chant must have physically changed something within her brain. Just like Reynhard said it would. She frowned at her familiar use of his first name in her thoughts again. Attention now focused on him, his face popped into her mind, picture perfect. But a full head of dark brown hair flowed past his shoulders. He looked maybe ten years younger than he did now. His black eyes held a deep devotion, and he bowed his way backwards and away from her.

  “What the fuck?”

  Turning off the main road, she puzzled over the vision. It replayed over and over in her mind, nothing more and nothing less than what she’d already seen. She couldn’t see much else—not his clothes, or the place where they stood. Ten years ago, she’d been deep in the Oregon foster care system, already beginning to act out and get into trouble, a sullen eight-year-old girl with a huge chip on her shoulder. Had Dorst met her as a child? Had he been one of the masses of counselors, care providers and social workers she’d dealt with before leaving the system?

  No. The look in his eyes revealed the fault in her logic. He might have gotten through to her with such an expression, saved her from herself and her teenaged rebellion. Had she truly met him then, she would have fallen sway to the mysterious trust she already felt for him. They hadn’t met.

  Then how the hell do I know him?

  ***

  A couple of blocks shy of the hotel, Whiskey caught a whiff of grilling steak. Her stomach cramped in hunger, a sharp ache so strong it made her feet lurch. She licked her lips, eying the small diner from which the most delicious aroma came. She’d told Dorst she’d return to the hotel room to sleep off whatever effects occurred from the chant. It would be a small detour. “He wouldn’t want me to starve, right?”

  Entering the restaurant, the scent of food made her belly cramp again. She sank into the first chair she came to, fumbling her pack to the floor.

  “Are you okay?”

  She quelled her rebellious stomach enough to look up at the server. “Yeah, just give me a minute.”

  He gave her a long look, then glanced back at the counter for support from his co-workers. “You can’t stay here.”

  Whiskey scowled at him. “I came here to eat, not loiter. I’ve got money.”

  Holding up his hands in a calming gesture, he took a step back from her. “Okay. I just had to say it.”

  She nodded, disliking his assumption. Not that he didn’t have every reason to be concerned about an obviously homeless person taking up residence at one of his tables. If she’d been in his place, she’d be suspicious, too. “You got a special today?”

  “Steak and eggs, side of hash browns and toast or muffin.”

  Her mouth watered at the mention of steak. “I’ll take it. And bring a pot of coffee.”

  He hesitated.

  Whiskey rolled her eyes. She pulled out the last of the money Fiona had given her, and tossed it onto the table. Glaring, she gave him a questioning look.

  He swallowed, still nervous, but pulled out a pad and pen from his apron. “How do you want your eggs?”

  They hassled through the specifics. Whiskey surprised herself by ordering her steak rare; she preferred her meat well done. When he left to get her coffee, she relaxed. Her stomach no longer flip-flopped as she became inured to the smells around her. She breathed a sigh. What the hell is this about? Reynhard didn’t mention anything about getting sick.

  Staring out the window, she watched cars and pedestrians pass by. The sun began to crawl down the sides of the tall buildings in the downtown area. Sunlight reflected from upper windows, casting slivers of brightness to the ground below. Whiskey dug out her sunglasses, already beginning to feel a headache coming on. Unless it’s from the meditation, too?

  The server arrived with a metal coffee urn. He poured her a cup, leaving the urn on the table. She muttered thanks at his back as he fled. She continued to stare out the window, turning the vision over in her mind. The more she went over it, the less vivid it became. Immediately after, she’d called it a memory, but now she couldn’t recall ever experiencing what she’d seen. Was it a memory or a symbolic, idealized piece of crap from my subconscious? Last week had been the anniversary of her parents’ deaths—yet another reason for her tearfulness lately. It made sense for something like this to come out during a meditation now. Wistful, she wondered if the faces she now held of her parents were truly theirs.

  More people entered the diner, locals and regulars that came here often. They called to the server and the cook in the back with familiarity, taking their places along the counter and at the tables. They gave her a wide berth, leaving her to her melancholy thoughts. The waiter delivered her food
and ticket.

  She smelled bitter ambrosia from her plate. The contents of her stomach pitched to one side, but her mouth watered. She cut into her steak with trepidation, not sure she could keep anything down. Her heart raced at the pink blood running along her plate. She took her first bite and, for a brief moment froze as the steak juices hit her tongue. A sensation of exquisite pleasure coupled with a sharp stab of pain hit her. Her stomach turned over once, and she automatically swallowed against the surge of bile. The blood hit her stomach, calming it. A sudden warmth rippled through her body.

  “Don’t get steak much?”

  Whiskey blinked, glancing at the old codger seated at another table. “Not like this!’’ She fell to her breakfast with-single minded purpose.

  The old man chuckled, and returned to his paper.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Whiskey had every intention of returning to the hotel room after breakfast. Once outside, the sounds and sights of the wakening city distracted her, and she wandered along the street, watching and listening.

  Her emotional and physical response to the steak overwhelmed her. It fed a craving she hadn’t known she’d had. A surge of vitality came with each bite, a physical rush better than anything she’d experienced before. She’d been up all night. By rights, she should be ready for sleep, but felt restless and jittery. In contrast to the steak, the eggs and toast didn’t sit well, her stomach twisting with vague nausea at their inclusion. Why did she still feel hungry? Her stomach full beyond measure, her brain still insisted it needed nourishment.

  As she walked down the street, the smells assaulting her nostrils strengthened—dust, vehicle exhaust, overpowering cologne or sweat from passing pedestrians, acrid tar from roadwork, concrete and treated wood from nearby construction sites. Sound, too, bothered her. Everyone around her yelled rather than spoke, the cars and buses all rode without mufflers, and the canned music from a store across the way blared full blast. Her ears rang. The sun, always an irritant, burrowed into her skull despite her sunglasses. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.