“Try—hmph—saying it,” Hemming leaned in close. “Try saying you hate me.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I leaned in closer, meeting his eye. His lips were a whisper away from mine. “Fuck you.”
After we stared at each other for a solid hour from opposite ends of the kitchen, waiting for something exciting or terrible to happen as a result of poison consumption, like frothing at the mouth or exploding eyeballs, I announced I was fine, and I insisted Hemming leave. I crawled into bed and fell asleep without incident, and when I awoke, my body felt invigorated, like I’d been on the grandest holiday, complete with spa treatment. I stretched my arms and legs with a big yawn.
Today was the day.
Today, I’d play the Three Kings Game. Today, I’d either win and live, or I’d lose and die.
Helen picked me up at eleven that evening. She served as my ‘helper’ for the night’s festivities, as Hemming refused to return my calls. With little enthusiasm, Helen explained that we’d utilize her house for the game. We didn’t say much to each other on the drive over. We didn’t have to. I wasn’t sure who was more nervous, her or me. She parked in front of an old barn, illuminated only by her headlights. With curious inspection, I noted that the shadowed lofts and creaky noises leaking from the boards above. Helen explained the barn hadn’t been used in decades, but the smell of horses and manure lingered in the air, along with moldy hay. We set up three bales of hay, two facing each other, with dusty antique mirrors placed atop the bales, leaning against wooden beams. The seating represented three points of a triangle.
In the wellhouse, I filled a metal basin full of chilly water and placed it beside my throne of hay. I intended the basin as a backup if I was unable to blow out the candle. I scoffed at how ridiculous the entire night was panning out to be, and a tinge of guilt tugged on my conscience. I spent my day Christmas shopping with Billie, skipping through crowded stores and gossiping along the way.
“Everything alright, hussy?” Billie prodded as I selected a non-stick bakeware set for Aunt June.
I managed my best smile and lied straight to her face, “Yes, perfectly fine. Everything alright with you?” I loathed lying to my cousin, especially since I fibbed from the very beginning of our new friendship, omitting details of magic and danger entirely. Though I attempted to convince myself otherwise, Billie’s suspicion seeped out during our conversations.
She nodded, eyeing me from head to toe. “What do you want for Christmas? You have to tell me something, otherwise I’ll buy you a room of vibrators—maybe even a Diva Cup!”
“Oh!” I flinched at her use of the v-word. “I have everything I want,” I brushed her off.
“Why don’t you stop pretending that your former cult being in Florida doesn’t bother you?” she demanded, her tone tinged with annoyance as she revved the Jeep’s engine. “I’ll be frank with you, I don’t mind the whole Christian vibe—you know, holding yourself accountable for all the dumb shit you do, attempting not to be an asshole to folks in a desperate struggle to secure a place in Heaven—but I don’t understand Jesus Christ’s self-proclaimed, number one fans, who you spent the last six years of your life with.”
“What do you think happens after you die?” I blurted out.
Billie jerked the Jeep into a gas station, screeching the vehicle to a halt in front of a pump. “Why? What are you planning to do? Do you need to talk to a professional? I talked to a therapist after my parents got divorced. I saw some shit I cannot un-see—my dad in bed with another woman, my mom crying until the early hours of morning. The therapist helped me through it...She told me it wasn’t my fault,” Billie spoke at the speed of light, rattling words off without pausing. “We can go to a therapist right now. I’ll call and make an appointment. We’ll bulk up on security around the house,” she held her phone in a death grip, bringing the screen to life.
“No! That’s...that’s not it.” Billie stopped frantically flipping through her contact list and studied my face.
“Oh, well...I’m not sure what happens after death—as far as where you go, what happens to your soul, if souls even exist,” she bit her lip. “A bunch of my classmates are part of an atheist club. I attended a meeting once. Their snack selection was lackluster. No one actually likes pretzels, but I digress...They explained that death was like falling asleep. For example, do you remember anything before you were born?”
I shook my head. Of course, I didn’t remember anything before age three or four. “The atheist club president said that’s what death is like. You don’t care. You don’t remember. You don’t think. Because you’re nothing.”
“Nothing,” I mused, rubbing my temple. I’d never been content with the concept of nothingness—the notion that, one day, our existence inevitably fades into memory, and those who hold our memories dear will wither away. Thus, a person’s existence vanishes from the world—forever—taking on a new identity: “nothing.”
Perhaps that’s why I couldn’t stomach the rejection of an afterlife. The idea of the earth’s inhabitants, composed of soulless beings, fulfilling our respective responsibilities to live, and nothing more. I believed I possessed a soul, because I felt it shatter long ago. My childhood sprinted off with pieces, but experience demonstrated that kindness held the ability to reassemble the shards.
I’d known for a while I could never be nothing, as there’s nothing in nothingness for me. In the beginning, we start out as nothing, we are no one, until we become something—more than ash, dirt, bones, or a stone in an old graveyard by the sea.
“Interesting!” I piped up, coating my words in optimism and cheerfulness. We sped off to Aunt June’s, and I refused to wallow in the idea of death. I embraced Billie and Aunt June after dinner, complimenting Aunt June on her tasty rendition of oven-fried chicken: breaded in Panko, with a light dusting of cheese, baked in the oven until crisp. Then, I departed to the pool house without another word.
When we were finished, Helen and I strolled back to her cottage and purposefully left the barn door open. My stomach growled as we crossed the threshold. Seated on a leather couch with the TV off, Hemming awaited our return, with the look of absolute dejection plastered across his face. If I lost the game tonight, there would be consequences. Consequences I didn’t fully understand. I had no knowledge of the Shadowside. Who resided there? How was it different from our world? And what would happen to me if I got stuck there?
“It would be beneficial if you got a bit of rest before the festivities begin,” Helen instructed, placing a black kettle over the wood burning stove. The cottage was more like a cabin, with old, wooden floors and intricate woodwork sprinkled throughout the kitchen. When the kettle screeched and fumed, Helen poured the hot water into a mug, dunking in a tea bag. She handed the mug to me, with an unreadable expression: “You can use Hemming’s room. We’ll wake you when it’s time.” This wasn’t a suggestion as much as it was an order.
I sighed. I was tired. Hemming rose to his feet without saying a word, establishing eye contact then tilting his head toward his room. I followed him down the narrow hallway. His room and Helen’s were on opposite sides of the house. The moment I stepped through the doorway, I knew he must’ve called shotgun on the master suite. Not overly spacious, the room was equipped with a built-in desk that overlooked the river, a wide, king-sized bed arranged with a cozy patched blanket tucked in the center of the room, and an armoire that reached the ceiling. The bedroom led into the master bath, with granite countertops, Jacuzzi tub, and a glass-door shower, but my favorite part of Hemming’s bedroom was the entire wall, comprised of glass, overlooking the river. The sliding glass doors opened up to a series of stone steps illuminated by lanterns, pacing down to a floating dock surrounded by bobbing cattails. Weathered Adirondack chairs were arranged into a circle around a metal firepit. During the day, it could’ve functioned as the perfect spot for an alligator to sunbathe.
I pressed my face against the glass to catch a glimpse of the night sky b
ouncing off the calm waters. The moon was high and full enough to irradiate the surrounding details, like floating Spanish moss and the occasional disturbance rippling beneath the water’s surface. The stars twinkled and danced off the river’s reflection like lightning bugs in the summer. I sucked in a deep breath. Aside from my pacing heart, the only sound I could decipher was the chirping cicadas.
“Why?” I wondered aloud, keeping my eyes fixed on the water. The question had filled my thoughts as I paced around the pool house for the majority of the evening.
Hemming cleared his throat. I could feel his eye studying me. “‘Why’ what?”
“Why didn’t you tell me from the beginning? From the moment I stepped into the ice-cream shop, asking for a job? What were you waiting for exactly? Why did you treat me kindly when you just wanted something from me the entire time?” I tore my eyes away from the window to look Hemming straight in the face. Pressure built in my chest, circulating through my body and rumbling in my ears. My cheeks became hot. “You made me care about you, so you could ask me to kill you. What a flawless plan.”
“I didn’t make you do anything, Miss Fox,” Hemming snapped back.
“Well, you certainly didn’t stop me,” I hissed, easing myself into his office chair and propping my feet on top of the wooden desk. “Tell me, if I die tonight, will you mourn my death?”
“Hmph—no,” Hemming replied without much thought. His response smacked into me like a ton of bricks, and I cringed from the blow. “Death would be much preferred over what awaits, should you win the Game,” his top lip twitched. “Now, kindly remove your boots from my desk.”
“Ask nicely.”
“Rise, please,” he grumbled through clenched teeth. He strode over to me, offering his hand. I took it somewhat reluctantly. He slid open the glass door, letting a warm breeze in, and led me outside, down the uneven stone steps. “I can tell sleep will be difficult this evening,” Hemming murmured. I peeked at my phone. It was midnight exactly.
We sat along the dock’s edge, letting our bare feet hang over the water, which felt dangerous. An alligator or angry manatee could emerge from below the surface and claim a toe at any time.
“Why Florida?” was the only question that passed my lips. ‘Openness’ and ‘Hemming’ didn’t jive in the same sentence. He always limited my questioning.
“Florida is where fossils find their final resting place.”
I cringed at his nonchalant statement and dipped another toe into the water, contemplating what to ask next. “Tell me the truth, all of the truth,” I demanded.
“The truth? Helen and I have been incredibly accommodating to your questions—”
“I’m not a brain donor! You’re not telling me the whole truth—about the Cù Sìth, about how you knew my father. I know nothing about you.”
“Mmm…” Hemming nodded, absorbing my anxiety and anger in his gaze. His long fingers trailed across the splinters of the wooden dock. “We’d reached a dead end, Helen and I. The name “Fox” was our only trace of hope, whispered by a strung-out gypsy witch in a Bulgarian whorehouse in exchange for 1,805 Lev...roughly—hmph—one-thousand dollars,” Hemming rubbed his palms back and forth on his pants leg.
“As we scoured the world for the Fox, we intercepted a Nixie named Ornella when we were hot on your father’s trail.”
“Pause, please—a Nixie?”
Hemming bowed his head, “A shape shifter, much like myself. However, her ability was inherited. Nixies are unique...They’re able to glimpse into the future. They’re caregivers. This particular Nixie was your mother’s midwife. She saw us coming, nearly two weeks before Helen and I crossed the Florida line.”
My mouth dropped open, but Hemming silenced me with his continuation.
“Ornella guarded your mother’s hospital room, waiting on my arrival, but I was insistent on seeing George. I’d spent months attempting contact, writing letters and leaving messages on his voicemail. He dodged my every attempt until that night, when he ordered Ornella to step aside, assuring her he had business to tend to.” Hemming gulped, diverting his attention to the water. “I think he was intrigued by my desperation. And so, I told him what he craved to hear. I told him the details of mine and Helen’s transformation into the Cù Sìth.”
He ground his fist onto the dock in a nervous tic, but allowed his story to unravel from his lips and into the static between us. He shuffled through the details of the ride to Dachau, where he and Helen saw their mother for the last time, being beaten into the mud and chaos. He told me how Helen held him through the bitter cold, whispering and promising the next day would bring light to retract the darkness, though, Hemming thought she didn’t believe her own words. He lingered on his hatred of Dr. Mengele and the SS physicians, choking on his description of their clinical approach and cruelty. His eye watered when he recalled watching his sister’s organs being removed while she was awake and driven mad by pain, and the side of his mouth trembled as he recalled the origin of his scars, the burning acid of his eyeball draining down his throat.
I reached to squeeze his hand, urging him to continue even though I didn’t want to hear the whole story. Finally, he arrived at the injection administered and the life that awaited he and his sister as they awoke, piled next to the ovens.
“We should have died as the bullets pierced our hearts, our shoulders, our brains, but instead, death awoke the Cù Sìth. We were children no longer,” Hemming traced a single finger along the scarred side of his jaw. “We ran away from the horrors of our old life, not fully understanding the ramifications of our new one. With new stride, power, and an insatiable hunger, we targeted villages, devouring the flesh of the weakest—sometimes animals, but mostly the elderly and small children. Of course, in the moment, neither of us fully processed our actions. As the Cù Sìth, violence was pure instinct. There was no lingering guilt or morality—just sustenance.”
“The year was 1959. I awoke with a chill on my bare skin—the morning dew nestled itself across our den. I’d been dreaming of mother—the mouth-watering bread she baked every week. How she tucked me and Helen under several blankets when the frightening storms rolled in, lulling us to sleep with stories of her past. Images of my mother’s head, caved in from being bludgeoned, poured in. I remembered the way her body twitched even after death. I sobbed, choking on my own sorrow, knowing I would never truly escape from the hauntings of my life. When I reached to wipe away a tear, my hand was flesh. I was flesh. I was a man—a boy no more—but Cù Sìth remained, just under the surface, always waiting,” he shook his head and sighed.
“With over a decade trapped in the body of a monster, my mother’s humanity allowed me to separate myself from the Beast, but it was the lack of humanity that got me and Helen here in the first place,” Hemming took my hand in his. “We are wicked, Helen and I. The things we have done would truly horrify you. With an everlasting life, we remain this way, frozen, forever. The memories—-ripping apart flesh, gnawing on bone, devouring the weak—they flood in, all at once. We cannot move on.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. Hundreds of stolen images entered my mind, none of them pleasant: visions of two frightened children, dragged away from their mother, and the awful conditions within the camp. How Hemming must’ve felt to watch his friends and family slowly tortured at the hands of a nation he once called home. How terrifying it must’ve been for the twins to lose each other, little by little, each day. Their lives were ripped from them and replaced with something they never asked for. I understood Hemming’s withdrawn nature, solidified by a lifetime of conditioning.
“I do not seek your pity.” Hemming paused and shook his head, “I have seen the devil, Miss Fox. He is handsome man, who grins and wields a scalpel, saying ‘This will hurt me much more than you, kid.’ He forces you watch as they take away your sister’s chance at becoming a mother. And when the tears and screaming and pleading begin, he pulls a sweetie from his pocket, hands it over with a pat on the s
houlder, and assures you that you’ll go home tomorrow.”
“I tell you my story because you have a choice. Helen and I didn’t. You could walk out of this house right now if you wished. Go to parties, finish your studies, find some…gentleman to settle down with and have a… nuclear family…what is it? Two and a half children? I’m not sure how that works. Who knows how long the Belladonna can keep the Fox at bay? I would be happy to procure some more, if you would turn around and go home tonight.”
“But what about you and Helen? I thought that was the entire point of this whole—“ I pointed between Hemming and myself, “arrangement. The two of you wanted something from me, and I wanted answers from the two of you. If I leave right now, doesn’t that defeat the whole purpose of y’all moving to…Florida?”
He nodded, understanding my reference. I wanted to say, Hey, if I get cold feet tonight and go off the grid, who’s going to murder the two of you? Wasn’t that the whole point of associating with me? But I refrained, because I thought that might sound a bit brash.
“I am a patient man, Miss Fox. Helen may not seem like it, but we’ve waited a long time to restore the natural…order. I am no longer tied to this life. Time has ceased to exist since I became the Cù Sìth. It’s just an endless loop, replaying over and over. You will learn this, should you survive the Game. I will not mislead or deceive you. I long for release. I’ve waited a lifetime for death. But not at the expense of your free will,” Hemming stroked a shy finger across my jaw with a sad smile. I held my breath. “Too many have tried to take your free will from you. I will not, and I’ve realized I cannot. You deserve to navigate your own life.”
I sighed and closed my eyes. I couldn’t help but inhale his scent, piney and distinctly masculine. Breathing in was like taking a long drag of a cigarette after a twelve-hour shift. I leaned into his touch. He didn’t pull away.
“Why do you never call me Kate?” I whispered, tilting my head upwards to meet his gaze. He moved his long fingers across my hair, trailing to the ends. I grabbed his hand before it dropped to his side. My stomach fluttered, and I forgot to breathe when he propelled forward and our lips collided. His lips were warm and his stubble tickled my upper lip. The kiss wasn’t gentle and questioning like our first. He was needy and commanding. I gasped when his tongue entered my mouth, and I forgot what to do with my hands; what hands even were. I found a place for them, roaming his chest and pulling his collar towards me. I needed more. I needed Hemming.
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