Bellwether
By
Jenny Ashford
Damnation Books, LLC.
P.O. Box 3931
Santa Rosa, CA 95402-9998
www.damnationbooks.com
Bellwether
by Jenny Ashford
Digital ISBN: 978-1-61572-268-6
Print ISBN: 978-1-61572-269-3
Cover art by: Dawné Dominique
Edited by: Lisa Jackson
Copyright 2010 Jenny Ashford
Printed in the United States of America
Worldwide Electronic & Digital Rights
1st North American and UK Print Rights
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Dedicated To Paul
Chapter One
Lily Briar, the first follower, peered at the road ahead, her view bracketed by the profiled silhouettes of Father in the driver’s seat and Mother in the passenger’s. Neither of them was speaking. Lily looked to Mother, then to Father. The early afternoon sun filtered through the streaked windshield and made golden auras around them both, around Mother’s shawl-shrouded face, around Father’s smooth, bald head and square, hulking frame. A parabola-shaped scar was just visible above the collar of his ill-fitting suit. Lily knew them only as Mother and Father; she did not know their real names, and could not remember if she’d ever known them. She knew only that Mother and Father were All There Was. They were taking her on a journey, to someplace wonderful.
On the seat beside her, Rose shifted a little and yawned, her pink petal lips stretching enchantingly. Rose was Lily’s twin sister, although from Lily’s perspective, their twindom was something of a cruel joke. While Rose was tall and lithe, with golden-blonde hair framing a countenance that would make an angel weep with envy, Lily was given nothing but genetic leftovers, standing a bare inch or two above three feet, her face and limbs horribly stunted and deformed. For a long time, Lily harbored a burning resentment toward her sister, even as she loved her hopelessly, and relied on her unreservedly after the long-ago death of their real and barely-remembered parents. Now, she only smiled at her. Everything was all right now, with Mother and Father here. They were all in this together, a family.
The buildings, houses, and people of a large town were rushing past the windows. Lily gazed out at the blur, although it made little impression. Other than the hazy waves of heat, the drooping palm trees, and the crumbling Spanish architecture, the scene was no different from the dozens of others she had witnessed in the past several months, as the new little family made its way toward an unknown destination. They drove for countless miles, stopping rarely. The only break in the routine was more than a year ago; one day, Father stopped at a house somewhere on the endless plains of the Midwest, and stayed in there for quite a while, coming out later with a grin on his face and a few spots of blood on his coat. Not a word was said, and Lily shrugged and fell back into her musings, trusting Father had the best interests of the family at heart. Since that distant day it was nothing but driving and more driving.
They arrived Somewhere. Mother did not speak—she rarely did, and then only in cryptic whispers—but Father seemed to know her thoughts, and murmured assent just as though she had given him an explicit instruction. To Lily, his voice boomed like a god’s voice, echoing down from Mount Olympus.
Father turned the car onto a narrow, two-lane road, a residential neighborhood with little in the way of residences. The few houses became fewer and farther between as they drove, until there was nothing but thick flowering trees and sunlit patches of wild grass. Birds twittered and hopped playfully from shrub to shrub, as though tracking the car’s progress.
Lily stared down at her tiny, stunted fingers as they twisted excitedly in her lap. She knew they must have been nearing the end of their trip, the trip that Father talked about for months, relaying messages from Mother. She didn’t know what would happen, but Father said that after the trip, everything would be different, that soon Lily and Rose would have lots and lots of people to talk to. Lily liked the sound of that. As much as she loved Mother and Father, she did get lonely sometimes, lying awake on the little sofa in the trailer, or under the odd-smelling covers of a cot in some nondescript hotel room, while Father spoke in a low voice, conversing with Mother just as though she was replying to him, which she usually wasn’t. Lily knew they loved her—they let her live with them, didn’t they, and they even remembered to feed her most of the time—but they didn’t seem to notice her very much. They were very busy, always working and studying, always conferring silently about things Lily didn’t really understand. They were preoccupied, that was all. Of course there was always Rose, sleeping on the other, softer sofa in the trailer, or on the bigger bed in the hotel rooms, but sometimes she didn’t talk much either. It would be nice for Lily to have others around who would talk to her more, who would listen with rapt smiling faces when she talked to them, instead of looking down at her with disgust or worse, pity.
It would be nice to live somewhere else, somewhere permanent, besides hotels, or that tiny trailer which always smelled vaguely of sweat and old incense and rotting hay.
Mother’s withered hand emerged from beneath her layers of shawls and rested on Father’s arm. Lily sat up straighter as Father nosed the car onto a dirt path that was almost invisible if you weren’t looking hard for it. Tree branches festooned with moss arched over the path like a dappled cathedral ceiling, brown, green, and soaring. It was still bright daylight, so the shadows formed by the trees were friendly shadows, warm and transparent. Nothing could hide in them at this time of day, in this light.
The tree growth was so thick that the house itself was not visible until the car was almost upon it. Lily bounced up and down on her seat, not sure why she was excited, but seeing out of the corner of her eye that Rose was excited, too, her lean body strained forward for a better look.
The house was a large, rectangular two-story. Fresh white paint glowed on the stucco, making the structure stand out from the landscape with eye-popping clarity. An enormous brick porch spanned the entire front façade, supported by six fluted columns. The yard was slightly overgrown, but the effect was one of pleasant wildness and mystery, rather than shabby neglect.
Father stopped the car in the driveway and shut off the engine. He turned and gestured to Rose to accompany him, and she leapt nearly three inches off the seat. Lily felt a twinge of something—jealousy? Weren’t they all going inside? Wasn’t this the house they were going to live in now, as Lily fervently hoped? Why did only Rose get to go with Father?
As though Lily had spoken these questions aloud, Mother turned slowly in her seat, displeasure coming off her bird-like figure like a stench. Lily could not see Mother’s face, hidden behind the thick material, but she could imagine ice-blue points of light like lasers emerging from skeletal eye sockets, boring a hole through her flesh and into her being. Lily shrank back a little against the leather. She was sorry she had doubted Mother. Everything, of course, was going to be fine, and explained in due course.
Lily watched as Father maneuvered his bulk up the brick steps, his shadow nearly eclipsing Rose entirely. Rose, her short magenta skirt
flapping saucily about her thighs, turned and waved to Lily, who returned the gesture, grudgingly, from behind the dirty glass.
Then Father and Rose were on the porch, presumably knocking at the door. Lily let her eyes wander across the front of the house, taking in the darkened entrance with its stained glass inserts, the crisp black shutters and flower boxes, and the low windows that were all open to admit the mid autumn breezes. Sheer white curtains fluttered behind the screens.
Lily was staring at one of the windows for a long time before she noticed that there was a face behind it, looking back out at her.
Chapter Two
Martin watched as the car crept up the driveway, the brush in his hand dribbling red paint onto his bare feet. He swore, both at the mess and at the interruption, then balanced the brush on the edge of the table, scooping up a cloth to wipe at his toes. Luckily, the floor in this room was still covered with plastic sheeting, so the new carpet was safe.
He heard the engine die with a prolonged rattle, and he peered outside again. The car was a long, boxy thing, probably from the mid-seventies, although Martin wasn’t much interested in automobile makes and models. Its powder blue finish was eaten with rust in places, and its sides were splashed with dried mud, as though it had been driven a long way, presumably through a swamp. A forlorn-looking trailer bounced along behind it, crooked vertical blinds clacking behind tiny, screened windows. Martin couldn’t think of anyone who drove a getup like that; besides, if it was someone he knew, the driver would have known to pull around the back and park in the big dirt lot behind the house.
The sun reflected off the windshield, so he couldn’t see inside very well, but he thought he could make out a dark figure in the passenger seat, and maybe another couple in the back; short-looking silhouettes, probably kids. The driver’s side door opened and a man got out, a very tall man with muscled flesh barely restrained behind a rumpled gray suit. He wore dark glasses below his shining bald head, and his hands looked like two bundles of link sausages. Martin thought he looked seedy, but also scary and mean, like a particularly pugnacious traveling Bible salesman. Were there traveling salesmen anymore? Martin wondered.
Then one of the back doors opened and a girl emerged, stretching her long limbs like a butterfly breaking free of its chrysalis. She looked no more than eighteen or so, and had round, wide eyes that gave her a look of startled innocence, one that was just dying to be corrupted.
The man approached the porch, with the beautiful girl loping a few steps behind him. With a grumble, Martin realized that at some point he might actually have to answer the door – everyone else was out, and the guy had probably already seen him gaping out the window. As he wiped his hands on his jeans, it occurred to him that the guy might be here on some type of business—what if something was wrong with one of their permits? The place was due to open in three weeks’ time, and if there was a problem now, Martin wouldn’t have any idea what to do—Chloe was the brains of the operation and handled all the financial and business matters. Chloe wouldn’t be back for hours. On the other hand, why would a business guy bring a hot young girl in a mini-skirt along on his rounds? Martin had to admit he was mystified.
He heard shuffling footsteps on the brick just outside, so he pulled open the door before the guy could ring the bell. The man didn’t seem surprised, but it was hard to tell behind those glasses. He just stood there in the opening, mostly filling it with his bulk. The girl behind him flitted, trying to see around him, like a fairy circling a rhinoceros.
“Can I help you?” said Martin. He decided he wanted to get rid of this guy as quickly as possible—the mural on the west wall was nearly finished, and he wanted to get it done and everything cleaned up before Chloe and the others got home.
The man didn’t answer right away, instead leaning forward and peering past Martin’s shoulder, looking into the living room. He clasped his hands behind his back. His suit pulled in the front, buttons straining. “Very nice house you have here,” the man said. His voice was as thick as the circumference of his neck would have predicted. The tone of the sentence didn’t quite suggest a threat, but neither was it completely innocuous.
Martin chose to ignore the subtext. “Yeah, thanks.” He wasn’t going to get chummy with the guy, tell him that he owned the place jointly with three friends, that they had spent the last few months fixing it up, that in three weeks it was opening to the public as a combination coffeehouse, music venue, and art gallery. This guy and his—girlfriend? daughter?—were strangers, and none of this was any of their business, and anyway, when was this jackass going to say what he wanted and get lost?
“I wonder…” the man said, craning his scarred neck forward and around, trying to get a glimpse inside, “I wonder if you could…tell me if there’s a hotel nearby. My family and I,” here he made a vague gesture that encompassed the beautiful girl as well as the two shadowy figures still in the car, “have been driving a very long time, and well…” He trailed off and smiled, displaying a mouthful of graying teeth.
Martin didn’t smile back. He backed up, slightly, and tightened his grip on the door. Now he knew the guy was full of shit, because there were two very obvious hotels right on the corner of this road and the main one, and since the other end of this road was a dead end, he must have driven right past them. Was the guy blind as well as creepy?
Martin suppressed the urge to say something sarcastic, an urge which his girlfriend, Chloe, always insisted would get him killed one day, although she wasn’t the best one to talk. “You just go back up that road the way you came,” he said. “There’s a Holiday Inn and a La Quinta right there at the intersection. Big signs and everything. Can’t miss them.” Okay, so maybe he hadn’t completely suppressed the sarcasm.
“Yes. Fine.” The guy had a thin film of sweat sparkling on his hairless brow and upper lip. He leaned forward again, his hands still behind his back, and for a brief second Martin thought he was going to fall right on top of him, but then he suddenly snapped upright, his smile strained, a vein in his forehead twitching. “So, have you lived here long?” the man asked.
Martin sighed inwardly. Now the freak wanted to start a conversation. “No, not long,” he said, cursing his almost mechanical politeness, wishing Chloe was here, as she had no qualms about telling people to go fuck themselves before slamming the door definitively in their faces.
“Renovating, I see.” The guy was still smiling, but something about his expression seemed very odd and strained—he might even have been nervous about something, although what a man built like a concrete abutment would have to be nervous about, Martin couldn’t imagine. The girl peered around the big man’s shoulder, casting a flirtatious glance at Martin that was also tinged with fear.
Martin balled his hands into fists by his sides, no longer caring if they thought him rude. “Yes. Almost finished. I would like to get back to it.” His voice was tight. He hated the fact that the guy had seen into the house, seen all the work they’d been doing. It tarnished things, somehow.
“You didn’t tear it up too badly, I hope,” the man said, his jocular tone undercut by something hard, brittle. Had he taken Martin’s hint and chosen to ignore it? Or was there something else going on?
“Nothing too major. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He started to close the door, but the guy didn’t move. Jesus, was he ever going to leave? Martin glanced out at the car in the driveway, saw the two unmoving shadow-figures behind the glass. Didn’t his wife and other kid want to get to the hotel? Weren’t they hungry or tired or in need of a shower?
“That’s good.” The man clearly wanted to say something else, but then apparently thought better of it. He reached up to scratch his nose and Martin noticed a chunky silver ring on his third finger, a ring with a deep red stone. “Well, thanks again,” he said, stealing one last shifty glance into the house around Martin’s body, which was too thin to act as an adequate bar
rier. “I’ll be on my way.”
He turned, then gave a slight jerk of his head, signaling the girl to follow him. She paused for a second, watching Martin with a startlingly open, yet mysterious, expression. Martin’s eyes roved helplessly down her body, taking in her innocently lascivious smile, her high, heaving breasts, and the long tan legs that ended in tiny manicured feet. Then Chloe’s sweet, but don’t-fuck-with-me, face appeared in his mind’s eye, and he felt like the world’s biggest lech. The girl winked at him, then swirled away.
Martin stood on the threshold, feeling as though all the wind were knocked out of him. The man and the girl descended the steps, the gravel crunching under their feet with a sound that echoed through the trees with deafening force. For some reason, Martin was sure the guy would turn around, say he’d forgotten something; or that the girl would come back up and ask in her sugar-spun voice if she could come inside to use the bathroom. Martin was frantically thinking of excuses as to why this couldn’t happen, but no, neither father nor daughter turned. The huge block of a man folded himself into the driver’s seat of the big dirty car, and the angel-girl was climbing headfirst into the back seat, giving Martin a glorious view of trim buttocks barely covered by pink satin panties.
The doors thunked closed, the engine roared like a dragon breathing blue exhaust fumes. The figures of the other two people in the car—just grayish blurs really, with indistinct features—bobbed up and down in time with the car’s bumpy retreat. Martin kept watching as the car reversed into the deserted two-lane road, swung in a wide arc, the trailer creaking up and down, and sped off toward the main street, toward the hotel room that Martin was sure they didn’t really want.
* * * *
After he was sure the strangers had completely gone, Martin picked up his brush and stood in front of his work in progress. The mural’s theme was magic, since the house had once belonged to a semi-famous magician, and Martin was happy with it so far. It depicted a dark-haired conjuror with arms outstretched, a cane in one hand, and a top hat in the other. Playing cards flew out of the hat in jubilant arcs; Martin worked on the Queen of Hearts in the foreground. He’d done four other similar murals on various walls of the house, and this was the last one. He would be glad to get it finished, but there was just no way he could focus on it now. The events of the afternoon had been too distracting and after an hour, he’d done no more than paint a crimson fillip on the queen’s crown.
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