by Eli Constant
I don’t even remember going to sleep. Or getting into bed. But here I am.
The song from the dream is still floating through my head. Her beautiful, deep voice. Death is not final, my love, my love.
Grandmother was not Italian. Her family moved there from Denmark only a few months before the Second World War began. Her family name was once Bager and was changed to Baker shortly after the move. She’d told me it was to make a fresh start, although I always wondered if there were other, more nefarious reasons for the change.
Necromancers had stayed well-hidden, until WWIII when the call of blood magic to the death power was too great for even the most well-trained of us to fully resist. It was in our genetic makeup, you see, to want the power death gave us.
Raising a body here and there didn’t bring much attention. Before WWIII, necromancers were able to train under the cover of night, not that night was necessary to call forth those beyond the veil. They could use their powers for good or ill, as long as it was not in excess.
But it was impossible to hide the truth once the world was flooded by blood, vibrating with such power that necromancers could taste it in their mouths. Entire graveyards rose, spirits forced into bodies to stay there past the point of their humanity, forced to continue existing well after the light died in their eyes. The zombies.
Uncontrolled decaying bodies without masters.
I shake my head. All one need do to see The Rising in its full glory is open an internet window and type in ‘zombies’. Thousands upon thousands of photographs show the great piles of bodies, all in various stages of decompositions. And then there were the images of the necromancers—chased down, judged without a trial, burned on national television. We are still burned even now if we are found out, because people still think that is the only way to prevent our souls from sticking around and infecting another body with our power. It’s idiocy.
Even now, The American Board of Funeral Education requires that candidates complete an accreditation in the proper disposal of a deceased necromancer. Now that was a class I hadn’t enjoyed. Every single miserable slide I’d had to see, I could not unsee. And, God, it had made me pine for my art professors.
To smell oils and turpentine rather than embalming fluid.
It is an odd thing to look back on history and realize that the entire world breathed easier because my ancestors burned. That was also idiocy.
There were some from Denmark. They were called the worst of the worst. Their last name was Bager. My Grandmother’s original last name.
Yes. There is evil among us. But there is also evil among humans. Serial killers and child molesters. Masochists and arsonists. If I were to set my people and humanity on opposite sides of a scale, I know which side would ride lower to the floor.
Grandmother Sophia and her husband Piero moved to America when she was pregnant with my father, leaving my great grandparents behind in Italy, too old to travel. They’d changed their name yet again. This time not going for any deviation of my grandmother’s original Bager or even my grandfather’s Acardi. She said Grandfather Piero had stepped off of the plane and into the waiting arms of immigration and told her that they’d left his country and his freedom for a caged life. So it was only right that his new last name reflect his feelings. She hadn’t fought him.
So much of our family history was already obscured by moves and name changes. I feel like Grandfather felt that loss of culture the keenest.
So they became the Cages. And they pursued the only business that Piero knew—the mortuary arts. It was something that grandmother had a natural affinity for, so it worked. But it was different in America, requiring an Associate’s degree and specialty certifications. Grandfather had to start from the ground up again. He worked hard, sweated and toiled. I often wish I got to know him. He died soon after I was born, you see. He is just a figure in other peoples’ memories.
And a figure in the portrait of my grandparents that hangs in the main entrance of the funeral parlor. They remind me of why I left my artistic dreams behind and kept the business alive.
I still do not know why my grandparents moved from Italy. It is a mystery, like why Grandmother and her family left Denmark. In my heart of hearts, I am convinced it revolved around her abilities though.
The song is still plaguing me, like a commercial jingle that is delightful at first, but then quickly sours as it clings to your mind like kudzu.
Standing abruptly, the pile of pillows that was behind my back falling forward, I walk to the bathroom to wash my face. To wash the memories away.
As I enter the bathroom, closing the door behind me and blocking out the bedroom—although I do not know why I do as I’m the only one in the apartment. No... I do know why I feel compelled to lock the door.
Liam. Liam was here. He was here twice. He put me in my bed. He made me so tired, so weak. That had to have been him.
I stagger to the sink and hold myself up with both hands pressing brutally into the porcelain. I feel suddenly as if I might pass out.
It’s the song again, but no longer playing in my head and no longer in the voice of my Grandmother.
Death is not final, my love, my love. Death is not final. When I am gone, I am here. Beyond the veil, at fingers' reach. Speak and I will hear. Hear and I will speak. Death is not final, my love, my love. Death is not final.
Shaking my head brutally, I turn on the water, only the hot, opening the valve as far as it will go.
Scorching water rushes out of the pipes instantly. One of the beautiful things about having a tankless water heater. I stick my hands beneath the stream, wincing as the too-hot water makes my pale skin beet red in only seconds. I cup my fingers together and let the water pool within my palms and when they are full, I bend down and splash the wetness against my face. It makes me gasp. So hot. Too hot. But it’s good, in a way.
It wakes me. Makes me feel alive. It banishes the song.
But only for a moment.
Death is not final, my love, my love. Death is not final. When I am gone, I am here. Beyond the veil, at fingers' reach. Speak and I will hear. Hear and I will speak. Death is not final, my love, my love. Death is not final.
The voice. It’s Liam Drake again. Sing-songing in such a haunting way that it causes the tiny hairs along my body to stand upright. My eyes are closed. I concentrate on each tiny drop of water that is still coursing down my face. I count mentally. One. Two. Three.
And then I stand straight, open my eyes quickly, stare into the mirror.
He is behind me, his face obscured by the fog that is now covering the reflective glass.
I whirl.
He is gone.
“Shit,” I breathe the word out in a rush; my heart feels like it’s being held in a vice. “You’re going bat shit, girl. Get it together.”
Grabbing the hand towel hanging over the toilet, I dry my hands and face and then swipe the fog off the mirror. There is no one but me in the bathroom. No one else in the apartment. I am alone.
So very alone.
Chapter Seventeen.
It’s late. Dark outside, with the moon middle of the sky and casting shadows.
I’ve missed three calls from Dean. It’s too late to call him now though, and I’m sure it was just parlor business. I’m surprised, actually, that he hadn’t just come upstairs and knocked.
I don’t go back to sleep of course. There’s no way I wouldn’t have nightmares of Liam Drake standing behind me. His face floating, like a disembodied specter in the mirror.
Instead I read for over an hour until my brain aches with tiredness and worry. I don’t fully concentrate on the story; the words go in, but my mind is elsewhere. It lingers on worries of Jim and his harsh words about how dangerous I am. And of course my mind continues to go back to Liam. How did he know about me? And where the hell had he disappeared to?
Finally, with only a few pages left, I set the book down for another time. It’s one I’ve read before. I know what the ending will bri
ng. It’s a tragic one, and one that I do not mind delaying.
If only we could do that with life—foresee the tragic ending and delay it by our own will.
The sun will be rising soon, or it’s already started coming up and the clouds are still thick as sin, blocking out its light more than normal. I get out of bed and grab the eggplant-hued fluffy robe off the floral chair that sits in the corner of my room next to the large bay window. It faces the front of the house and overlooks the circular drive. It should be the best view.
The green grass floats like an island between the two stretches of drive leading toward the road. Past the road, is a row of houses—all one level so that they don’t block the view of the lake. In summer, when the trees that dot the neighboring houses are thick with leaves, the lake is only a glimmer of blue glinting with sunshine.
In winter, when the trees are bare, the blue of the lake is brilliant and full, lines of loveliness between the trunks and leafless branches.
To me though, the view also brings to mind lines of cars full of darkly-dressed persons wearing grim faces. My driveway leads loved ones to their goodbyes.
I put the robe on, sliding my arms in the fuzzy warm fabric. Pulling it closed around my body and tying the soft belt tight, I walk out into the kitchen. The coffee pot was on a timer and the pot is already filled, waiting for me. There are few things in the world that feel so right as waking up to a fresh pot of coffee. I prefer the percolator, but the drip is good too. More convenient.
Pouring the hot black joe into my second favorite mug, I sit on the couch instead of at the table. The green is dark and I never worry about spilling coffee on it.
I snuggle against the worn-in seat. I always sit in the same spot, which probably isn’t good for the longevity of the sofa. My back presses deeply into the oversized golden throw pillow. I love throw pillows. They’re one of my dirty secrets. Practically every little cubby in the apartment houses one or two that I’ve purchased over the years. Even the dual ottomans on either side of the small fireplace double for storage.
Holding the mug balanced on the sofa arm, I reach my free hand out and feel for the remote beside me. I’m never good about putting it back where it should be— in the drawer of the table right beside where I sit. It would take so little effort to reach over and put it there so I didn’t have to search and fumble for it every time I went to watch TV, but it had become a bit of a ritual now. The hunt a bit of a game only I played.
My fingers finally grip the long black remote and I extract it from under a pillow embroidered with little black kittens.
Switching on the TV that’s mounted above the fireplace, I sip my coffee. I’ve been trying to not focus on Jim, on his words, but I half expect that the first thing I’ll see on the television is a state-wide manhunt for yours truly. There’s nothing, though. Not about me at least. There’s plenty of other darkly depressing things on the news. I only watch two shows a week, when they’re in season that is, so more often than not the channel is set to a news station. Call it morbid, but it’s my way of keeping in touch with what’s going on in the world. The things that might affect me, I mean. An unexpected bombing of a village in Syria. Or a terrorist attack in Paris.
Any large scale death, anywhere in the world, and I’d feel it. It would tingle along my skin and work its way into my fingertips. It would thread out, tendrils of power emerging from my very hair follicles. It would cause a halo around me. A shimmer that no one could ignore. I’d sparkle, brilliant and white and shining. Like some damn vampire from a tragic teen novel.
Even a few deaths, as few as ten or twenty, would reach out across the world and touch me. That little bit I could hide though. I could keep it in check enough to go about my normal day.
So I wait, drinking my coffee and snuggling against my sofa like a normal person, and wait for the reporter to tell me that something terrible has happened. He doesn’t though. He rattles on about a new initiative to help families seeking reparation for atrocities suffered during WWIII. Paintings returned and homes rebuilt.
Sometimes I feel like the world will never get past the war, but as long as the memory is fresh, perhaps there will not be a fourth.
I change channels, going through my normal routine. The last is the local station, because Bonneau is just so darned exciting.
Except today, it is exciting. And not in a good way.
Terrance is standing behind a podium that’s been placed in front of the Bonneau Police Station’s main entrance. He doesn’t like to be on camera. Even if I didn’t know him, I could see it on his face.
“We’re doing our very best to locate the other girls. We have strong leads and are consulting experts. We have every confidence that we will bring these girls home.”
He’s very careful not to say whether or not the girls will be alive when they’re brought home. He’s very careful with everything he says. He has to be that way. Give them just enough to get them off your back, but never enough to become a promise. Cops don’t make guarantees.
“Did you know they just had Lilly Miller’s funeral? Mr. and Mrs. Miller are demanding answers. What do you have to say to them, personally?” The female reporter asking the question is tall, lanky in a too-thin way that made her clothes hang loosely, even though they are the proper size.
Terrance looked down at his hands folded together atop the podium. I saw his shoulders move as he took in a long breath before answering. “I will do everything that I can, with the power of the Bonneau Police Department behind me, to find out who hurt Lilly.”
Careful, Terrance. That’s dangerously close to a promise.
“Thank you for coming. Any information that we are able to release, we will. Until that time, we thank you for your patience and we beg you to give the Miller family space to handle their grief in a private way. No one should have to lose a child. No one.” Terrance turned away and strode into the station.
“He’s not handling this very well,” I say to myself.
My coffee gone, I go to the kitchen for food. I realize, as I’m pulling out cinnamon bagels and butter from the fridge, that I’ve not eaten since... god, I can’t remember. With all the craziness of cleaning up after Lilly’s funeral, visiting Jim in the hospital and then... Liam freaking Drake showing up uninvited, I just hadn’t thought about food. As if on cue, my stomach grumbles like that of a post-hibernation bear. On second thought, I add three eggs, sausage, and an orange to my bagel. Bingeing isn’t the best decision after missing meals, but I’m too hungry to care. Besides, I’ll burn off the calories with a run.
Food eaten and settled, I change into jogging clothes. Super fashionable—a black tank top ruined by bleach, a pair of sweat-wicking pink shorts, and the relatively new pair of running shoes I’d bought last month during a big sale. I’d grabbed two more pairs for when these wear out. That’s how cheap they’d been and that’s how committed I am to losing the extra pounds I’ve packed on since Adam’s death.
It’s still raining as I step out from the protection of the attached carport, house key stuffed in the tiny hidden pocket in the short, but the rain is that kind of sprinkle that seems weightless, like it is defying gravity and just floating, unmoving, in the air. It will soak you, well through, but it will also be wonderful. Like a thousand fairy kisses.
It only takes a few moments to jog down the driveway, across the street, past Leslie Downing’s house, a widow of some long years now who I’ve known since childhood, and onto the walking path that goes around the entirety of Lake Moultrie. I almost wave at Leslie’s house as I pass, but then I remember she’s visiting her daughter in Arizona for a month.
My feet pound against the path. It’s rhythmic and soon I am lost in the motion of it.
Lake Moultrie is gigantic. The park I love is clear on the other side. It’s not physically possible for me to run around the entirety of it, so I almost always turn around at Bonneau Beach after taking a short break. Today, I run a little further though. I need the extra time to s
ort through my thoughts. I wish I could run as far as the park, out onto the pier and sit for a while under the gazebo. The lights would still be on, the sun not yet bright enough to extinguish them. I feel so peaceful there.
By the time I return home, I’m a sopping mess. Sweat and rain mingle together and give me a wet dog smell.
So I’m picture-perfect and totally prepared for Kyle Dougan to be standing on the front porch of the Victorian, protected from the rain by my duck umbrella, and looking utterly edible.
Chapter Eighteen.
“Hi. What are you doing here?” I call out to him as I jog up to the porch, feeling more than a little self-conscious about my crappy clothes and disheveled, damp hair that’s tied up in a ponytail that was neat and tidy when I began my run.
He holds up my umbrella, a smile on his face. “I wasn’t really going to let you go through life without this.”
“I have others,” I retort, fishing for my keys in my pocket.
“But not a duck print one, I’d bet.”
“No, that’s my only one covered in ducks.” I smile now, reaching out for the umbrella. It feels like an old friend in my hand. That’s stupid. If I actually had a few friends, I probably wouldn’t feel so emotionally connected to a length of metal and fabric. “How’s Jim doing?” I smooth a hand across my head, trying to tame some of the hairs that are, most likely, frizzing out and giving me a halo of fuzz.
“Good,” he hesitates, stuffs his now empty hands into his pockets. “No, he’s acting strange. Health-wise, he’s going to be fine.”
“I’m glad to hear he’ll be okay. Do you want to come in for some coffee? I’ll need to clean up first, if you don’t mind waiting.”
“That sounds great.”
Kyle follows me off the porch and around the building. I don’t have the front door key on me and even if I did, I wouldn’t go that way and leave wet footprints on the dark hardwoods and freshly-vacuumed carpets. I don’t want to have to clean the downstairs before my next meeting—an elderly man who’d just lost his wife of fifty-two years.