Divine by Choice

by P. C. Cast

  Those words, she’s dead, felt like a physical blow to my body.

  “Back off, folks! Back off!” The one uniform had been joined by several more.

  “Oh, Jesus Christ!” An agonized shout came from the man I recognized as the driver of the Impala. He staggered through the group surrounding Suzanna’s body.

  “Sir! Please step over here!” One of the cops pulled him away.

  “Oh, God! The car wouldn’t stop!” The man was sobbing uncontrollably. “I buried my foot in the brake, but nothing happened. I swear it!”

  “We leave now, Shannon.” Clint said with steely determination.

  I felt a sense of detachment that I recognized as the beginning stages of shock, and I didn’t stop Clint from leading me away.

  “She did it!” Gene’s voice was filled with loathing. “She caused this!” he yelled at my departing back.

  I craned my head to look over Clint’s shoulder. Gene was standing beside Suzanna. His clothes were blood-spattered. Foam flecked his chin and mouth, and he pointed hysterically in my direction.

  “Sir!” The same officer who had handed the driver over to his partner stepped quickly to Gene’s side, touching his arm and visibly trying to calm him. “I saw the whole thing. I wasn’t even two feet away from her. It was an accident. No one…” His voice faded as we got farther away.

  “Don’t stop.” Clint spoke in my ear. “Just breathe and walk. Keep moving forward. That’s good, Shannon my girl, that’s good.” Clint kept up a soft murmur in my ear.

  It wasn’t until he lifted me into the passenger’s side of the Hummer, snapped my seat belt into place and stepped back that I noticed his sapphire aura was shimmering vividly all around him.

  The Hummer crawled over the ice-slick snow with the same serene confidence it had shown all day. Clint turned the heater on high and, once again, shrugged out of his coat.

  “Wrap this around you.” His eyes were dark and worried.

  “Wh-why c-couldn’t we have stayed?” I realized with a detached observation that tears were leaking steadily from my eyes and I was shaking violently. “She may have needed me.”

  “She was beyond needing any of us, Shannon, but that thing was still there.” He kept looking over at me, dividing his attention between the icy streets and me. “What would have happened if it had attacked us again? We have no forest here from which to draw power.” He ended flatly. “More people would have died.”

  “You turned blue again,” I said absently.

  “Blue?” He looked at me as if he was sure I was totally mad.

  “Your aura. It’s blue with gold around the edges. I can’t usually see it, but it was visible while you were leading me to the Hummer.” The more I talked the more normal my voice sounded.

  He flashed me a surprised look. “I could sense that thing coming close to us, and my aura must have reacted defensively. But it didn’t feel like we were Nuada’s target. Not this time.”

  “Until I possess you, what you love I will destroy, be it in this world or the next.” I whispered the words through lips that felt numb. “Nuada wasn’t after me,” I said with surety. “He was after Suzanna because somehow he knows I love her.” I looked at Clint and suddenly everything around me came into stark focus. Understanding is sometimes a frightening thing. “That means it’s not just Dad he’s after. No one I care about is safe until he is destroyed.” Before he could reply, I pointed a shaking finger and directed, “Take a right here on Kenosha Street.

  Clint pulled onto Kenosha, and I could see the eerie flashing lights of the ambulance turning into the Wal-Mart parking lot.

  “Are you sure she was dead?”

  “You know she was, Shannon.” Clint’s voice gentled and he took his hand off the gearshift long enough to let it rest reassuringly on my knee. “No one could survive that kind of head injury.”

  My fault. It was my fault. I shuddered and drew the coat more closely around my body as a tide of nausea beat against my throat. Resting my forehead against the cool window, I closed my eyes and concentrated on not puking. I couldn’t think about Suzanna now. Couldn’t remember how we could talk to each other for hours on end, forgetting time and the outside world. How she could understand whether I was happy or sad just by the way my voice sounded on the phone. I wouldn’t remember how, years ago, her oldest daughter had been one of my favorite students and she had decided, “You and my mom need to be best friends.” Then she had proceeded to “fix us up.” Literally. She made sure her mom and I met and became friends, much to the delight of both of us.

  And now she was gone. Her three beautiful daughters were motherless. Because of me.

  “Shannon!” Clint’s voice interrupted my broken sobs. “Stop it. You’ll make yourself sick again.”

  I wanted to draw myself up and spit back at him that he had no damn right to order me around, but I only had the energy to sit there with my forehead against the cold glass.

  “Tell me where the hell we’re going.”

  I turned my head and blinked at him, wiping my eyes on a piece of his coat.

  “Directions, Shannon…” His voice was firm. “How do I get to your father’s house?” He leaned forward and popped the glove box, pulling out several tissues and tossing them at me. “Don’t wipe your nose on my coat.”

  Shit! I’d just lost my best friend and he was worried about his nappy coat? To hell with Mr. Obsessive-Compulsive. I blew my nose and straightened my spine. Peering around, I tried to get my bearings. We were on the outskirts of town, and the streets were totally deserted. Actually I was a little surprised to see the streetlights were still illuminating the steady stream of falling snow. Usually during winter storms electric power was the first thing to go. We were heading up a gentle incline. To our right I saw the white fencing and well-manicured shrubs that framed the classic elegance of Forest Ridge Country Club. Complete with a spectacular golf course and an excellent clubhouse restaurant.

  “Keep going straight.” My voice sounded wounded and hiccupy. “When this four-lane narrows to a two-lane, turn right. That will be Oak Grove Road.”

  “You’ll have to let me know when to turn. I can’t tell road from ditch—there’s no way I can see when this changes from four to two lanes.”

  I nodded at him and rubbed my eyes, concentrating on the snow-masked scenery. Country neighborhoods where I had played as a child, passed by. Houses gradually became farther and farther apart.

  “Slow down, we’re almost there.” He downshifted. “There, see that squat-looking white concrete building?” I pointed. “Turn there.” The Hummer crawled to the right. As we took the turn the streetlight fluttered and went dead, as did all the lights in the ranch houses surrounding us.

  “Oh, God!” I felt myself begin to tremble again. Funny—I hadn’t realized till then that I’d stopped shaking. “Is it Nuada again?”

  Clint shook his head. “No. Breathe and think, Shannon. Do you feel his presence?”

  Instead of getting pissed at the shortness of his words, I closed my eyes and centered my thoughts while I breathed deeply. Did I feel the premonition of evil that was always present with Nuada? No. I sighed in relief.

  “I don’t feel him.”

  “It’s just the storm. That’s why the lights are out. I’m surprised they’ve stayed on this long.” I could hear the strain in his voice as he concentrated on staying in the middle of the undefined road. I looked closer at him and realized he was sitting at an odd angle, with his broad shoulders kind of cocked awkwardly to the side like his back was bothering him. I reminded myself that he had been driving through this mess for more than eight hours; he must be exhausted.

  “It’s not far from here. Just over this little rise in the road there’s a stop sign.” We came to it. Clint didn’t stop.

  “It’s safe to say there’s no other traffic tonight.” He managed a slight grin in my direction.

  “Okay—now start looking to your right. Do you see where that line of junipers break?”
Clint slowed almost to a halt. “There’s a little side road there, to the right. Turn onto it.” Clint followed my directions and the Hummer plowed through the drifts like a tank. “Just keep following the tree line up this hill. Dad’s place is there on the right.” I pointed at the lane that divided two lush pastures at the top of the little hill. “Thank God they left the gate open.” I sighed in relief.

  Clint turned into the lane. It was obvious Dad had attempted to keep the lane plowed for at least part of the day. I smiled to myself at the mental image of Dad all wrapped up in his thick, scraggly parka, hunting cap slung low on his head (the kind with the fur-lined hanging-down earpieces that looked especially nerdy), mumbling to himself as he fought to attach the box blade to his old John Deere.

  Unlike the dark neighboring houses, here one light was burning over the front door. Clint shot me a questioning look.

  “Dad has had solar power for about a zillion years. I think he installed it as some kind of tax scam in the mid 70s. No one was more surprised than him that it has proven to be an excellent investment.” I shook my head fondly while I remembered. “What time is it?”

  “Just past eight.”

  “Park anywhere behind the two trucks.” As usual, my parents hadn’t pulled their trucks into the garage. They didn’t use the garage as a shelter for vehicles, instead, they used it as a general tool storehouse, wood workshop, machine repair shop, etc. I’ve always thought of it as their shit catcher. (My Mustang, on the other hand, had been an “inside” car. She lived in the garage and was only allowed outside at night with adult supervision.)

  “Stay here. I’ll come around and get you.”

  I watched as Clint moved stiffly out of the driver’s seat. He straightened slowly, with one hand pressed against the small of his back. Carefully he made his way over to my side and opened my door.

  “Is your back bothering you?”

  “Don’t worry about it—it gets like this.”

  I wanted to ask him like what, but he brusquely motioned for me to join him.

  I felt shaky as I climbed from the Hummer. Clint took my arm and helped me plow through the snow to the front door, where we stood in a small pool of light.

  “Uh-hum,” I cleared my throat nervously. I didn’t know how to proceed. Usually, I’d just holler, Dad! Hey! It’s me! And let myself in. But now I was suddenly unsure of my reception. What if Rhiannon had alienated my parents, too? What if Dad didn’t want to see me? I looked down at myself, realizing that I was still puke spattered and totally bedraggled.

  “You okay, Shannon my girl?” Clint asked, pushing a loose curl back from my face.

  “I’m not sure—” Before I could finish my answer the front doorknob jiggled. The thick inside door swung open and I was left to squint through the screen door at the hulking shape standing inside.

  “Shannon?”

  “Yeah, it’s me, Dad. I have a friend with me. Can we come in?” My voice sounded like I was six years old again.

  “Yep, yep.” Dad unlatched the screen door. “Worst storm I can remember. Damn near makes me think I’m back in Illinois!”

  We stepped into the little foyer. There was a large oil lamp burning dully on the whatnot table near the door. Dad reached over and adjusted the wick so that the flame danced and we were suddenly illuminated in a flickering of soft yellow. Dad was wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt that had the University of Illinois logo emblazoned in orange on navy (once an Illini, always an Illini). His feet were covered in thick socks that were pulled loose and floppy at the toes. His hair was mussed and he had his reading glasses on. He looked wonderful and solid and safe. I wanted to hurl myself into his arms and cry like a baby.

  Instead, I shuffled my feet nervously, grasping at anything to say. “Um, why didn’t the dogs bark?” Dad raises dogs that are an imposing mixture of Irish wolfhound and greyhound. He doesn’t race them—he just enjoys them. And he really likes it that they keep the coyote population on his land at a decided minimum. There are usually half a dozen sleek, multicolored dogs maniacally greeting any and all visitors. (Note to self: remember those tails are like whips—beware.)

  “Closed ’em up in the barn. Too damn cold and nasty out. I turned the heat lamps on, gave them a big bucket of food and shut them in with the horses.” He chuckled. “Those puppers probably think they’ve died and gone to doggie heaven.”

  “Oh, Dad, I’ve missed you so much!” I stood on tiptoe and hugged him hard. He gave me a quick kiss on the cheek.

  “Well, you’re home now.”

  I smiled up at him through tears of relief, thanking my Goddess that whatever else Rhiannon had done, she had not ruined my relationship with Dad. His eyes strayed curiously to Clint, who immediately held out his hand.

  “Mr. Parker, it’s a pleasure to meet you—”

  “Dad, this is my friend, Clint Freeman.” I broke in, blushing furiously at forgetting my manners. “Clint, my father, Richard Parker.”

  They shook hands and Dad pointed into the living room. “Come on in—make yourselves to home. Shannon, why don’t you get Clint and yourself something to drink. You know where everything is.”

  We followed Dad into the living room, which was separated from the kitchen by an island that held the grill and lots of kitchen cabinets. Dad motioned Clint to the couch and he took his usual easy chair that sat next to a table laden with books and racehorse magazines. I retreated to the kitchen.

  “What can I get you, Clint? Coffee, tea or something stronger?” I asked as I searched for mugs.

  “I’ll take coffee, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Already have some made,” Dad spoke up. “Hope you like it strong,” he said to Clint.

  “I do.” Clint smiled.

  “Bugs, I believe I have some single malt in that cupboard that you haven’t touched in more than six months, in case your taste has turned back to it.”

  Hearing him use my nickname made tears rush to my eyes, and I had a hard time focusing on pouring Clint’s coffee—until I processed the rest of what he had said. I love single-malt scotch. I have since my first trip to Scotland more than a decade ago. But I had learned during my time in Partholon that Rhiannon loathed scotch. She thought it was common. Dad’s comment was a tangible reminder that she had been here; she had been poking through and intruding upon yet another aspect of my life. It made me feel pissed off and violated.

  I nuked some warm water for my tea and carried both mugs into the living room.

  “Do you need anything else, Dad?”

  “Nope. I’m still working on my Baileys and coffee.” He looked curiously at me and added, “You know I usually don’t drink coffee so late, but something told me I should stay awake tonight.”

  I sat on the couch next to Clint, and tugged fretfully at my tea bag.

  “Still don’t have a taste for your scotch, huh? I think you drank all of that expensive red wine you brought over that time…” His voice trailed off like he didn’t want to complete the memory.

  “No! I mean, yes!” I shook my head, trying to think clearly. “What I mean is, I still love scotch. I just think hot tea is a wiser choice tonight.” And, I added silently, for the next seven months or so.

  We sipped our drinks quietly. I didn’t know where to begin, but just being in the familiar room made me feel better, stronger, more able to cope with the horrors of the day.

  I blinked and said abruptly, “Where’s Mama Parker?” My stepmom’s absence was suddenly keenly felt. She should have been bustling around, insisting on fixing us something to eat, fussing about getting me out of these dirty, wet clothes. In general, doing mom things that always made me feel loved. I was ashamed I hadn’t questioned where she was immediately.

  “Mama Parker’s been visiting her sister in Phoenix.”

  “Without you?” Hard to believe. They’ve been married for a zillion years, but they still did everything together. It’s sweet but disgusting.

  “She’s had the visit planned
for months. I meant to go with her, but one of those idiot yearlings thought he should run through a fence and try and take a leg off, so I stayed to doctor the knot-headed moron.”

  I nodded my head in agreement at the familiar litany of horse complaints. There were few things Dad thought stupider than racehorses—and there were few things he loved more.

  I knew I should launch into the reason for my visit, but the comfortable conversation made me realize how much I ached for normalcy, even if it was just an illusion and temporary.

  “So, how’s school?” Until I was swept into the life of High Priestess in another dimension, I had been very happy teaching English at Broken Arrow High School, which just happened to be the same school at which my father had been a teaching/coaching legend for almost three decades. I had loved teaching. Teenagers supplied me with endless comedic fodder. Really. Where else but in the public schools could you find a job that allows you to be onstage every day in front of more than one hundred semi-humanoids (teenagers), where you could come to work several times a year (during Spirit Weeks) dressed in a variety of costumes—everything from “Pajama Day” to “Your Favorite Superhero Day,” where the more embarrassing you look and act the “cooler” you are, and get paid for it? (Well, in Oklahoma we kind of get paid for it.) I’m telling you, only in the public schools.

  Oh…One thing Dad and I have always been in total agreement about is that teenagers are one of the few creatures that have less sense than racehorses. I watched the slow grin spread over his face.

  “Little morons—they get squirrlier every year.” He chuckled. “And this year we hired the most god-awful pansy-assed new vice principal from one of those touchy-feely middle schools. Silly bastard wouldn’t know discipline if it came up and bit him. All he does is move furniture, screw with the thermostat in the teachers’ lounge and sneak around the halls trying to catch us leaving our classrooms unsupervised when we go get a goddamn cup of coffee. I swear he squats to pee.” He shook his head and gave me a long-suffering look. “Damn good thing you got out of it when you did.”