A bang filled the air, followed by a bright light. Suzette fell backward, blinking at the burning in her eyes. When she leaned up on her elbows, the rest of the house was consumed by fire, the explosion blowing out the rest of the back, getting what hadn’t been reached before. The firemen with the hose were knocked into the bushes but appeared fine. The ladder that hung in the air swayed a little, but the man reappeared from the safety of the metal box at the top. They were all fine.
The fire chief came into view from the front yard, pressing himself between the firetruck and his men, probably doing as Suzette was and making sure they were alright. His eyes locked onto her from across the gap between the front and back yard.
Letting out a sigh, she retightened the hood around her face and hurried back to her feet. With a gesture of her arm, she beckoned him toward the woods. Then she ran back to Dante, safely settled deep into the trees.
Dante rolled on the ground in the dark, now fully awake, groaning in pain as his hand grabbed at his knee.
Suzette knelt down and took off his helmet. “Are you alright?” she asked with a froggy voice, unable to mask her worry. She feared the worst.
“My knee!” he groaned. “I landed on it!” He rolled to his side.
Despite his pain, Suzette felt herself relax a little. If he was complaining about a knee he banged on the way down, anything else was probably nothing too severe. “I’m sorry. I’m new at this hero thing,” she said. “Is there anything else wrong?”
He rolled up onto his hands and his good knee, coughing. “You saved me!” he said, gasping. “My radio stopped working; my crew would’ve never gotten to me in time. I would’ve died if it wasn’t for you!”
She helped him to a tree and propped him up against it, where he stared up at her, eyes wide. Her cheeks flared at his amazement. She was glad she stood against the flames, making it impossible for him to make out her face. “It’s no problem,” she said, desperate to shrug it off. She began to lean away.
He grabbed her arm. “No, thank—!” He fell into a coughing frenzy.
Her muscles tightened as she watched him hack into his arm.
“You don’t understand!” he insisted, breathless as he finally finished. “I have”—he coughed—“so much to live for! My parents need me! My girlfriend—I’ve got to marry her! Thank you—so much!”
His words froze her to her spot and she stared, unblinking. Maybe he was delirious.
“Dante!”
The voice shook her and she turned to it.
When the fire chief finally caught sight of them, he quickly darted back toward the side of the house where he began waving down first-responders.
Suzette’s nerves flared. She turned to Dante. “Tell them the Onyx Fox saved you!” Not bothering to wait for a reply, she sprinted further into the darkness of the woods, stopping just short enough to watch and listen.
EMTs hurried over to Dante, holding a small, green tank of oxygen. They quickly set the mask over his mouth. Dante’s body relaxed a little as they checked him over.
The fire chief stood over Dante, fists set on his hips. “We tried to get to you, son,” he said. “I’m glad you got out, though. What happened in there?”
Dante took a few deep breaths of fresh, clean oxygen and lifted the mask a little. “The Onyx Fox saved me,” he answered, his voice raspy.
“What?” The chief scoffed. “You’ve got to be joking!”
“I’m serious!” he insisted.
The fire chief shook his head. “Well, good thing she got to you when she did,” he said, still sounding incredulous. “Let’s get you some water.” The fire chief knelt down next to Dante. “Think you can walk on your own?”
“I’ll try, but I hit my knee on the way out.”
The EMTs pulled away the oxygen and helped him to his feet. Dante hobbled forward, limping on his left leg. The chief let Dante lean on him as they made their way to the front.
Suzette sat back in the grass, stumped as to which emotion she felt more. Dante was safe. The firefighters were safe, back to dousing the flames. Everything was at least settled. However, now that it was all over, she became increasingly aware of her dry throat that strained had her voice, her throbbing elbow, burning eyes, and tender skin. Her body was exhausted, begging for rest. But her thoughts raced as the reality of what happened sank in.
She saved Dante! She used her abilities! Realizing that made her grin. She stared through the trees at the dwindling flames, replaying the scene over and over in her head. I can’t believe I just did that. It was a harrowing, humbling thought. Her mind tumbled as she contemplated this possible direct call from God. Maybe Lady Augustine was right.
After a while, she got up and started away, overwhelmed. She wandered, unable to even think about going home just yet. She knew Dante was safe, but the adrenaline that still lingered wouldn’t let her stop. Thinking back to Dante, her mind skipped as his words played over in her head. That reality, though completely different, sunk in next. Marriage was something they had talked about before, something they both expected, but now it was serious.
Suzette Stein.
The thought made her smile.
Canto VII
Hester Prynne stared at the large structure before her. The old brick building with its decorative statues and pointed steeples filled her with a sense of dread. She wanted so badly to just ignore the problem, but in a few months, there would be no escaping it. People would ask questions—there was no way they could muster up the whole truth of what happened. If they found out, she would die of shame, and she couldn’t have that.
Why did it have to be her? Other people who walked in those doors had done so much worse and they were never punished for it, so why was it that it just so happened to be her this time? It was unfair. To make it worse, those other people did whatever they wanted all the time, as if they felt no conviction whatsoever. She had done something once and she was paying full price for it.
What if I miss dinner? Hester sighed and checked her watch, hoping to find an excuse to run home. Her heart knew she should go in, yet she still dreaded it. But she had plenty of time. She would be able to make it home for a late dinner—if she could even find the strength to eat. Taking a deep, ragged breath, she marched up to the church’s doors and gripped onto the handle.
At one touch, it seemed that all her fear and conviction hammered back into her tenfold. Maybe she could turn around and disappear, act like it never happened.
No, she had to own up to her mistakes. It was time she took a little responsibility for her actions. She wanted to fling open the door but only found the strength to crack it open enough to glance inside. When Hester peered in, she saw that it was almost empty. A few people were bent over in the pews, deep in prayer. The angelic sound of the choir practicing in the loft behind the pulpit drowned out the creaking of the old door. To the right of the entrance, hidden in the corner, was the confessional.
Hester had frequented the confessional in the past, but she had been avoiding it since the incident. Her pace slowed as she made her way toward the ominous box, each step growing heavier and heavier with guilt. As her heels clicked on the floor, she worried the sound would alert all the people and shift their judgmental eyes toward her. When she finally got there, she slithered inside and sat as far from the patterned screen as possible. Once she closed the door behind her, she let out a sigh.
Here, she was safe from the world.
The person on the other side of the screen was barely recognizable through the divider—but just barely. She knew all too well who it was.
Reverend Dimmesdale sat there, quiet, not looking at her. “You may begin when you’re ready,” he said. He was calm and collective, as usual.
The smoothness of his words made Hester’s throat clench. When she found her voice, she whispered, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” Her voice trembled. “It has been a month since my last confession.”
There was a silence.
“What is your sin?” he asked softly.
Her cheeks burned as tears rose to her eyes. The confession was hard to push out. “I have committed adultery,” she said. It was a miracle that it came out audible. “While my husband was away on business, I invited a man into my bed and broke the bonds of our holy matrimony.” Hester could feel her chin quiver. No longer able to contain her emotions, tears spilled over the brims of her eyes. Sobbing, she recited the Act of Contrition as best she could in her head as the silence dragged out between them.
Finished, she sat there on the verge of hyperventilating, waiting for Reverend Dimmesdale to continue.
“Just don’t do it again,” he mumbled. It was a strange penance to give to a person. “We will pray for forgiveness. No one will have to know.”
“That’s the problem,” Hester whimpered. Her mouth opened to confess the words, but they were hesitant to peak the surface. To brace herself, she stuck her fingertips into the holes of the screen and gripped onto it. Forcing the words out, she whispered, “I’m pregnant.”
She could hear a gasp snag in his throat. His breathing became uneven as he leaned in closer to the divider. “What?”
Sobbing again, she forced out a quiet, “Yes.” She waited there, trying to focus on the sound of his breath, close to her ear. She tried to imagine the look on his face. How different would it be from the look of passion she’d seen in his eyes just a few weeks ago?
He said nothing for a long time, but finally murmured, “Does Roger know?”
“No, he’s still away—he’s always unreachable in those poverty-stricken areas,” she whined. “Everyone will know it’s not his.”
“It’s…” He stopped. She could hear him gulp. Leaning in, he whispered hastily, “No one must find out who the father is. If word gets out…” He shook his head.
“Roger will be suspicious. He will demand a paternity test once he finds out,” she mumbled. “It’s only a matter of time.”
Hester could hear Dimmesdale’s breathing grow heavier from the other side. “No,” he snapped. “No, he can’t.”
But they both knew he would.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
He didn’t respond. For what seemed like forever, they sat there, listening to the sound of the choir practice until they finished and left, all the parishioners following them out. Then Hester heard the confessional door fling open, Reverend Dimmesdale making his way out.
Hester opened her door and peered around, thankful that everyone seemed to be gone. She scooted out and followed behind, trying to keep up with Reverend Dimmesdale’s long strides. “You owe me an answer,” she hissed, bitter tears flowing down her cheeks. She cut off his escape, standing in front of the door to his office.
He turned, his glare stopping her short. For a long minute that’s all they did, stand there, their eyes boring into each other’s souls. Then Dimmesdale sighed. “I know. But my answer is: I don’t know.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I should resign. I’m not worthy to be a priest. I’m supposed to be a beacon of virtue, an example, and look at me now.” He chuckled humorlessly. “I’ve committed fornication and helped you commit adultery. What a great role-model for the people!”
As his voice grew louder, Hester looked around to make sure no one entered unnoticed and overheard. “So, what now?” she mumbled.
His eyes trailed to the ground and his shoulders drooped. “Go home, Hester.” He sighed. “Go home and pray for God’s mercy, as I will.” With that, Reverend Dimmesdale pushed past her and disappeared inside his office, locking the door behind him.
Hester stared after him, frozen. What a useless option. It filled her with a horrible sense of hopelessness. Feet dragging down the same aisle that she’d thought would lead to hope and salvation, she pushed her way out of the double doors and onto the hard, black asphalt of the huge, bricked-in parking lot, feeling more damned than when she’d entered. Any trace of the sun was gone now and the darkness showed no mercy, swallowing the array of cars. She could barely make out the opening in the privacy wall on the far side, surrounding the property, but she shuffled her way along.
Maybe the walk home would soothe her mind—but then again, maybe not. Maybe the time spent walking would only give her more time to wallow in despair. Either way, she had no car and had to walk.
“Hester?”
Reverend Dimmesdale’s voice bit into her. She turned to him, afraid that he had changed his mind and decided to officiate her punishment himself.
He stood close to her. His face was half-consumed in shadows. He looked different, though she couldn’t put her finger on why. It was odd. Perhaps, she decided, it was the effect of the coming night, the darkness mingling with their mutually darkened souls.
“Yes?” she asked, weak.
“We should talk,” he whispered.
Her heart wrenched and her eyes shifted to the rest of the parking lot, scanning to see if anyone was eavesdropping. Seeing and hearing nothing, she smiled a bit. Did he really want to walk through this with her? “Alright,” she murmured, her heart relaxing.
He held out his hand.
Hester hesitated. Had not touching been the very reason of their grief? But maybe all those things he had whispered to her that night were true. Was he just going to throw his life aside for her? Did he love her that much? More than anything else?
Hopeful, she accepted his hand, but her heart sank just slightly. There was something in his touch—something unnatural. It wasn’t the gentle touch of a man whose heart swelled at the sight of her. It felt cold and unfeeling. Yet, ever hopeful, she let him continue to lead her deeper into the shadows of the parking lot.
He pulled her in against him and pressed something flat and circular against her neck. Before she could gasp, something sharp jammed her skin and any sound she tried to make caught in her throat. She could feel everything growing fuzzy. Her eyes refused to stay open and the darkness caved in on her.
—
Dorian picked up the unconscious woman and carried her over to the van where Edward waited with the back open. He carelessly handed her off to Edward, who helped pull her in further. Dorian tossed the empty syringe gun next to the woman, closed the doors, and piled into the driver’s seat.
“Drive me to the boy,” Edward ordered, clambering into the passenger’s seat.
Dorian wondered who on earth Edward had in mind, but he didn’t ask. He wanted the satisfaction of being surprised.
“So convenient that you can disguise yourself.”
Dorian stared over at Edward and gave a laugh. “Convenient indeed,” he agreed. “Couldn’t have Dorian Gray wanted for kidnapping someone. Or stopped for an autograph while doing so.”
—
Jack Blevins stretched and took a long, silent yawn. That was a bad sign, though, and when he sat upright at the book-covered table, he grabbed his coffee and took a big swig of it. Sighing, he picked up the second rough draft of his essay and examined it, careful to spot any errors.
He’d chosen the subject of mental illnesses. It seemed like such a morbid subject to write about, considering most of his fellow psychology students were writing something stereotypical, like Freud and his sexual mindset. But he couldn’t give his teacher a half-hearted paper. Not when he was top of his class. No, his paper would be on behaviorism and mental illnesses. That would help lighten the mood of it.
But the paper was missing something. Grabbing his pen, he leaned over and scanned all the open books until he found what he wanted.
“Jack.”
Looking up from his paper, he saw the librarian eyeing him in disbelief, just like always.
“Yes?” he asked.
The librarian gave him the normal look of disapproval. He knew Jack too well, knew to look for the self-demolishing overachievement that drove Jack to unnecessary exhaustion. “That paper’s not due ‘til the end of the month and you’ve got your rough draft good and started,” he said, concern in his voice. “I’ve held the do
ors open for you, but now it’s getting late. Go eat something and get some sleep.”
Jack looked at him apologetically. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. Then he held up his paper. “It’s the second rough draft, though.” He had to get this one just right.
The librarian sighed heavily. “Yeah, yeah. You’re smart,” he grumbled, waving a hand in the air toward the brainy student. “Get out of here and relax.”
“But it’s not time,” Jack tried, checking the clock on the wall. He gave the librarian a pleading look. “You said you’d give me at least thirty more minutes.”
“I’ll make it time,” he said with a chuckle. “Normal college kids sleep—or party, at least. Go.”
Jack sighed.
“I’m going to go finish cleaning up the books around the counter,” the librarian told him. Then he pointed to Jack with a lighthearted warning in his eyes. “When I get back, you better be gone and those books better be back on their shelves.” Then he disappeared around a bookshelf.
Jack grunted in disappointment and stared down at his mess. And as he stared, he yawned again. Sleep was starting to sound like a good idea. He felt the need to finish the whole project that night, but, as much as he hated to admit the fact, it was a little far-fetched. Besides, if he wanted a good grade, it was best to take his time.
Satisfied with talking himself out of another sleepless night, Jack stood and began closing all the books, stacking them in a pile. Once he had his backpack stuffed and over his shoulder, he grabbed the tower of library books and began his long journey to set each one back where they belonged.
As he made sure each book in his abnormally large stack was neatly placed in their proper spot, he thought about his schoolwork. It wasn’t weird that he just wanted to do the best he could, challenging himself whenever possible, was it? I expect the best out of life. That’s all, Jack thought. And I know I have to work to make it happen. Some people didn’t understand that. The librarian understood, though, and knew that Jack would go far in life. Jack’s hands froze on a book. Unlike some people, he thought bitterly, unable to fight the thought of his father’s angry nagging. Words like “worthless,” “stupid,” and “crazy” filled Jack’s head. He shivered at the memories and quickly brushed them aside, continuing his organizing. With all the hard work Jack put in, he deserved the best.
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