by Eli Constant
Yeah, this was no self-defense class at the community building. There, my biggest threat was a seventy-year-old couple looking to spice up date night.
“You okay,” the woman with the forgetful face, but striking ginger hair asks. She wasn’t from Bonneau, and I wonder if she’s come from the same county as warrior princess cop. Somehow, despite being a nonentity in my brain, she’s also oddly familiar.
Like biting into a recipe that is like something your grandmother used to cook, but not exactly quite.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say in a voice that isn’t exactly friendly. Her face scrunches, and I feel like a jackass for hurting a stranger’s feelings. “Yeah, I’m fine. Really. Just wasn’t ready.”
“You need to really get your center of balance. Your feet could still be a bit wider set.” She’s almost fragile-looking, now that I study her. Short. Freckled. “Here, watch me as I move.” She’s not trying to be condescending. Only helpful, I’m sure of it, but I can still feel irritation boil up inside.
And then, I don’t feel bad for hurting her feelings at all. I just nod, widen my stance, set one foot back a little and turned to level-up my damn balance, and I focus on getting the next hit in. It’s funny though—every time I turn away from the woman I’m practicing with, I seem to forget what she looks like, what her voice sounds like. I’ve got too much on my mind, I guess, to bother with truly learning new people.
By the time the session is done, I feel like I’m literally going to die. My heart is pounding and my chest is heaving.
“Good job, everyone. We’ll see you here again next week. In the meantime, some of you might consider coming to our other sessions in the nearby counties. You can find the schedule on this paper.” Perfect Princess Cop holds up a blue piece of paper and she holds it up facing me, her eyes basically saying that she is talking mostly to me. Hell, I thought I did a lot better today. Loads of improvement. I turn away from the cop, her schedule, and everything. If I hadn’t promised Terrance that I would attend these things, I’d have stopped after session number one. Now, ten sessions in, I feel like I’ll never meet expected standards. Whatever. I can kill a man through a freaking papercut. I don’t need to know how to punch and dodge and shit like that.
Of course, I know it’s a lie even as I think it. I’ve been in plenty of situations where I could have died for lack of skill... and my ‘gifts’ had meant jack and shit. I bend over and snag my gym bag off the dirty tile floor. The community center, which was old and sorely in need of work, was a zillion times better than the training building near the police impound lot.
“Here you go, Tori.” Forgetful-face comes up to me and hands me one of the schedules. “I’ll be at tomorrow’s sesh if you want to come? We make good sparring buddies!” She gives me a smile and I try to focus on her face, remember some detail about it.
“Maybe. My schedule is pretty busy. It was nice to meet you though...” I let my words trail off. She’s told me her name at least three times already since we’d been paired-up by the trainer today.
“Karen,” she said, her face crumpling. “Anyways, see you later, Tori,” she emphasizes my name, as if to make a point that she hadn’t forgotten who I was, and I’d only told her once. Though, the trainer cop had called me out at least half a dozen times. So... if anything, my name had been repeated way more than she’d reminded me of her name.
When I walk out of the building, the cool evening air causes my sweat to sort of insta-dry and I feel all crackly and salty in my unmentionable places. My work sedan is parked over near the impound fence. I did that on purpose—so I could stare at my baby on the other side. Terrance hadn’t taken it to the wrecker yet, though he should have. It would cost way more to repair her than it was worth. And I hated that. But I was still holding onto hope that someone would give me a better quote.
I bypass the sedan and head to the chain link fence. Leaning my head against the cool metal of it, I let my fingers wrap around the thick wire and sigh. It was sort of like seeing a piece of my dad all torn-up. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. Though, I knew it was time. I’d never forget the Bronco. And it was only a tiny part tethering me to the past, and to my father. He was etched into my memory.
Unlike the woman I’d been sparring with... who was now a complete haze in my brain.
“Eventually, you’ll have to you know.” A breeze blows behind me, soft and graceful, and I know who it is. “Your precious Bronco cannot stay caged away forever.”
“Liam,” I breathe out, turning slowly and dropping the duffel bag off my shoulder so I can lean more comfortably against the fencing.
His hair is the wonderful coffee-with-cream brown that it is in his more human form, with just a touch of red that makes me call it cognac. It’s warm, and the sight of it warms me—though I wish it didn’t.
“I love it when you say my name,” he says, walking forward and then stopping to lean against the sedan. His face is perfect, flawless. I hate that I can’t even find one small thing I dislike about his appearance.
“You know...” I hesitate over my words, because I’ve been trying to get him to discuss this particular thing, to no success. “we’ve not really spoken about what I saw.”
“What you saw?” he quirks an eyebrow, acting like he doesn’t understand. But I know he does, he can see inside my head. He can see me. And, we’ve been down this road before.
“Liam, don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. It’s been months. Four months of you flitting in and out of my life like you can’t settle around me. You show up to help me with necromancer stuff, and then you’re gone again. Then you show up again randomly. Like here and now. Why are you here?”
His smile lights his face now and he folds his arms across his chest in a beautiful, fluid motion that speaks of the utter control he has over his body and its movements. “I did text you, Victoria.” His voice is full of itself, absolutely pleased. “I got a mobile device. You’ve asked me to warn you when I’m going to be somewhere, or need to talk to you, and I have. Perhaps I keep ‘flitting’ in and out of your life because I can’t seem to figure out what you want of me.”
Ouch. The truth stings.
I unzip and riffle about in my duffel bag until I find my phone. I hit the side button and it comes to life. Princess Cop had insisted we all silence our phones. And, indeed, Liam had texted. Twice. “Oh. You did text.” I keep the phone in my hand, and dig around to also find the keys.
“Indeed, I did,” Liam still sounds as smug as possible.
“Fine. You want to talk. Talk. What do you want?” This is at least the third time he’s deflected my wish to talk about what I’d seen in his head. The child with the mahogany eyes. I step away from the fence and walk around him to get to the trunk of the black car. I open it, tossing the gym bag in without care for its contents. It makes a dull thud as it hits the dark carpeting.
When I close the trunk and stand up right, Liam has turned to face me. The cockiness has drained from his expression. “Victoria, I have not been leaving you just to leave you. The Prince of the Dark Court has told Oran where you are. The Light Prince will already have people looking for you. I am trying to deflect their advances. Set them other clues.”
“Oh,” I say, my brain racing and my heart thumping wildly. He’s been protecting me.
Everything I do is to protect you, my Queen.
“Stop,” I mutter angrily. And he knows what I mean. Stay out of my head. If you won’t even talk about what I saw in yours, then stay out of mine.
“If you recall, you were the one who pulled back. You were the one who did not want to see such things.”
“Yeah, well. I’m a girl, Liam. Get used to the damn mixed signals.” I’m stood in front of him now, waiting for him to move away from the driver’s door. He doesn’t budge. And I know that I cannot move him even if I try with all my might. “Move.”
I watch emotions rush across his face like waves, as if now he is the one with mixed signals, push
ing his body this way and that. It makes me want to touch his cheek with my fingers, trace along the line of his jaw, help him decide how he should be feeling at this moment.
Of course, he knows what I am thinking as I am thinking it.
He moves forward a few inches, bringing us so close that the skin of my stomach—once again exposed by the stupid shirt that had ridden up when I’d opened and closed the damn trunk—brushes softly against the long, perfectly-tailored coat he’s wearing over a blue button-up shirt. It is his fingers that reach to touch me instead now. They find the waistband of my stretchy yoga pants and then they gently slide across my skin. It causes my body to shake, my heart to race. I nearly drop the keys. They jangle softly against the cellphone I’m gripping for dear life. But my mind stays clear. I’m with Kyle. I don’t cheat. I won’t cheat.
“I know you are with him,” Liam murmurs. He leans over, lowering his head. His lips are the gentlest caress on my neck. “He’s not the one, Victoria. He’s never going to really be the one.”
That’s enough to pull me away from the spell that has my pulse rushing and my skin tingling.
“I decide who the one is, Liam. Not you. Not magic. And not fate. Move.”
And now he does. I open the driver’s side door, and I try not to look at him again. I can’t help myself though.
And now only one emotion arrests his face—hurt.
“Maybe if you’d really talk to me. Not say you’re protecting me. Not try to win my body over when my mind is clearly fighting. Maybe if you told me about...the future you see... maybe then we’d have a chance.”
“And Kyle does that with you? He talks to you about the future, about the ring he’s been carrying around?” The hurt is fading, replaced with a thin defiance.
“How did you know about the—”
He cuts me off before I can finish. “You’ve thought about it, and I know. He might ask you, Victoria. He might give you a clear and present picture of what tomorrow could be. But you are not destined for perfect plans and safe houses. You’re made for greater things. Darker things. Things that will excite and terrify you. He can’t give that to you, even if he is a giant bear prancing about in man skin.”
“Just stop it, Liam. He has a ring in his pocket and you have our child running around in your mind. Are either of those better than the other? Maybe I should leave you both behind and figure out what the hell my future should be. On my own.”
“Your voice says one thing, but your mind says something entirely different.” He presses, so sure of himself, so in tune with what he thinks I want. What my brain is saying.
But you know what? Thoughts are thoughts. And what the fuck you do with them is a totally different story. Bad shit pops into peoples’ minds all the time. If they follow the thoughts, and do the action, then they’re bad. Then they’re evil. If they question why they’re having the thoughts, but push them down and move forward to try and do good? To me... in my heart... that’s inherent goodness.
“Mixed signals, Liam. You can hear my thoughts, but my heart is another matter.”
I slam the driver’s door closed and toss my cell on the passenger seat. When I crank the engine, I wish the little sedan had the loud thrum of the Bronco. The sound the black car makes is too passive, to quiet. I want to roar away from Liam. I have to find a replacement, or a mechanic that won’t charge me an arm and a leg for the massive repairs. Braeden’s done some terrible things in the short time I’ve known he existed, but making me wreck my beloved Bronco topped the list.
I shift into reverse, and go to look at him one more time.
But he’s gone.
And I hate how that causes a lump to form in my throat.
Mixed signals, Tori. Mixed freaking signals.
Chapter Five
TERRANCE CAME TO BE with me when I burned Dominique and Marissa, the parents from the fire. He’d stepped out for air as we’d waited for the ashes to cool before grinding them down. He also rode with me over to the graveyard, following the hearse that carried the two painfully-small caskets. The concrete pourers wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow. But that was fine. The grave would be left uncovered, surrounded by antiquated warning signs about the risk of the dead. And we would pour the ashes now, instead of tomorrow with the concrete. They’d be closer to their children that way.
There’s a bite to the air, despite the trees blooming. I’m not dressed up, as I typically am for a funeral. Today, I am simply in a pair of dark jeans and I wear Adam’s jacket around me like a protective shield against the terrible truth of it all.
“I feel like we should have done an autopsy. We should have done more.” I say it off hand as we watch Dean lower the small caskets one-by-one into the grave that has been dug just a little wider than normal. I’m cradling the ashes, housed in a commercial urn. Nothing fancy. Nothing important. “It doesn’t seem right. You know? Murder victims get autopsies. You look for clues. But here,” I point, my finger lingering in the air longer than necessary. “I know all we’ll find is smoke inhalation. I know how they died. We even might know why they died. But how do we find out who did it, Terrance? How do we find that out when they’re bodies couldn’t give us evidence?”
He’s quiet for a while. The nearly inaudible hiss of the mechanism still lowering the second casket whines around us. “Nails,” he finally said. “If that was important enough to tell you, out of everything the ghost could have told you, then that’s what we concentrate on.”
“We focus on something that makes zero sense?” I question, walking forward to the grave. Staring down at the caskets, which look so very small surrounded by nearly-black, fertile earth, I fight back tears. There is little as saddening as a child-size casket. There’s an audible ‘pop’ of releasing pressure as I open the ashes. “I’m sorry this happened. I’m sorry you couldn’t live longer, happier lives.” I tip the container. There’s no wind. No rain. Just the normal overcast sky of Bonneau.
So the ashes fall straight down in a stream of monochrome. Gray, silver, white, tiny specks of black. It hits the light birch-hue of the caskets.
When the ashes are all spilled out, nestled down in the bottom of the grave, I realize Terrance didn’t respond to my last question.
I look at him, recapping the container. “So that’s the plan? Focus on the nails.”
He nods slowly, his own eyes wetter than normal. “Yes. Because if I were a damn ghost and I came back to tell someone one thing, it would be something pretty damn important.”
“If you were a spirit,” I corrected, now that he’d said ‘ghost’ more than once.
“What?”
“Spirits and ghosts aren’t the same thing, Terrance. It’s—” I start to explain, and then I stop. “It’s not important.” I turn away from him, look at the exposed grave. “But they are. So let’s find out who killed them.”
WE GO BACK TO THE VICTORIAN to get Terrance’s squad car. He wants me to go to the crime scene with him, see if I can pick up any vibrations. Again, I don’t bother to tell him that’s not exactly how it works. I’m not a psychic who can pick up an object and know its history. I’ve met people like that, who don’t even know what they’re doing. They’ll simply pick something up in an antique store and say something odd like ‘I feel like this has amazing history. Like... it was in a war or something’. And it’ll be a silver photo holder once carried by a solider, but the person had no idea that was true until they went to buy it and the shop keeper comments on it. Or they’ll get change from a vendor, touch the coins and just feel something wrong about them—like whoever once owned them wasn’t a good person, hadn’t done good things.
Liam says there are more ‘lost’ supernaturals than known nowadays. I can’t imagine growing up with a gift, and not realizing it. Or getting surprised with a power instead of being prepared for it like I was. Can you imagine turning 16, thinking you’re one hundred percent normal, and then suddenly shifting into a werewolf? Which, according to Liam, is an excruciatingly painful p
rocess the first time.
I know I would have sent myself to the loony house if I’d woken up to a dead person hovering over my bed one night. I was lucky to have had my grandmother and father.
When Terrance parks across the street from the Thai restaurant, I wonder what he thinks we’ll find. Yellow police tape is strung across all the busted windows, and the blackened door. The painted pale coral of the building’s brick is so dark in places that it looks nearly brown.
“Is it safe to go in?”
“Structurally, yes. But we still need to be careful.” Terrance turns off his squad car and opens his door.
“What are we looking for?” I exit the vehicle also, closing the door a little harder than I intend as I continue to stare at the ruin of a building. No one could have survived it. I can tell from even across the street that the inside of the structure is nothing but soaked debris. The fire department saved the shell, but nothing else. I’m amazed the family was in as good a condition as they’d been.
“Don’t know exactly,” Terrance shoves his hands in his pockets as he says it and rocks back on his heels a bit, considering the building. “But we’re going to look at anything, and everything, that might have had to do with nails.”
“Terrance, spirits have been known to screw up the details.” I come around to his side and lean against the squad car, crossing my arms and tilting my face a little so the soft breeze that’s just come to life can waft across my face. It gently musses my hair, sending mahogany strands to slightly obscure my vision. For an instant, my hair creates a purposeful window around my eyes. At least, that’s what it feels like. Like something stronger than the wind has taken control of my hair and is trying to show me something.
Like Terrance with his cop instinct, I listen. Because this isn’t a natural force at play. My hair blows in the ‘wind’ again, crossing over my face and leaving me a thin slit to stare through, only for a second. It’s higher than the restaurant, focused on the upper windows of the apartment.