I jumped to my feet.
"I’m sorry I didn’t knock when we arrived." Looking into stricken faces, I asked, "How did you know we were here?"
"Your brother called ahead and…we smelled his blood."
"I’m sorry. I wish I could have brought him to you properly cleaned."
He shook his head, looking at the ground. "We smell it on you. You’re covered in him."
My expression blanked, but behind my eyes I was looking up at Jack’s helpless body as the blood showered over my hazelnut skin, sticking to my scalp and the undersides of my fingernails.
I started to say I was sorry, but he interrupted with a wave of his hand. Then he waved to someone else. Two large men, one with skin rivaling the brilliance of a raven's dark wings and one almost my color, carefully pulled Jack from the seat and carried him into the heart of the mourners. Sighs and gasps escaped, and a guttural moan grew to a chorus.
The mass of tears and moans parted like a macabre ocean as the men rested Jack’s body across the lap of a red-haired woman with a petite nose and thin lips. The sheet shifted, exposing his ashen chest and legs. Enough remained to leave his dignity intact.
Under the streetlight, the woman held him, wordless. Her eyes scrutinized every particle of dirt, every injury, every inch of once-perfect flesh. Though she never cried. Never frowned. Never moved. The scene evoked Michelangelo’s Pieta; Mother Mary cradling a wilted Jesus in her lap. And, I swear by God, I felt my heart drop and snap in half.
In a strained voice, I asked Tomas, "Is that his mother?"
"Yes."
"Please tell her that his death saved a young girl from being butchered alive… Please relay to his family that Jack’s actions under such malevolence were truly exceptional."
"You just did."
"What?" I tried to swallow past the lump in my throat.
Tomas pointed to the woman. "That’s my wife. And that’s our son in her arms."
"God, Tomas, I had no idea!"
"Calm down." He started to pat my shoulder but stopped short, shying from his son’s dried blood on the brown shirt I was still wearing. Lowering his hand, he repeated, "Calm down. Everybody did what they could and we’re grateful. He’s home. That’s the most important thing. You brought him home."
"We should have done more. I should have brought him home alive, Tomas."
"Plenty of folks go to their graves wishing they could have done more for others. That’s not failure. That’s the mark of a good soul."
I disagreed silently before explaining Conrad’s part in all of it, which turned out to be pivotal. He spied on all the shifters, choosing which children were taken based on age and vulnerability to abduction. Conrad handpicked each child. Unforgivable.
"Blaire wanted to end him, burn him with the rest of the bastards."
He gritted his jaw back and forth.
I popped the trunk. "But I thought you might want to say your peace." Tomas leaned over to see Conrad tied and gagged like the pig he was. "We can’t heal your pain, but I thought retribution might be a start. Blaire plans to issue a formal apology, as well, since it was one of ours that defected."
Tomas shook his head. "This will do. Tell Blaire the situation’s righted." He looked into my eyes. "Thank you for not letting him burn."
The same two men as before hauled Conrad into the crowd turned mob. He flailed helplessly, trying to scream through the material in his mouth.
"Send him to the hell he deserves." Slamming the trunk, I requested, "Slowly."
"Do you want his remains back?" he asked in all seriousness. It was an unspoken rule between shifters that a fallen be returned to his rightful people under most circumstances. After contemplating my expression, he said, "Or we can piss on him and flush him with the rest of the shit."
"Every bit of him belongs to you." I hopped in the driver’s seat through the window. "No returns."
"Appreciate it."
"I’ll be in touch."
I drove away listening to Conrad’s curdled screams. They had taken the gag out.
On many levels, I couldn’t believe what I’d just done. Or, more so, what I was about to do.
Chapter Fifteen
I thought about going home, taking a shower, ignoring the shambles and sliding under my sheets for a few months. It was a good plan…if the last ten hours had never happened. If I could just not hear their voices like shattered glass in my head. If I could erase Jack’s face and the question his open eyes branded on my dirty soul.
Sunrise wasn’t far. I should have met it victoriously. But that didn’t feel right. All I could think about was how much I wanted to be clean. I smelled like shit and death. A part of me never questioned my hands on the wheel, while another part grimaced, sneaking a peek through gritty fingers.
I drove the Mustang right up the front lawn, past the various animal topiaries. Cursing wildly under my breath, the keys shook as I flipped through them, stopping at one I hadn’t anticipated using ever again. Then why keep it, right? Yeah, I asked myself that every motherfucking time I looked at it.
The excessively adorned mahogany door attached to the equally glitzy white house swung open without so much as a creak. Sarcastically, I muttered, "I’m home, honey." The words fell on empty space.
When I walked past the foyer mirror, my mouth dropped open. There I stood in a soiled bowling shirt that barely covered my ass, staring at a face I didn’t recognize. Not because it was covered in gore laced in a granite sheen. It was my eyes I couldn’t look away from. They looked defeated. Tired.
Haunted.
I wanted to believe I was staring at someone else.
I unbuttoned the shirt carefully, never breaking eye contact with myself. The rag slid to the floor. It was left there. After showering in the guest bathroom that could have been the interior of a hotel, I searched the closet for an extra dress or robe. Blaire’s mother didn’t venture to this wing past midnight or before breakfast. But some nights—bad nights—required that she stay close to his father. She no longer shared a bed with him. For a number of reasons, I imagined. I wasn’t judging.
Thankfully, the closet was full and I knew Amita wouldn’t mind, wherever she was. I swished past the white, red, and black hues, finding my hand on a blush sari with gold threading. Pink wasn’t one of my signature colors, but it would do. It was the only material that didn’t remind me of a wedding, funeral, or spilled blood.
When I walked into the old man’s room, the oversized windows were flooding us with a new day. Fuck that! I pulled the thick curtains to, turning my back on time.
"You don’t mind, do you?" I asked. Of course, his night was continuous, no matter which way the curtains were pulled. He hadn’t been conscious in weeks. Or so Darien mentioned.
There was already an empty chair sitting vigil, but it was hard and uninviting. I switched it for one of the curved armchairs by a grotesquely golden armoire. Within minutes, I was settled in, staring at Old Man Abram, Blaire’s father who used to be addressed as ‘Fierce Abram.'
I leaned forward, crossing my arms on the bed and resting my chin on them, glancing upward at his thin white beard and closed eyes that drooped on the outer edges.
"Well, old man, I could have gone home or called a friend, or your son. But here I am. You always have the perfect thing to say, so… I guess…" I sighed. "I guess I just need something perfect right now." He remained unmoved. "So, if I could just sit here for a while, that would be really nice.
"I brought something for you." I set the silver cat’s claw pendant on the side table. It had been carried out of the quarry to safety in my shirt pocket. I gushed about the night’s events like we were sitting in a bar rather than a musty bedroom under grim circumstances. A lot of cursing was involved. Abram always appreciated a good rant. But I stopped talking when my voice grew hoarse.
It was hard to believe he wouldn’t wake up any minute. He looked like he’d sit up and say something inspiring in that booming voice of his. Hair combed. Sa
lt and pepper strands lying side by side. Peachy complexion. Not waxy at all. Pillows propped behind his head. A man of leisure. The only physical indication that he wasn’t merely sleeping was his dry lips. They were cracked and stuck together in one corner.
"Here." I reached for the ChapStick on the side table and applied it to his slack mouth. "Where’s that bitch of a housekeeper, now? She wants to be a nurse so bad. Where is she? You can afford a gold armoire, for Christ’s sake. The least you could have is an attendant to keep your lips from falling off." I was just talking under my breath to fill the space. But honestly, his home had wings and an eight-car garage. "And your bedroom is too big. Too drafty." I pulled the covers up to his shoulders and curled back into the chair, winding my legs and arms into a secure, comfy position.
I felt as safe with Old Man Abram right then as I did when he was Fierce Abram and I was a simple child staring in wonder. Locked away from the world for a short eternity, I basked in the serenity. Mostly, our lepe viewed his bedridden state as the final stop. But maybe we were seeing it all wrong. Maybe it was just a stop before a start.
Smiling, I remembered a story Mom told me after I cried every night for a month when Dad left. In the seclusion of Abram’s personal infirmary, I recounted it for us.
There was a young little cat with a cream and white coat. (I had one that color growing up.) She played all day and lounged in the sun. A day came when her mother told her she must grow up. Little Cat refused. But with each passing day, she noticed her paws getting wider, her coat thicker, and her whiskers longer. Little Cat became angry. Vowing to outsmart Father Time, she began walking backward and stopped growing older. But everywhere Little Cat treaded, she saw only where she had been rather than where she was going. All the while, the world changed around her. A day came when Little Cat told her mother she wanted to grow up. She wanted to change with the world. Her mother laughed. "Well then, Little Cat, turn around. It is as simple as walking."
I smiled at Abram. "I guess it wouldn’t be fair if we got the world and our own way." My eyes were scratchy, eyelids heavy. Before leaving them shut, I said, "Thank you, Fierce Abram. Even now, you have such strength to affect me."
My breathing slowed until it almost matched his, and maybe we dreamed together.
Chapter Sixteen
The next day was a welcomed haze. After waking with all kinds of sore muscles from being beaten to a pulp and then sleeping in a tiny chair like a housecat, I vowed to Old Man Abram that I would visit more often and then ventured home. A few hours and a few garbage bags later, my room wasn’t the shit hole it was the day before. It helped that someone had boarded up the window, and the roses lining the walkway outside were furniture free. Little bits of glass still sparkled here and there, though.
Successfully avoiding Lydia’s psychopathic need to console until the consolee breaks like a perp on a high-profile crime drama, and skirting Darien’s need to "debrief," I actually accepted Gage’s offer to lift weights in his room.
It was sort of perfect. The godsend appeal of Gage’s room was that the music was so fucking loud and he was so fucking ecstatic to have company, I wasn’t expected to say a word. That didn’t stop his mouth from moving, of course. And his gestures were crazy overboard. At one point, he jumped off the top of his dresser swinging a boot overhead, gyrating his hips and smiling. I wasn’t sure if he was asking about the fight or recalling rowdy sex he may have had with a cowgirl. I was able to see him mouth, "Thank you Mother!" before giving him a thumb’s up and leaving soon after.
Later, I found myself shopping for some new clothes. I bought a bunch of crap and a new black dress. When the day came to a close, Nash found me on the doorstep of his townhouse. Darien had his address on file.
"You make house calls," he grinned, wearing a gray polo that sparked the silver hue in his eyes.
"I’m bringing your shirt back." I shoved a black plastic bag at his chest.
Nash peered inside and lifted the tag. "This isn’t my shirt."
"Yeah, I spilled something on the other one."
"Thank you." He set it inside and shut the door, sitting in one of the wicker porch chairs rather than invite me inside. Not asking questions, I sat in the other one.
He lived smack in the middle of the busiest part of the city, so we people watched for a bit: people walking dogs, walking each other, arguing on their cell phones and, my favorite, texting while walking.
"Can I ask you something?" He didn’t look at me when he said it, just tilted his head, watching a redhead scold her Pomeranian for sniffing another dog’s ass.
"I totally hate it when someone asks me that, but go ahead." I was slouched down in the chair, hands in the pockets of my jeans, legs stretched out so the bottoms of my black flip-flops could push on the ivory banister.
"The first time I offered my shirt when we were with Tomas’ people, would you have accepted if your trunk wasn’t full of clothes?"
Not even pretending to think about it, I answered, "No."
His head bobbed up and down silently before rationing, "That’s okay. Yesterday, you did."
"Why is that so important?"
"Exactly."
Not wanting to tread deeper into Nash’s Sesame Street moment, I asked, "How’s Lucy and her shaggy pet?"
"Healing nicely. I’ll tell her you asked."
"No. Just thank her for her part. For watching over the children."
"You mean for not eating the tasty morsels after their harrowing ordeal."
My eyes squinted, and I could have lit him on fire with my mind.
"No, assface, I meant thank you very fucking much for helping us out after all the leopards thought you were dead and didn’t give a shit except me, who didn’t have enough balls to say dick to anyone about it." I stood up. "That! Is what I meant!"
With his vampire speed, Nash cut off my progress, holding his hands out. "I apologize." After shaking my head, he dropped his voice. "I apologize." There was such sincerity in those two words, it made me want to punch him in the gut… Just because.
Looking at my toes, I said, "Tomorrow’s Jack’s death walk."
Not so much an actual walk as it is a gathering of our beasts to run and hunt a tract of land the deceased favored. Every shifter has ‘that’ place where he or she feels most at home in nature’s grip, even before we shift. The land becomes quilted into our hearts until we can’t discern the difference between the muscle and the matter. We know it so well we can walk it with our eyes closed and still recognize every step like a freckle on our own bodies. We know it so dear it might as well have a face and a beating heart to love us back.
For those reasons, a death walk is very personal.
The inevitable "Ah!" look crossed Nash’s face. "Are you walking?"
My brow crinkled. "I don’t know. I’ll be graveside, but I don’t know if I should walk." Bouncing my back lightly off the side of the house repeatedly, I said under my breath, "I don’t deserve to walk."
"Have you talked to Tomas about this?"
"Briefly, over the phone."
"And?"
I nodded, confirming the invite.
"Then walk, damn it." He dropped into the wicker seat with the weight of a feather. "You have your whole life to torture yourself, but you’re being given a chance to lessen someone else’s. If Tomas asked you to walk, it’s for a reason. Don’t let him get caught in the crossfire of your self-loathing."
"I don’t even recognize my own world, Nash. So how can I just drop in on theirs?"
I was pissed at the world for changing too much, too fast. And it confused me.
"Fray, there is always a new day for you. Let tomorrow show you a different world. It might be a better one than the world you know today. And it may be more important than the ones you had for all those yesterdays."
Gripping the porch rail and leaning forward, I pushed back before quipping, "You’re awfully smart for a ‘dead’ guy. How is that?"
He shrugged. "I wasn’t a very g
ood ‘alive’ guy. Guess I have to make up for that by becoming your guru."
"You wish!" I laughed.
But he was right about one thing. I couldn’t refuse Tomas’ request. That might not translate well, meaning tension between his pride and my lepe could escalate pretty fast from the overabundance of manic emotions.
Plus… A new world was starting to sound good to me.
So Tuesday arrived with the fire of the devil. The last time the household moved with such caution was right after I went crazy from the herbal bomb in my system. This time was very different. I knew I was tyrannical, threatening anyone I set eyes on. Even Joshua wasn’t immune.
"So we’re supposed to walk for any cat, now?" he spat.
I stopped searching for my heels and glared. "No, I’ve said this five hundred times. You don’t have to walk, but I better see every face at the funeral site afterward." I pointed at Gage. "Every face."
"Hey," Gage flung his arms out to the side, "Joshua’s got a point. If it had been one of our lepe, do you think we’d expect the pride to walk with us, to stand next to us at a grave?"
"I don’t give a good goddamn, Gage!" I found my black pumps under the entry table and threw them in my tan woven bag with the black dress I had purchased the day before. "And wear a suit. Buy it, rent it, steal it. I don’t give a shit."
Gage would have said something bad for his health if it weren’t for Darien stepping out of the kitchen. Hanging a row of pressed suits in the doorway, he barked, "You’re going," and pointed. "I already bought the suits so shut the fuck up."
Calmer, Gage simply asked, "Why all the trouble for a pride?"
Shutting my eyes, the barest smile touched my lips. "Because he was just a boy, Gage. And we’re just animals trying to live as people, mostly. So why not do it together?"
I didn’t wait for his response. Instead, I slammed the door behind me and ran right into Blaire.
"Great! Are you here to talk me out of it, too?"
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