Authors: Rochelle Maya Callen
Ashes and Ice (18 page)
Now the world will see what I am. Vulnerable. Ugly. Evil. Lost. Sad. Angry. Numb.
And dead.
I hate the world for exposing me. Because for a brief moment, I felt alive.
Chapter 48
Connor
It makes total sense. Boy meets girl. Boy falls hard for girl. Girl turns out to be possessed, homicidal freak. Just my luck. Throw in the fact she tried to kill me and we got ourselves a winner.
I try to push out the images of her, of everything about her. But no matter what I do, no matter where I look, all I can see is Jade. Plucking at the guitar on my bed. Spinning under the oak trees. Hugging me and holding on a moment longer. Walking down the stairs and feeling the dizzying rush she was going somewhere with me. And the feeling that this was it—that feeling people always dream and sing about, what my Mom and Dad lived every day. Jade is my everything: my wings, my roots, my sky. I am in love with her.
And she tried to kill me.
Now that is some messed up shit right there.
I dream of her black, vacant eyes. They sear into me—burning, scalding, threatening to shatter, penetrate , and kill me. Those vacant black eyes aren’t empty at all. They ooze with hate, with violence, with desire, but mostly, with a strange and deadly hunger. Those eyes saw me, and despite with I pleaded and screamed for Jade to wake up, she didn’t. I still hear the scratching, the fine, raspy noise the tips of her heels made as they slid across the floor toward me.
Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.
The fabric whipped around her like caught in a storm. Palms out toward me. Inky eyes pointed at me. Her mouth stretched in a wide “O” as if she was screaming, but there was no scream. No, a tumble of sounds poured out of her—a cry, a threat, a thin, high voice, a dark haunted one—all stretched passed her lips in one confused, arrangement of foreign words. The scraping. The voices. The eyes. The… monster. My life changes in a single moment and shatters everything.
My bed feels so cold without her. Stop thinking crap like that! Arg. I count the ceiling’s wood beams, edging out the chill of my blankets, edging out the reason behind why it feels so empty here. 1…2…3…4…5
Scrape.
My breath catches as I flinch, throwing my covers off me. I look at the window. The tree’s limb rakes the window.
Scrape.
It’s windy. I lie back down, my muscles still tense. 1..2…3…4…5…6 Scrape. It’s just the tree limb. 7…8…9….10 Scrape. Forget it. The damn ceiling is boring as hell anyway.
I wedge my ears between the sheeted mattress and my pillow, eyes on the window. The shadows dance and linger about the windowsill and the moonlit-skewed square on the floor. My eyes are heavy. Everything weighs too much. I let myself fall asleep. No, sleep forces itself on me. But right before I go under, I think I see a face at the window… pale… I try to keep my eyes open…a man…my lids close, I force them open…unnaturally blue eyes…the darkness closes in and as it does, whoever I thought was at my window is no longer there.
Chapter 49
Jade
I sit in the back of the cab, my eyes open and staring into the blackness of the lake as we rush by. I am not afraid of you, I think. Dreams of drowning pummel me every night, but just as I am ready to give up, desperate and breathless, I pull my logic and strength together and tell the soft sway of the waves I am stronger than them. I stare at them and dare them to lap over the bridge. I am waiting for you. I find myself grinning and then slowly feel the smile fade as the reality of everything else comes rushing in: I almost killed my Connor. No, he’s no longer mine. Was he ever mine to begin with? No. I am a monster.
“Turn here.” I point toward the bookstore. Alathea knew something. She had answers. Last time I was just too overwhelmed, too cut into pieces to hear them. Too afraid of what Connor might hear, what Connor might do. As we pull onto the street, I know something is wrong. Caution tape wraps around an area of the sidewalk and as we drive up beside the address, I gasp at the gaping black hole in the strip of stores.
“Whoa, this is where you wanna be? Looks like this place burned down. No one told you?”
“I—I—can you wait here for a moment?”
“Sure. Meter’s still ticking though.”
I step out of the cab clutching the book Alathea had given me on my last visit and walk up to the tape, staring in. Black drapes everything. Inside, furniture, books, everything is charred beyond recognition. I look around and seeing no one, duck under the tape into the space that was once Crescent City Books.
It is all gone. The smell of ash suffocates me. Looking around, I see something on the far wall I hadn’t noticed before. It’s black from fire and ash, but the indent of it is there in the wall. Lines, circles, waves and slashes. I stare at the symbol and realize suddenly I am looking at my own. My symbol. My anchor, my comfort. I walk up to the wall and dip my finger in the ridges. Then, I close my eyes and place my palm on the center.
FIRE.
It started in the entryway, cutting off escape.
Alathea jumped up to her feet, a beautiful dagger in her hands.
“I know who you are!” She screamed. You will not take all of us!”
Quickly, she started drawing my symbol on the wall, glancing back every few moments as the fire advanced toward her. Her hand moved fast, but there was desperation, feral determination in her eyes. As soon as she finished the symbol, she whipped around to face the flames and smiled. It was a frightening smile. Her mouth gaped open as vowels and consonants poured from her lips in a raspy whisper, her arms wide as if she was waiting to embrace the flames. As soon as the fire licked at her shoes and the heat started to burn her skin, the incantation stopped and she took her knife and plunged it into her chest. As the flames came forth to meet her, her body combusted into blue violent energy and then was swallowed up by the yellow and orange of the flame.
My palm burned. Yelping, I flinch. I looked around. I am scared. Everything is falling apart. What happened to Alathea? The blackness of the burnt walls press in on me and I stumble out, releasing my hand as the pain and the blistered flesh disappear.
“Take me to St. Ann’s Street.” I say, my voice frail.
I stand over the charcoal painting of the door. It looks the same, even brighter, as if it had been retraced. I need to find it, but how? I look at the script on the door and ran my finger over it. Nothing.
I place my palm on the picture and feel nothing. No pull, no energy.
I sit on my heels and shook my head.
Then, I think of it. Leaning in further, I place my index finger on the red and start drawing. As soon as I draw my symbol on the door, time stands still. I gasp. Everyone is frozen in mid-motion. I look down at the drawing.
It’s glowing. Electric, flaming blue and orange. I reach to see if it will burn my hand. It doesn’t. With that, I place my hand, palm down on my symbol and I feel the energy quivering, shuddering under my touch. It reaches and pulls and dances on my skin.
When I open my eyes, a terrifying clarity sets in. The world falls back in time. The world, though, is cast in shadows and the faintest glow of light. People walk by and ,at the core of them, I see a glowing ember pulsating within. Some sputtered, some pulsed strong, some flared brilliant.
I stare. What is happening? Then in a whoosh, the clarity is gone. Looking down at my hand, the symbol is a flat, unremarkable thing. I draw my palm away and as I stand, disheveled and desperate, I feel a pull. I nearly laugh out of joy. A pull deep in my core, something dragging me forward. I hold onto it, focus on it. Please, please, please take me to you, I plead.
I turn left and right, up alleys, downs streets.
Like a blessed basin of water amidst the barren dessert, I see it. The door—red metal, rusty, and with symbols sprawled in paint diagonally across the door—alone in a dark alley. The stench strangles me, crinkles my nose and forces me to hold my breath. The thin, dead-end corridor seems alive with slight breaths and muffled whispers that bounce against the peeling brick walls and surround me, making me feel small in this confined space.
I reach to knock on the door.
It opens before my knuckles graze its metal exterior.
“Hello?” I call out into the room, walking in cautiously.
The room is small. Thick wraps of dark, red velvet cascade from the walls. Animal skulls line the perimeter of the room, along with jars filled with liquid and what appear to be different organs. Ornamental gold goblets, glasses, plates, and chains lie disorderly about the room’s flat surfaces, along with paintings of folklore, mythology and the Bible. I’m not sure exactly how I can place these scenes, but they seem categorized in my brain as if I had seen them before.
The door slams closed behind me.
“Jade!” Without warning, wiry arms wrap around me. I stiffen, taking in the white hair tickling my nose. I don’t hug back.
The old man backs away and peers over his eyeglasses. Gray eyes, wrinkles, and completely familiar.
I fall to my knees, my breath suddenly lost in my throat, unwilling to release.
He falls beside me and squeezes me closer.
I feel his tears dampen my cheek.
My beloved old man cries silently beside me and between my ragged breaths I hear him whisper in his rough gravelly voice, “I’m sorry, Jade. I am so sorry.”
Chapter 50
Connor
My dad sits at his desk. He looks insane.
“Dad?”
He doesn’t look up. Bloodshot eyes focused on his desk, jerky movements, shaking in desperation. He jabs his pen to a page, writes something and then throws it aside, then writes again.
“Dad, what’s wrong?” I say, louder, swallowing down fear.
I approach his desk and he still doesn’t look up. He’s swaying in his chair, his hands wildly writing then tossing aside paper, his eyes not blinking.
I stare at his hands. His fingertips are bleeding, bleeding onto the pages. He’s writing his fingers raw.
“Dad, stop!” I run around the desk and try taking the pen from him, but his hand is strong and he doesn’t let go, doesn’t even stop his fervent movement.
I use both my hands to try to stop his.
He’s still swaying; I am breathing hard with the effort.
I look at the page.
She’s coming
is written across the page, blood splatter mixing with the ink.
“Dad…” I look to his face.
Bloodshot eyes snap to me. “She’s coming for you.”
I let go of my Dad’s hand and trip backwards, falling away from him, falling away, far away from those inhuman eyes.
I wake up choking on tears. When I wipe them away, I see black on my fingertips.
Chapter 51
Jade
We sit on the floor wrapped together, my old man weeping, my body aching, but still unable to cry.
“Where—where have you been?” I whisper.
“Oh, my dear Jade. I have wondered the exact same thing about you.” He takes my cheeks between his palms and turns me toward him. I see a flicker of light in his eyes. Then I see it: This old man—as he once was, old, disheveled, and comforting, I see the brown, oddly quaint buildings lining the street with gas lit lamps illuminating them. Twilight. Rough, dirty-faces rush about me, bobbing along with barrels, baskets, and wagons, and there we are—this man and I—in the center of it all. My one and only memory, plays out in pristine clarity in his eyes. My breath catches in my throat. “What are you?” My breath finally rushes out.
He cocks his head to the side and leans in closer, “That isn’t your real question, is it? Your real question, Jade, is what are you?”
I feel the world close in, crushing me. I nod slowly.
Standing up, he walks behind a large desk and looks back at me. Although my legs feel weak, I stand up and brace myself against the side of a huge, high-backed chair. He stares at me and rubs the stubble on his chin so intently I wonder if the hair and skin will scratch off.
“That is a very complicated question, Jade. We don’t have time to talk about it now, but I promise you, I swear, we will. I will tell you everything.”
I begin to protest.
“They are searching for you, Jade.” His eyes change—a curious, sad shift of his lids and slant to his eyes. He blinks, once, twice. “They all are coming. And I don’t know how to stop them.”
The silence pulls between us, yanked back and forth as our breaths sputter in and out. I can see the concern and love in his eyes. He wants to protect me. But from what? From whom?
“I—I don’t remember you.” I say finally, the silence weighing too much. “Not really.”
He nods slowly, so slowly and I wish I had lied. I wish I could tell him I remembered him as he obviously remembers me.
“My name is Lynx. And I know you don’t remember me.”
“You know? But—but how do you know that?”
His voice grows softer, the sadness in his eyes settling into the droop of his chin and the sag of his downturned mouth. “Because, Jade, I was the one who stole your memories.”
Chapter 52
Connor
I wake up in the morning, trembling. Air weighs too much, memories weigh too much, every god damned thing weighs too much and it is all crushing me. I sit up slowly, my head hammering against my skull. Even though it would hurt less, I don’t close my eyes, because every time I close my eyes I see her black eyes and clawed fingers.
I stand up, rubbing my neck and stumble out of bed. When my wood chest nabs me in the shin, I kick it until the wood buckles. It makes me feel better to see something breaking outside of me rather than inside.
With narrowed eyes, I stare at the chest. Something is different about it—other than the small break in the wood where my foot abused it. I kneel down and try to lift the lid.
Locked.
I swipe my thumb over the brass key hole. I never paid attention to it before, didn’t even realize I could lock it. My dad kept it on his desk and, when he died, I wanted to keep it close to me. I thought the wood and intricate carvings would be calming. But after a time, it just reminded me too much of Dad and I decided to push it under my bed. So the fact that it is right out here in the open…is, well…odd.