The First Male (26 page)

“You must be gettin' the flu. We need to get you to a doctor before you pass out.”

“A doctor can't help me; I'm not sick—at least not like that.” Simon took another sip and passed the cup to Franklin, who quickly took a swig. The breeze skimming across the cold water
chilled Franklin's bones, and he hoped the liquor would provide some internal warmth.

“Man, I'm sorry for earlier. I was an ass. I didn't mean to go off like that. You know how I get when I'm tired.”

“It's fine. I understand your feelings.” Simon's voice settled into a creepy coolness. He spoke lightly, in a sharp whisper that seemed to cause the atmosphere to vibrate slightly. But, for Franklin, there was something else in his voice, too. Something that chilled him even more than winter's night air. Underneath the coolness of his voice was a texture that didn't even sound like Simon. The whisper covered the growing rasp.

“Do you hear that? Feel that?” he said as he looked around and up in the night sky. Simon didn't reply. He continued looking off in the distance, beyond the lake. “Man, something doesn't feel right out here. Let's go back inside.” Franklin stood up and nudged Simon in the arm. “You hear me? Let's go in.”

“Okay.” Franklin moved to the back side of the bench as Simon slowly stood up. Franklin took a few steps toward the hotel and then turned around to look for Simon, who was now moving toward the lake.

“What are you doing?” Franklin asked in a panic.

Simon turned to face him. A discomforting smile spread across his face and his eyes went black for a second. Franklin gasped and blinked hard. In the silvery glow of the moonlight, he couldn't be certain what he saw.

“Get . . . get away from the water. Let's go inside.”

“You wanted to see something?” Simon asked as he continued walking toward the water, leaving smoldering rocks beneath his bare feet. Franklin's eyes grew wide as the smoke rose from Simon's prints in the dirt. This time, he was certain that his eyes weren't playing tricks on him. A hard lump formed in his throat, making
it difficult to breathe. He felt his knees shake, and he wasn't sure his legs would support his weight. He wanted to sit down on the bench, but he was frozen in place. He watched with nervous anticipation as Simon approached the water's edge. Franklin thought maybe he was approaching the water to cool his feet, but when Simon reached the edge of the water he stopped and faced Franklin.

“I want to show you something,” Simon said in a rasping voice as he turned and faced the lake. He put his left foot forward as if to test the temperature of the lake, but Franklin quickly realized that wasn't his intention; he was simply toying with him. Then, Simon took a bold step
onto
the lake. And then another step. And another one. And another one.

Franklin had to steady himself to keep from collapsing when he realized . . . Simon was walking on water!

C
HAPTER
18

Eli and Rebecca stood in the foyer of Clara's house and looked around the room.

“He was here, Mother. I can feel him.” Eli closed his eyes and let his head fall back so that his face pointed toward the high ceiling. “I can really feel him.” Rebecca smiled and proudly cupped Eli's face with her hand, but she did not speak. She listened to Eli's words cautiously. She loved her son, but she had learned to never blindly trust his notoriously unreliable
feelings
. He often mis-interpreted his emotions, which led to false proclamations that hid the truth. He was still young and would learn to hone his talent one day, she often told herself. He was undoubtedly powerful but often unfocused. Power was his birthright, but he remained the child of a lesser god.

Rebecca released her grip and took a few steps, meticulously surveying the room and everything around her. She wouldn't be caught unguarded in a house that she knew had secrets. Deep secrets. All remained quiet in the house, except for the clicking sound of her heels on the hardwood floor as she sauntered about, trying to discover its treasures.

“The question, my dear son, then becomes, where is he now?”

“Don't worry, Mother. We'll find him. After all, he is my brother and our connection to each other grows every second.”

Rebecca offered a tiny, worried smile and moved into the formal
living room. She stood in the center of the area, looking around inquisitively. Her attention was drawn to the weathered bookshelf built into the wall on the left; she was attracted to its sheer enormity. The case was stacked from top to bottom with books and odd trinkets. When she was near it, she ran her fingertip across its ancient wood, which was splintered in several places on several shelves. Scratches, undoubtedly made by an unruly child with a sharp object, gave the shelf a thrift-store feel, despite the splendor of its construction. She tilted her head to better view the titles that were etched on the spines of some of the books. She didn't notice anything unusual.
The Bible. The Koran. War and Peace. Gone With the Wind. To Kill a Mockingbird. Beloved. The Color Purple
. There were a few books on the history of New Orleans, on voodoo, and on the slave trade, and there were dozens of fictitious works written by contemporary authors that remained unknown to Rebecca.

Rebecca moved over to the fireplace and looked at the trinkets and figurines that adorned the mantelpiece. Their faces seemed to focus on her and Rebecca half-expected them to move. They didn't feel like ordinary store-bought knick-knacks to her, and they gave her reason to pause; however, when nothing happened, she quickly grew bored with the toys and moved on.

She touched the back of the black throne-like chair and quickly withdrew her hand. “There is power in this house. I can feel it vibrating. It is subtle, so very subtle.”

“I can feel it, too,” Eli added anxiously, in that voice he used when he sought her approval; that tone grated on her nerves, but she always allowed him to speak, never chastising him over it.

As they strolled throughout the room, a voice called out to them from the doorway. “Can I help you? How did you get in here?” Rebecca turned her head toward the voice that belonged to Donna,
who stood in the doorway with a scowl deeply carved into her brow. She set down her bags of groceries. “Who are you?”

“Who are you?” Eli asked impetuously, snarling. He took a quick step toward Donna, but Rebecca extended her arm to block his forward momentum.

“I am Rebecca Saint and this is my son, Eli. We knocked on the door and it came open,” Rebecca stated in her honey-sweet voice.

“That's not possible. I locked that door myself.”

“Well, here we are anyway,” Rebecca said, smiling.

“What do you want?”

“What can you tell me about this lovely house?”

“What?”

“You heard her,” Eli interjected. His boorish comment didn't sit well with Donna and in response she folded her arms across her chest and shifted her weight.

“Please forgive my son. It has been a long day. We are looking for the owner of this house. Is he home?”

“She's
not here right now. Who shall I tell her stopped by?”

“When do you expect her to return?”

“I can't say.”

“You can't, or you won't?” Eli asked, impatience digging into his voice. Donna looked at him, suddenly concerned. In an instant, her indignation turned to fear. “I think you need to leave before I call the police.”

“No need for that,
Donna
,” Rebecca said.

“How do you know my name?” Rebecca quickly glided over to the doorway and Donna took a few clumsy steps backward, bumping into and then bouncing off the wall. Eli was suddenly upon her, circling and sniffing her like a wolf.

“Let me play with her, Mother. She has a lot of years on her,
but I could still teach her a few things. I have a special game, a new game I want to try. Do you want to play with me, Donna?” he asked, as he pushed her hard against the wall and then cupped one of her breasts. Donna's body recoiled at his touch.

“Most women do not survive your games, Eli.” Rebecca's comments were not meant to strike fear into Donna or to be boastful; her statement was a simple matter of fact.

“I'll be gentle this time. I promise.” Eli stuck out his forked tongue and licked her neck, slowly. He ran his finger gently up her forearm, leaving a trail of seared skin. Her body shuddered and the rank smell of smoldering skin wafted into the air. Donna tried to scream, but Eli's other hand around her neck stifled her sounds. The rattling of her bones could be heard over her gasps for breath and over her burning skin.

“That is enough, Eli. We do not have time for this,” Rebecca said, interrupting. “Tell me, Donna, when will
Clara
return?” she asked as Eli relinquished his death grip on her neck. Rebecca tried to probe Donna's thoughts, but was only able to go deep enough to pull out a name, Clara's name. “Interesting. What are you, some kind of witch?”

Donna looked at her in confusion and shook her head wildly from side to side. “Wha-what do you mean? I'm not a witch.”

Rebecca paused and rolled her eyes from Donna's feet to the top of her head. “You speak the truth. I sense no power from you, yet, oddly, you are protected by some kind of spell. You have consorted with witches, have you not?” Again, Donna shook her head
no
. “It is of little consequence, though. This power that protects you is rudimentary, at best. Amateurish.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Let me be clear. I do not care about you, Donna, but if you value your life you will tell me when Clara will return to this house.”

“I . . . I don't know. I swear.”

Rebecca paused and stared at Donna with her cold eyes. “Well then,” she said as she took a few steps away from her, “we shall wait.” She moved deeper into the room and took a seat in the black throne. “I love this chair,” she said as she ensconced herself in it. She took a few seconds to find the perfect sitting position, adjusting herself until she found a regal position. “Donna, be a dear and fetch us some tea.”

“Yes . . . yes, ma'am.” Donna covered her burn marks with her hand. “Right away.” Donna stumbled a few steps, moving cautiously around Eli.

“And, Donna,” Rebecca said.

“Yes?”

“I advise against doing anything improper like trying to run away or calling for help. I assure you it would end disastrously for you and your whole family.” The sweetness of Rebecca's voice belied the threat of her words, but it was clear by the expression on Donna's face that she would do exactly as she was told.

After a few moments, Donna returned with a fresh batch of tea served on Clara's finest china. The tray shook in her trembling hands, but she was able to serve it without spilling a drop. When she turned to walk away, Rebecca stopped her.

“Where are you going, Donna?”

“Back . . . to my work.”

“You work for us now, and I want you to stand right there in that spot and keep us company.”

Donna stood for hours.

As soon as Clara crossed the threshold of her home, she knew something wasn't right. Instantly, her breathing quickened. She set her shopping bag on the floor near her feet, slowly closed the door, and removed her big red hat with the wide brim. She carefully removed her coat and laid it across her bag on the floor.

“Donna?” she called out. Her voice echoed throughout the house but returned empty, unanswered. The house was quiet, too quiet, and devoid of almost any usual signs of life. No music playing. No voices from the television. Not even Donna's customary hum as she moved about the house. Even the air was still, eerily undisturbed.

Clara's eyes carefully scrutinized her surroundings, darting around the room, trying to take in as much as she could. She didn't see anything unusual; yet, the warning in her heart remained. The hairs on her forearms stood on end, validating her suspicion that something was dreadfully wrong. Even the illumination in the house was unusually dim, except for an odd glow reaching out from the back. Clara knew Donna well enough to know that she didn't like a dark house, and if she had to leave, Clara knew that Donna knew her well enough to leave enough lights on so that the house wasn't shrouded in shadows.