The First Male (9 page)

He paused for dramatic effect and to extend Addie's pain. When she was near blacking out, he replenished the room with air and spoke casually, as if nothing extraordinary had happened. “We want to find him so that he can take his rightful place in the universe. He's so very near. We
will
find him; we can feel his power. Your binding spell was never complete. Can you feel it, too? Each time his powers manifest, we can sense it, and I'm sure you can, too. So, it's only a matter of time before we locate him. You've altered destiny once, but our will shall be done in spite of your interference; still, it would be so much easier if you helped us. So, in exchange for your assistance, I offer you and your sisters immunity from your crimes against us. And for you, Adelaide, I offer a special gift: full restoration of your health. Isn't that wonderful? How could you turn down such a gracious offer? So, why don't you let me in?”

Eli stared directly into her empty eyes and tried to pierce her mind. He pushed and pushed until intense pain ricocheted inside his own skull. He screeched like a wounded animal and collapsed to one knee, clinging on to the edge of a chair near the window for balance.

“So, that's the game you want to play, you old bitch,” he said between heavy breaths. He staggered over to her and suddenly backhanded her so hard across the face that she flew out of the chair and slid across the floor. She crashed into the wall with a tremendous clang. Eli felt her jawbone shatter into pieces upon
impact and he could sense her pain; it delighted him. She belonged to him now and no one was coming to help her. They were alone and his torture would last for hours. He spelled the room, insulating it from sound and creating a shimmer, which would reflect a manufactured image he conjured to anyone who entered. If a hapless nurse or aide entered the room, they'd simply see him reading her a story, but behind the veil, his assault of her would continue, uninterrupted.

Eli strolled over to the window and stared into the night. He placed his right palm on the cool glass.

“There's a storm gathering, Addie. Can you feel it?” He closed his eyes and concentrated on what lay beyond the window, far past the horizon. “Oh yes. A storm.” His voice sounded lustful, full of strong desire. “I can feel it. It's your storm, my dear. It is the breaking of your binding spell; it is the unleashing of his power. It is gathering strength.” He turned and looked into her stone face. “Surely, you feel it, too?” He moved over to her and picked her up gently from the floor. He laid her across the bed, taking time to properly fit the pillows beneath her head. He pulled the covers up and stopped when they were just beneath her breasts. He looked at a chair in the corner and it slid effortlessly over to him. He took a seat at her side and stroked her forehead. He would torture her, abuse her, and then repair her body so that no one would know.

“Well, let us get to it.”

His punishment would last most of the dark night.

C
HAPTER
6

S
imon woke up in his bed and looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was nearly eight at night and his room was dark, save for the light from the clock. His mouth felt arid and powdery, as if he hadn't had water in days. His forehead was slightly moist, but his headache had dissipated. He sat up in bed and took a moment to fully assess his health. He felt good. Healthy. Strong. He looked around the empty room and called out for Brooke, but his voice echoed off the walls. He called out again. Still, no answer. He was alone. More troubling than being alone was the issue of how he had gotten from the doctor's office back home. The last thing he remembered was walking toward the nurse. He remembered the waiting room. He remembered getting dizzy, but the rest was hazy.

Then, he started to remember.

Blaine.

The would-be robber at Cisco's.

The tingling.

Thoughts of that red-headed child suddenly consumed him. Maybe that dough-faced boy was a figment of his imagination; maybe the man in the black bubble coat was some stranger on the street he had seen previously. Simon hoped he had imagined it all.

Then, he remembered other details.

The gun.

Reading Blaine's thoughts. He remembered things about the boy he should not have known.

He remembered the pain in his head as he stood over the grill at work. The man in the bubble coat and Blaine weren't products of his imagination. They were real and what Simon had experienced was real, regardless of how much he wanted to pretend they were fantasy; two extraordinary events on one very ordinary day.

Simon leaned over and clicked on the lamp on the nightstand, letting his eyes adjust to the sudden brightness of the room. Just as he looked around, his cell phone screamed, which jolted him into alertness. He cursed the phone in his head, looked at the caller ID and breathed a sigh of relief.

“Hey, baby,” he said, relieved to hear the sound of Brooke's voice.

“How are you feeling? I'm sorry I couldn't be there, but you know finals are coming up and I had a study group.”

“Not a problem, babe. I just woke up, anyway.” Simon rubbed his eyes. “Hey, how did I get home from the doctor's office?”

“What do you mean?”

“I remember being at the doctor's office and then I woke up here.”

“Are you serious? You don't remember anything?” Brooke's audible exhalation on the other end of the phone expressed her concern. “Simon, you fainted and when you woke up, you asked the nurse to call me. You have a low-grade fever and some kind of respiratory infection. The doctor gave you some antibiotics. You don't remember me picking you up? You don't remember us almost tumbling down the stairs when you lost your footing?”

Simon didn't want to admit it, but he had no recollection of any of those events. “Oh yeah, I think I do. I feel a bit groggy right now.”

“Well, stay in bed and get some rest. As soon as this study group is over, I'm coming over to take care of you, unless you need me now?” Her voice was laced with sudden concern.

“Nah, that's okay. I actually feel pretty good.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. The antibiotics must be working. Finish studying, baby. I'll see you later tonight.”

“Okay. And, Simon?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you,” she said with genuine affection.

He smiled, softly. “Thanks, baby. I needed to hear that. I'll see you tonight.”

He ended the call and set the cell phone on the nightstand. As much as he wanted to reciprocate, he simply could not utter the words.
No matter what
. The words had far too much power to maim and to mutilate. He had witnessed it too many times in his young life. When they were together, instead of saying them, he often sidestepped the issue by kissing her passionately, hoping the power of his lips and tongue would nullify her longing to actually hear him say the words. He wasn't equipped to be that vulnerable.

He grabbed the television remote control and clicked it. When he replaced the control, he noticed a Post-It note stuck to the nightstand. It was written in his handwriting, but he didn't remember writing anything. He pulled it from the stand and looked at it closely, as if closer proximity to his face would jog his memory. The note was simple and short.

It simply read:
A. Thibodeaux

“What the hell is that?” he asked himself as he studied the note. “A. Thibodeaux?” He searched his mind, hoping to find some trace of recognition, some fragment that would provide him with a clue, but he couldn't. He had no idea what the note
meant. He quickly grew frustrated. So much was going wrong with him. His sight. His hearing. His memory. The infection. Now, he was leaving himself strange notes that he didn't remember writing. Quickly, he balled up the note and shot it into the trashcan like a basketball.

He took a deep yawn and then pried himself out of bed. He walked into the kitchen and moved over to the refrigerator, opening the top door and pulling out a very chilled bottle of vodka from the freezer. He grabbed a cup from the shelf, poured more than a healthy shot of vodka and downed it in one gulp. The coldness of the shot contrasted with the burning in his throat. The shot did little to quench his thirst, but he took another one to the head, without pause. He winced.

He walked into the bathroom and splashed some cool water onto his face. With his eyes closed, he reached for the dry towel, grabbed it, and wiped his face dry. When he opened his eyes and looked back into the mirror, he saw the reflection of a gray-haired woman standing directly behind him. Quickly, he jerked his body around, but when he turned, the apparition had vanished into thin air. He looked around the room, his heart once again pounding in his chest. More than anything he wanted to believe that his mind was playing terrible tricks on him. Maybe it was the vodka and the antibiotics. Maybe it was the infection. He would have convinced himself that he had imagined the whole thing had it not been for the depth of his fear. His palms were sweaty and his heart beat furiously. First it was dreams of snakes. Now, it was images of old women in his mirror.

Simon had never believed in ghosts, but now he had to lend credibility to the very real thought that he was being haunted by some unknown entity. Haunted. The word chilled his bones. What other explanation could there be? He thought about all of the
horror movies he had seen in which some poltergeist tormented some poor soul so that the person could help solve their own murder. He always wondered why ghosts in the movies couldn't tell the person what was going on; they seemed capable of doing everything else. They could drag persons across rooms, move objects, slam doors, break glass, but they seemed powerless to do something as simple as write a note saying what happened to them. He used to laugh at those movies. Not anymore. Not after all he had experienced. He had never been much of a praying man, but now he called on the power of the Lord to save him.
Dear God, in my time of need . . . 

Simon gasped at his next thought. Maybe the ghost had written him a note—the Post-It—or at least used his own hand to write it; a message from beyond the grave! Maybe he was being haunted by
A. Thibodeaux
. Maybe he had been haunted all his life; that would certainly explain the inexplicable things that had happened to him over the years. Maybe, at certain times, the ghost would take control of his body and his mind, showing him things he was meant to see as a way of solving some deep mystery. The very thought of ghosts, possessions, and hauntings sent very real shivers up and down his spine.

Simon rushed out of the bathroom and hopped into the pair of jeans that lay on the floor at the foot of his bed. He tossed on a shirt, not bothering to see if his combination matched. Now was not a time for fashion. Now was a time to flee. He was not about to spend another moment in this house, not alone, at least not until he figured out what the hell was happening. Maybe this
A. Thibodeaux
used to live in his apartment and had died some frightful death. Maybe she or he was buried beneath the wooden floors or stuffed behind the panels of the walls. He slid his feet into an old pair of sneakers, grabbed a light-green jacket, his keys,
and his wallet and practically ran out of the house. He wasn't even sure if he locked the door. He didn't care. He needed to get away.

Because he had nowhere else to go, Simon ended up at Starry Nights, a local blues club located on the outskirts of downtown. The club was housed in a converted warehouse in an industrial part of the city, separated from the rest of downtown by rusted railroad tracks. Heading farther north across the tracks was the poor side of town that many of the city's wealthy had never dare visit. The railroad tracks, as is the case in many American cities, served as a clear line of demarcation, a line that separated the
haves
from the
have-nots
. A few years back, this area, known as Ivy City, was set to undergo an urban renaissance, with developers gobbling up many of the decaying structures, hoping to replace the crumbling buildings with high-end luxury condominiums. When the economy tanked, so did plans to resurrect this neighborhood. Starry Nights, which had been a part of the city since the 1950s, was one of the few viable businesses still left in the blighted neighborhood.