“I’m not sure if any of this is real,” she said, her wary eyes scanning the room, “but I can’t assume this is all some dream I’m having.”
“A dream?” he rasped, croaking underneath the unseen weight stifling his breath. “Is that what this is?”
Once more, her interest turned toward the ermine. She was still upset, but the ire in her auburn eyes had somewhat softened. Hesitation had dulled the keenness of her resolve, but it had robbed only so much of her stare’s austerity.
“Yeah, more than likely we’re in someone’s dream. But even now, I’m not so sure,” the lynx said begrudgingly, the bright blue radiance spilling out past her knuckles. She then grimaced as if saying anything in response was in itself an act of betrayal. If anything, it was easy to deduce that she was probably embarrassed. She had said too much, and it had caused her a great deal of grief.
‘All I did was ask a question. What the pissed her the hell off?’ Trace asked himself in thought, struggling to stay coherent. But as her words began to sink in, the stoat’s mind registered a peculiar trait her speech patterns possessed. ‘And what’s up with that accent?’
Trace had never heard one quite like it. She spoke with what seemed like a French accent by way of Quebec, but it was still faint and indefinite to the point of being oddly alien. And for all the ermine knew, it could’ve been nothing more than a trick of the ear. With such an atypical and indecipherable accent, there was no way to tell just where this lynx called home.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said curtly, absently brushing aside her light brown wavy hair. “You’re just where you need to be, and right now, that’s all I care about.”
The displeasure on her face was indisputable. But as she sought to regain and impose that once determined front, her eyes and pursed lips betrayed an expression that ran in opposition and impaired her effort. It wasn’t panic that hid underneath this hesitation. There was almost a secret kindness buried under those defenses, and for the moment, it was no secret she felt inclined to share with Trace.
“Why are you doing this to me?” the stoat asked excitedly, tears building behind both lids as he restlessly resisted the strangling weight. The pressure was easy enough to overcome at first, but over the course of conversation, it soon became a tiresome burden that slowly wore him down. But more than anything, if Trace didn’t fight back now, this weight would surely kill him.
Trace tried to overcome the stranglehold, but his strength could not counteract the force that held his body in submission. Whatever seized him here by the throat had also pinned his arms and legs to the mattress with the same forceful insistence. No amount of effort was enough to dislodge the stoat from under this thick red bedspread. He grit his teeth and thrashed his naked body under the blankets, but the resistance Trace faced had rendered him immobile. It was as if a force field had enclosed his body in a smothering shroud. And it was cinching around the stoat’s neck like the secure conviction of a ready noose.
“You’re dangerous,” she said calmly with matter-of-fact detachment. “That’s why.”
“Dangerous?!” he choked, unable to stifle some laughter from escaping. His hoarse throat burned as he forced his objections. “I’m just some guy. I’m no threat. I can barely move.”
“I’m not going to give you any chance to attack me. It’s just that simple. Truth is, Trace, you’re going stay stuck there until I hear what I need to know. Until then, I can’t risk anything.”
“What risk? How do I pose any kind of threat like this?” the ermine inquired. It wasn’t until his words had their brief time to resonate that a single word she had used twice before ultimately struck him as odd.
“And how do you know my name?”
“I can’t let you call for help. It’s that simple. Your friend downstairs—the ferret—he can be very quiet when he wants to be,” the lynx said, glancing over her shoulder at the bedroom’s sturdy, wooden door. “And the guy didn’t leave your side all that often. He made it hard to tiptoe around the house, but it wasn’t impossible. I just hope that door can hold him back.”
“Him? Look, I don’t care what he says, I don’t know that guy from Adam,” the stoat said, still struggling for breath. “And what? You think he’s gonna bust down the door and throttle your ass if hears your voice? Dude’s like ninety pounds soakin’ wet. Hell, you look strong enough to defend yourself. Of all people, why fear him?”
The stoat stopped short of saying the ferret was no threat. They both knew that the young man stalking the house downstairs—whatever his intentions—was far from harmless. There’d be no point in lying now that her reticent demeanor had given away her cautious streak. This lynx, too, had likely seen and felt what Trace had faced just before the world gave way to the swirling mass of red and orange lights. And in his position—naked and bound in an unfamiliar place—no good would come from such a sham.
“Let’s just say I try to learn from experience,” the lynx said with slight contempt, scoffing as she once again turned toward the door with apprehensive anticipation. In that time, she chose to stare at its thick, decorative exterior while she spoke.
“Listen, like I said, I have no idea what you’re going on about. I have never seen you before, so I’m not sure where this history’s coming from if it at all exists. If it does, then feel free to fill me in here.”
For some mystifying reason, the weight around Trace’s neck had grown lax and given way. The stoat took this chance to lift his head off the pillow to watch the young woman deftly tread across the carpeted floor. It was then that the stoat got his first real view of the bedroom’s hospitable interior. The walls were awash with the warm textures of pink-gray magnolia and ornamented with framed, monochrome pictures of stone-faced ghosts in formal attire.
The small space was occupied with the accoutrements of dark walnut décor and garnet leather upholstery. And everything from the chaise longue in the corner to the lacquered davenport below a tall window draped in blood red velvet hinted at some hidden, personal significance that threatened to reveal itself the longer he analyzed every minute detail. But there was one detail that caught him by surprise as he waited for the young woman to make her next move.
Trace’s eyes began to water as they held steady over the framed photograph of one person in particular. It was a portrait of a young woman placed with prominence directly in the middle of nine other pictures. The stoat’s heart heaved restlessly as he examined the woman’s dazzling face gazing benevolently upon him from the wall to his right. Even though it hurt to look, the ermine felt compelled beyond reason to return her loving gaze with admiration. Unlike all the rest, her face was the only one among the lot whose shone in vivid color.
“That face,” the ermine murmured under his breath, enamored with her face’s every facet. It was if time stood still as Trace searched for some sign of familiar intimacy. It had to be there. Trace knew this to be true even if this woman was, by all accounts, a stranger. “I know you, don’t I?”
She was a striking, swarthy beauty in the prime of youth—a mink around twenty—who drew Trace into her palm with her inviting yet impenetrable stare within twin groves of black eye shadow. Her pecan brown wavy bob was obscured by a red cloche hat with black ribbon trimming. The mink’s tawny brown fur was complemented by a burgundy cardigan and a long string of pearls she wore around her thin, delicate neck.
“He could be right there,” she said at last, a clenched fist visibly shaking, “and I’d never even know it. At least, not until it was too late. Hell, he could be toying with me. I’m sure he knows I’m here. I just don’t know why he doesn’t act on it.”
The stoat shook his head as the lynx’s voice broke the spell the mink’s photograph held over him. A few straggling tears flowed down his face as the ermine caught his breath and tore away from the specter’s colorful sway. It wasn’t until Trace forced his focus to shift back upon the other young woman that his heart’s rhythm slowed to a much calmer pace.
“I can’t even lock the door,” the lynx sighed softly as she turned away from the only easily accessible exit to face the ermine once more. “That would just arouse his suspicions. But if he already knows, then what’s the point? I hate being in this position. I hate being forced to play a game with rules you can’t follow.”
“Yeah, tell me about it. It sucks,” the ermine remarked, slanting his head at an angle in order to look this lynx directly in the eye. “If all you wanted to do was talk with me, then why bother threatening me in the first place?”
“As much I wish this wasn’t true, you’re probably the only one who can help me right now. I’m not happy about it, but you’re the best shot I’ve got.”
“So let me get this straight,” he said, coughing up spittle as his wind pipe began its recovery. “You go through all the trouble of doing—whatever the hell just happened—and now you think, after everything that’s happened,” Trace chortled, “I’ll just help you get out of here? The least you could do is say ‘please’.”
“I’m not the one who needs your help, Trace,” said the lynx, her tone cresting on a fleeting wave of self-confidence. Once more, she seized the amulet around her neck and said, “This thing right here—my talisman—is my anchor. Its energy allows me to walk around in this weird place. But now its reserve is running low, and I’m not sure how to reverse the process. It won’t be long until I—“
“Fade away,” the ermine answered with captivated awed, interrupting the lynx with her own words. “You’re disappearing.”
The stoat stared in slack-jawed awe as he tried to understand what his eyes were perceiving. A glistening blue glow was enveloping her body and making it appear altogether transparent. She was, in effect, fading into a hazy silhouette of her former self that twinkled with the reflection of numerous, flickering particulates that spun around inside this murky prism—this fully enclosed cloud of glass. The young woman grimaced in pain as her body slowly regained its original, solid structure. It was as if it took the sheer force of her will just to do that much.
“There’s not much time left,” the lynx said in solemn reflection. “The signal is fading, and I’m not sure why. But it won’t be long before I lose the connection altogether.”
“What was that about your signal fading? You’re not making any sense,” he remarked, expressing his irritation in a much louder, emphatic tone. “What do you want from me? You haven’t even told me that much. I’m sure you didn’t risk life and limb to beat up on an unarmed man. Unless that’s how you get your kicks,” the stoat sneered.
“I’m not doing this for my own sake. I was being honest when I said it wasn’t me who needed your help. A good friend of mine is lost in here, and you’ve got the means to help me find him. And if I fail here today, you’re the only one who could bring him back home.”
“I don’t know what gave you that idea,” he admitted, scoffing at the mere suggestion. “I’ve got no idea whose house this is or what it even looks like outside this room. How am I supposed to help when I don’t even know the first about this place?”
“You think I’d be here if I had any other choice? No, this is my last resort. I’ve been coming here the past few days, hoping I’d run into him if I just wandered around long enough. But in all that time, I’ve had no luck whatsoever,” she lamented. Then the lynx looked up from her shimmering amulet and shot him an aggravated look of pure repugnance, “and now I’m stuck with you.”
“Honestly, what is your deal? Like for real. We’ve never even met. So what’s with this whole attitude thing?” As he finished speaking, it occurred to Trace that it wasn’t until this young woman referenced it outright that he even reflected upon the passage of time. And if it was true that he’d been confined to this bed for three days or more, then Tyson could anywhere. If the raccoon wasn’t taken by the same creature who now wandered this old estate, then he was surely spirited away by that swirling vortex of red and orange lights. And either prospect gave the ermine no relief.
“A few days?” How long have I been out?”
*ker-chack*
Before she could reply, the screen door out front banged shut and everything fell silent inside the small space. The both of them waited with baited breath as the sound of steps crunching over wood and snow followed suit as somebody casually strode across the veranda’s frigid planks. It was impossible to tell over the shrill shriek of winter wind, but underneath the concealing din, it seemed as if this same person whistled a pleasing tune as he set about his tasks. It may have easily been an illusion, but neither Trace nor the lynx had the luxury to assume the best as of late. Trace listened to the indistinct tune cheerily cross the porch with spry certitude and eventually weaken as it strolled past their window into the howl of bitter, icy wind that persistently battered the siding.
‘And just where is he going?’ the ermine pondered.
“You know,” the lynx said with disbelief as she turned away from the window, “this would be so much easier if you’d just drop the act already. I know what you are. So don’t try to convince me you’re just some innocent player in all this.”
“This isn’t an act!” he hollered, disregarding his sore throat. Yet the stoat was consoled by the fact that they were likely all alone in the house. “Pray tell, what’s my act supposed to be, huh? ‘Cuz I have no fuckin’ clue as to what angle I’m supposedly playin’ here. I’ve heard shit like this before—pretty much verbatim—and it still makes no sense coming out of your mouth either.”
“I’ll say this,” the lynx said. The young woman then cracked a crooked smile, took one last watchful glance at the window over her shoulder and finished, “if anything, you’re quite committed to this role.”
“And why do you think I’d go ahead and help you after all that’s happened? You didn’t answer my question. It’s not like I have a vested interest in this little quest of yours, so why should I help you find your friend?” The ermine paused and then, after his mind had calmed somewhat, asked, “And why do you think he’d be here of all places?”
“Oh he’s here, Trace. Count on it. He’s either in one of these rooms, locked up in the barn or stowed away in some shed. I don’t know where, but I intend to find out. And don’t you assume this guy’s some stranger. In fact, if you’re truly the man you claim to be, you’d jump at the chance to help me find him. So prove me wrong and do the right thing.”
“Fine,” the stoat snapped. “Just give me a name, and I’ll decide that for myself.”
“Here’s the thing I don’t get,” the lynx said, slowly pacing around the room while she spoke, “You two were always together. That’s what I’ve seen. At least that’s what I can remember anyway. I can’t say for sure if they were dreams or not, but you were both there. I was with you and a few other people. And we all spoke the secret language. This language.”
“It was weird,” she declared meditatively, almost like she was addressing her own thoughts.
Then in that subsequent moment, the lynx dithered. Her open mouth was poised ready to speak her peace, but her lips quivered with indecision. She hadn’t prepared to say whatever was on her mind, but they were words that still needed to be spoken. Even if it hurt to speak them aloud, their truth and the power that truth provided would be worth all the ache she’d feel in the meantime.
“And yet it felt like home. More like home than anywhere else.”
The young woman rubbed her eyes, sighed and said with words weighted with regret, “In the end, I didn’t help him. I just left him behind, and it eats me up inside to think about it. To think that I left Tyson all alone at the mercy of some de—“
The ermine’s eyes shot wide open with surprise once he heard her speak that name. It was then that Trace lost all interest in casually discounting what she was saying.
“Who are you?” the stoat demanded. “How do you know about Tyson?”
“I’ve known him for most of my life,” the lynx said with rising ire. “You may act like you don’t remember me, but you should know, I remember you, Trace. And there’s little you can say to convince me that you don’t know what this is all about. I remember being alone in that forest. Lost and afraid. Scared that you’d use his body to find me and then tear me to shreds. Then you’d turn around and kill him, too.”
“’Use his body’? What the hell is that supposed to mean?” The ermine barked, incensed with this new line of attack. “And why would I want to kill you? You’re an absolute stranger to me. And what’s this about a forest? And who’s this guy? I have no idea what’s going on. For the last time, we are not on the same page here.”
The lynx then leaned over the wooden bed frame and glared at the stricken stoat with a look of explicit condemnation.
“You tried to disguise what you were. Make it seem like everything was normal. Tyson was gone, but I saw you in his place. And at that point I didn’t think. I just ran. I didn’t even know where I was going. I just wanted to get as far away from you as possible.”
“No,” he breathed, a sudden vision illuminating his mind with an identity. For now, it was simply a name attached to a pencil sketch figure of a person Trace had never seen. But the more this young woman spoke, the more distinct its features became. It would only be a matter of time before the sketch figure was as lively and colorful as the one which hung nearby.
“But how?”
“More than that, I remember catching glimpses of you beside him. This was years later. I couldn’t always see you, but I knew you were always around. I’d just feel your presence. You followed him like a shadow, but Tyson never talked about you. It was weird. Unsettling,” she added after a small pause. The lynx looked away for a moment as the word left her lips. “It’s like he forgot what happened, or worse still, that you made him forget. That this was part of your plan from the very start. I just wish I knew what came next. It’s all a blur.”
“Daeja?” Trace asked in shock and disbelief. In all those years, Tyson had rarely spoken of her in great detail, but he’d heard enough in that time to form an impression in his mind of Tyson’s lost friend.
‘Why didn’t I see it before? He didn’t want to forget about her,’ Trace realized, thinking back on each individual instance Tyson talked about Daeja at length. Such an occurrence was surprisingly rare, and the stoat often wondered why Tyson would often avoid the topic since he quite clearly cared about her. But now his past discretion was put into better perspective.
‘He just didn’t want to keep getting hurt.’
“Daeja LaBrie?” Trace asked, astonished by the fact he was even asking. “Is that you?”
“He knew you were there,” she continued, altogether ignoring the question. The steely tenacity had once again returned, “But Tyson never seemed bothered by that. I’d see him stare off into space and smile like he was locked in deep conversation with his own thoughts. You didn’t scare him, and it was never an issue. But it was for me. You were always the one thing about those dreams that stood out the most. Only because you didn’t belong there,” she stated firmly.
But before the lynx could cede the exchange for Trace’s response, she felt the need to underscore one other incidental detail, “but neither did I.”
“Daeja, where did you go? Where have you been all these years? You have any idea what Tyson will think once he knows you’re alive?!”
Daeja returned his astonishment with her own bewilderment. But unlike the stoat’s, the lynx’s expression was one characterized more by resentment than innocent surprise.
“Unbelievable,” the young woman remarked with a tone dripping with derision. “I don’t know what you’re after, Trace, but let’s just say I’ve got my doubts that you have what’s best for Tyson at heart.”
And this single charge was all it took for that awed disbelief to become consumed within a miasma of bitterness. For Trace, it didn’t matter one iota who this person happened to be at all. What mattered most was that this stranger knew in unequivocal terms just where they stood, and that she was wrong to place herself above him on the high ground.
“The fuck you know about me, huh? Who the hell are you to pass judgment on me?”
“For one, I know that this thing here,” the young woman said, again glancing down at the orb of bright blue light she so firmly held, “doesn’t often affect normal people like this or really anyone with truly good intentions. That’s been my experience. I don’t need to know much more than that.”
The stoat seethed and scowled but ultimately relented as the unseen noose around his neck tautened its deadly grip once more.
“Look,” Trace began sheepishly, making sure he retained eye contact. But his own confidence soon overtook this timidity as he drew more strength from his own sense of personal outrage. And the more he steadily drew from that well, the louder his own voice became.
“I don’t want to hurt Tyson, okay? I’ve been watching over that kid for ten years now. And in all that time, I’ve been by myself with no one to help me. I’ve done more than my fair share, so you have no right to accuse me of anything. I’ve had his best interest at heart for damn near a decade. You don’t know me. I’m not the bad guy here. Never have been. He’s like family to me, and I’d give my life to keep him safe.”
It was then that the secret kindness unveiled more of its stealthy presence. And while there was still anger to be seen, a dreary shadow lifted from her face all the same. A smile’s suggestion seemed to play on her muzzle the more he shared his truth, but it was impossible to tell if it left any impact. If his words had roused that kindness to action, then the ermine may have easily imagined the only real sign of such activity.
“Tyson’s my little brother,” the stoat concluded, pleading eyes yet full of determination. “I would never hurt him.”
“Y’know,” she said resignedly, in a tone that registered barely above a whisper’s breath, “It would make my life so much easier if I could just take your word for it. But I know your kind all too well, Trace. I don’t trust you; and I’ve got no reason to expect anything good from you. But I’ve got no other choice. You see, Tyson’s in danger—“
“What? Is he here in this house?”
“At least, I think there’s a good chance he might be in danger. I’m know he’s here. I just don’t know where. I can hear his voice bouncing off the walls like an echo. I just can’t seem to pinpoint his exact location. I’ve tried all the rooms, and he’s still nowhere to be seen. It’s like this whole house is some vast, underground cavern system, and the echoes are tricking me into thinking he’s much closer.”
One thing the young woman said struck the stoat as being both purposefully perplexing and yet eerily recognizable. It was not unlike the conversation he had with Tyson when they first drove into Fraser.
“So wait,” he said, pedantically musing over her description of events. Even if Trace didn’t intend to sound scathing, that was the tone the lynx received regardless, “you heard Tyson shouting, and you still can’t seem to find him anywhere? I don’t get it. The house can’t be that big. You just need to look harder.”
“It’s not that easy,” she argued, peeved with Trace’s suggestion. “You see, I’m pretty sure Tyson isn’t actually shouting my name, but he’s still reaching out to me. I don’t know how to describe it. Almost like a distress signal? But I’m the only one who can hear it. His voice will come and go, but it’s never gone for long. Though things are starting to change. The signal is much weaker now. I can hardly hear him. He’s almost gone completely silent, and that scares me.
“Okay,” he rejoined, sneering. “I still have no idea what you’re on about. Whatever. I just want to find him and get the hell out. You seem to know the way. How did you even get here anyway? I have no idea what this is. I fell down, woke up out front, and it was suddenly winter. So is this all some dream like you said or what?
“To tell you the truth, I don’t know what to call it or how to even describe what I’ve seen. As for how I got here, you see, a friend of mine left this door open. He told me Tyson would be on the other side. And it was easy to take him at his word. I heard Tyson shouting from the open door, so I followed the sound,” said the lynx, scrutinizing the bedroom’s cozy beige and brown accoutrements. “to this place. I swear, it never stays the same aside from this one room. The whole house is impossibly huge.”
The stoat let out a small, irreverent laugh and rolled his eyes, “The more you talk, the less I understand. It’s almost like you’re trying to lose me. Just keep it simple, okay? I take it you’ve done this before? You act like it. All I want to know is how do we leave this place once we find Tyson. Do we use one of these doors?”
Daeja sealed her eyes shut, sighed deeply, and appeared to do her best to brush off Trace’s abrasive disposition. Once that was done, the young woman furrowed her eyebrows, gave the ermine a sidelong glance, and said calmly, “I’m not sure. Maybe once when I was twelve? Right after my accident. But that was the only other time it was ever this vivid.”
Drifting in meditation, the lynx slowly meandered away from the bed and walked toward the tall window before she finished articulating her thoughts.
Once there, Daeja leaned over the mahogany wooden desk, stared reflectively into the whirling wall of snow, and pronounced at long last, “Other times I’ve tried this, I’ve only been able to remember anything afterwards. I’d only remember what I came to do once I woke up and it was all over. Like any other dream for the most part. The result would be the same no matter how much prep work went in beforehand.”
The lynx then straightened up, and with one hand propping her body weight upon the desk, spun around to once more confront the stoat clear across the room.
“But this isn’t one of those times,” the lynx said composedly with restrained defiance. “This time I’m not lost. I remember how I got here and what I’m here to do. It’s just as it was six years ago. Only now I’m not in hospital and old enough to know better. Tyson’s here, just like he said right before I fell asleep. And if he was right about this much, then it should stand to reason that he’s right about everything else.”
“And about those doors, Trace”, she said, swapping the somber expression for a sly smile. “they’re not for you. The door I used to get here is in this very room. You just can’t see it. It’s my only way back home, Trace. I didn’t come here to take either of you with me. I came here to wake him up. That’s how you both get out.”
“Who’s this other guy anyway?” Trace asked, his brows lowering as he warily examined the room for anything that might even remotely verify her claims. “The one who said Tyson would be here. Who’s he? And how does he know Tyson?”
“That’s the thing. I’m not sure how he could know him. The guy didn’t show up in any vision I’ve ever had. He was a stranger to me, yet he knew so much. I first ran into him a few years ago when we were both kids. He was on the run from these soldiers. I heard him speak, and that’s when I knew I had to keep him safe. But he got away before I could bring him to safety.”
“What did he say?”
“It’s not what he said. It’s how he said it,” the lynx elucidated, crossing her arms and legs. And as she divulged more detail, the less the lynx seemed able to retain much in the way of eye contact with the stoat. It was as if Daeja was doing all she could to think of how best to describe a circumstance that defied all sense and simplicity. As much as the lynx wanted to convince Trace of the stakes involved, the insecurity was easy enough to read on her face. She had yet to convince even her own mind of what really happened.
“He spoke English, Trace. And you just won’t hear that where I’m from. It’s a language I either hear in my dreams or in whispers from a family member. There’s no way he should’ve known about it, but that’s how he called out for help. So I knew it was no coincidence that he came back into my life six years later. It has to be the same kid from the old ruins. The very same skunk.”
Trace’s ears perked at this last parcel of precious information. This would give him the traction he sorely needed to approach anything resembling a straight answer. Now that the ermine had gotten an idea of what this person looked like, it was only a matter of time before he he’d discover this guy’s identity as well.
“What was his name? He may be a friend of Brent’s. The guy was always going on about weird stuff like this.”
*crunch*
But before Daeja could offer him a satisfying response, a small yet sinister sound had once more drawn her interest back toward the tall window. Once the lynx saw and acknowledged the sound’s source, she clutched the amulet around her neck and let out a loud gasp before disintegrating into a blue haze of ashy debris.
*BOOM!*
The stoat stared in horror as her body was blown apart and struck the opposite wall like a shower of shattering glass and blue electricity. There was no blood or gore to speak of spread across the room for all to see. What remained of Daeja’s body was little more than a loose layer of rubble that bore some similitude to splintered blue quartz underneath a concentrated cloud of reflective blue mist. And as the mist rolled up the wall and diffused in every which direction, blue arcs of electricity raced ahead within it and engulfed all the wood fixtures in a deadly veneer of incandescent, effervescing light. They stubbornly spiraled toward the stoat—bouncing off everything along their path—as if steadily speeding down some drain that came to an abrupt end at the bed. There was hardly enough time to register this fearsome show of uncontrollable force before the bright blue arcs of electricity converged upon Trace’s bedridden form and struck dead center into the man’s naked chest.
The stoat squeezed his eyes shut as his mouth opened as wide as his strained neck and jaw would allow. But even then, when the indescribable pain of having what felt like a knitting needle of pure energy piercing his heart was becoming absolutely unbearable, he was unable to scream. His gaping maw was a portrait of silent distress. Trace violently convulsed underneath the red bedspread before arcing his back off the mattress in a wide arch braced in some part by his right elbow. The stoat's right hand twitched as blue electric currents crackled over the stoat’s skin and wove convoluted webs of blue thread through raised fur from the man’s heart.
And while Trace thrashed about, a series of sounds and images played itself in the foreground of his mind like a film projector left unattended. The excruciating pain of electrocution made it hard to understand if there was any cohesive or coherent significance to any of it. But one thing in particular stood out among the raging din. It was a single phrase that was spoken with near rhythmic repetition. It was voiced by a person who bore an unsettling similarity to the stoat himself, but the words he spoke were indicative a man Trace would not want to see in his own reflection. It was the cool, calm voice of cruel disregard in the guise of sympathy. The man whose voice Trace heard on repeat projected a levity with no kindness to keep it aloft. In place of compassion was an implicit will to violence that pervaded each syllable.
This person, whatever his motive, was truly a devil in angel’s clothing.
“As the Good Lord said, “Suffer the little children.’”
And through the roar of winter rising from the broken window, a bright and breezy voice inquired, “Did I get her?”
Two hands then overturned the wooden desk to free a path into the room.
“I’m sorry to have let you down so thoroughly, Trace,” said the ferret with contrived compunction, slinking past the breached threshold and stepping over chunks of glass, ice and detritus.
“I may’ve let her get away.”
The ferret then draped what appeared to be a sawed-off, pump-action 12 gauge behind his thin neck and blithely strode over to the loose, ashen pile of blue debris that once composed Daeja’s body. He knelt on the carpeted floor and gathered up a palmful of blue shards before meditatively watching them individually drop back down in a methodical meteor shower.
“I didn’t think she’d have the time to react—to get away in time. But she eluded me in the end. What a pity. Such an awful waste of good ammunition.”
“I’m loath to admit it, Trace, but I did it again. I played with my food, and I know how much you’ve always hated that,” he said heartily, brushing aside what little remained of the blue dust cloud as he spryly approached the stricken stoat. And the closer he came toward the bed, the more the room seemed to noticeably darken with each step.
There was no trace of disappointment in his tone of delivery. If he was truly upset or remorseful in any regard, there was no effort made to convey it. Once the ferret came to his destination, he absently cast off the gun and took a seat on the mattress near Trace’s head.
“Truthfully speaking, I was careless. I let her see me, and as a result, she was able to escape before I could shoot her dead.” the ferret admitted, grasping the stoat’s naked torso and tenderly cradling him in his arms while the Trace continued to rock and shiver irrepressibly.
What energy had burst forth from the lynx upon disintegration had by now run its course. A thin layer of bright blue smoke was the only evidence that anything had gone awry. It would not be long before that ashen cloud would altogether disperse with the unimpeded influx of wind and snow billowing from the broken window. But the room was being simultaneously assailed by an invading darkness that was swallowing all the furnishings within a concentrated veil of deep shadow.
“That gun over there—the murder weapon—is probably the only object in this whole house that isn’t inert. I’d be a fool to resist such temptation,” he said lovingly, repositioning Trace’s head so that the two could see eye to eye. The conservatively clad ferret with the bleach blonde hair smiled and stared fondly into Trace’s fluttering eyes seemingly blinking a distress signal in code.
“Now don’t you fret, honeybunch. I have so many uses in mind for you,” the ferret cheerily remarked before he impishly tapped the stoat’s snout with his right index finger. He then leaned headlong and gently kissed the stoat squarely on the lips.
The last image Trace could register before the darkness consumed his vision, his cognizance and everything else was that of a single fiendish face. It was the grinning gaze of two great expressive eyes floating in tandem above a large, sinister smile. And as the world once more fell away into the chasm of sleep, the observing sclera burned a bright red while the teeth shone like two rows of white tombstones gleaming under the moonlight’s ever-watchful presence.
“I’ll help ease your sufferin’.”
***
“You think they’ll come around these parts?” the businessman asked aloud with a cheerful smile as he pulled off Forest Avenue and under the ornate stone arch that welcomed them to Linwood Park Cemetery.
The squirrel took his sights off the road and laid them upon the plush, empty passenger seat with desperation. Of course, the seat wasn’t really empty, but any passerby who happened to gander inside the silver Mercedes would only see one occupant. The man’s eyes lingered on the ostensibly empty seat for a moment while his question was left to hang pleadingly in the silent car cabin. He waited long enough for an answer to emerge, but just as it had been for the past half-hour, it was met with the same maddening indifference that resulted in forced solitude.
“We haven’t seen too many wander this far south since we got here,” the squirrel said flatly now that there was no doubt in mind that his last question would remain unanswered.
He began to chafe under his sporty, graphite gray suit jacket. Glancing in the rearview mirror, the young professional reflexively ran a few fingers through his short, meticulously combed hair as he waited hopelessly for a small spark to set the coupe ablaze with small talk. But the tinder didn’t take, and the man was left to ponder a new approach on how to best start the fires that bore heated conversation. Even debate was better to face than one more minute of uneasy silence.
“Childish,” the man muttered, glancing over to ensure he wasn’t heard. “This can’t be about the car. We didn’t wait that long.”
Once more defeated by the cruel impasse of silence, the businessman again gave his full attention back to the road ahead. The squirrel slowed the car to a crawl as it steadily rolled down the narrow stretch of asphalt into the graveyard’s heart. He bristled at the idea of having to yet again voice his concerns to the ether. The squirrel had long since grown tired of trying to apply the appearance of good cheer. The silent air’s oppressive hush had become too much to bear. But even then, he’d dare not turn on the radio to allow such a simple distraction to fill the void.
In all that time the man spent driving, he had hoped to hear more than just his own voice bounce off the chrome and polished glass. But all attempts made to bring about any reaction had been all for not. What made the issue even worse was that the squirrel knew quite well why he’d received no answer since he began the drive into Boone. And that reason alone, albeit an inconsequential issue in his mind, had made this little outing all the more irritating.
The agitated squirrel glowered and firmly clutched the wheel before continuing, “The few I’ve seen since are still checking houses. They probably haven’t found anything worthwhile yet. What makes you think they’ll drift down here when they’re still being drawn toward Memorial Park?”
“They’ll come,” a composed, commanding voice answered at long last with implicit self-confidence. “It’s just a matter of time before they overtake this part of town as well. The epicenter’s probably not around that damn baseball field. They’re grasping at straws, the lot of ‘em. They’ll first need to reorganize before they sweep the rest of town, but the bastards’ll flock down here soon enough.”
Of course the supposedly unoccupied seat wasn’t truly empty, but very few people with eyes to see could perceive the occupant in all his nonchalant splendor. The man who spoke those words was a handsome young stoat with white fur who was enduringly ensnared in the youthful good graces of nineteen. His short inky black hair was combed back at the top but given an aggressively tight taper along the sides. And his compact white ears were pierced with yellow gauges. The young man also wore a long black Burberry trench coat with a popped collar over a comparably black cardigan and gray button-up shirt. His right leg—clad in corduroy—overlapped his left just before the knee. The ermine casually rocked one of his yellow Converse high-tops from side to side as the coupe rolled along this serene corner of town.
And while everything was tranquil for the time being, that peaceful atmosphere would soon be washed away by the raging rumble of flood water. A deluge of demons was on its way, and the swarm would swallow the cemetery whole and leave it an unseemly wreckage of its former self. The consequences of a misspent minute in the course of inaction were a material threat no hunter worth their salt would ignore.
“For now we need to keep our eyes open,” said the stoat, propping up his chin with a free hand while he gazed intently out the window. The tone he used remained even and untroubled. An observer would never have known that this outwardly indolent teenager was treating this hunt with the utmost regard and due diligence.
Whatever had called them out to this solemn swath of land still likely lingered here undiscovered. It summoned them, and others like them, to this small suburb of Des Moines, Iowa, with the allure of sight and sound as guide. At first it began as an enchanting siren’s song that grew louder as they drew closer into Boone off U.S. Route 30. Now that they had passed into the town proper, the melody had become so loud and so persistent that it proved no good to think of anything else. They had to find the source before their competition could rightfully claim it for their own unsavory purposes.
“There’s no way to know that for sure unless we scope it out ourselves,” the squirrel countered. But nonetheless, the businessman was still unable to hide his glee. In the end, he was simply grateful for the prospect of conversation. An argument was just more icing on the proverbial cake.
“What I mean, Trace, is that hardly anyone out there looks like they know what they’re doing. You’re giving them way too much credit. We haven’t seen any big fish swim our way yet. So why act like their scrambling around town is the result of some organized effort?”
“They came here to play ball. That’s why there’s such a big crowd in this Podunk town,” the ermine argued with tinges of antagonism inflecting his tongue. “And the game will commence once all the right people arrive. In any case, they won’t leave this place until they’ve looked everywhere. They’ll leave no stone left unturned if it means pleasing their master. So we can’t afford to act like we’re the only grown-ups on the block. Not when the other adults could be well on their way right as we speak.”
The squirrel chuckled and retorted, “Yeah, with the way they hunt, it’s safe to say we are the only adults around here.”
Out the corner of his eye, the businessman saw his incorporeal passenger subtly shift in place. Although the ermine had yet to tear his eyes off the park grounds, he was still primed to engage in conversation nonetheless. This observation gave the squirrel all the motivation he needed to press ahead undeterred by this one last hurdle.
“Think about it, Trace, if we’re the first ones here, that means they haven’t gone over all the gravesites yet. They’re either dumb or sloppy. They’re not acting like someone’s whipping at their backs. I just don’t know why you think they’re going about this like their lives might depend on it.”
“But that may very well be the case,” the stoat coolly asserted, scanning across all the tombstones and checking under ever tree for any sign of treasure. “We know what it’s like. It wasn’t long ago that we were scouts ourselves. And you don’t know jack shit until the right ideas are beaten in first. Would you have wanted to come home from a hunt with little to show for it? It doesn’t matter if they haven’t searched the cemetery yet. They’ll come once they remember their training.”
In his disappointment, the squirrel then sought to redirect their talks toward mindless gossip given that the friction had yet to lessen.
With a sideways glance and mischievous smirk, he asked, “You think we’ll see the same pack from Ogden? I’d love to get the chance to run into them again, cut loose and cull the herd of undesirables.”
The stoat snickered in reminiscence, “Relax, Orrin. There’ll be other opportunities for you to spill some blood. If these rumors pan out, then you’ll get that chance soon enough. We’ve seen plenty of the bastards to expect a good fight from somebody. If not those punk-ass kids from Ogden, then some other dead men who should know better. But we’re still not far from the nest, so we can’t rack up much of a body count just yet. I’m not too eager to leave a trail until the folks back home are safely in the rear-view. Once that time comes, we’ll be free to—“
The latter half of the stoat’s sentence choked his throat as the young man gasped in surprise. From where Trace sat, he’d found his first real indication that his judgment and instinct had proved sensible and accurate. From underneath the ample shade of two large oak trees in bloom atop a hill, bright clusters of red light shone fiercely like a portentous homing beacon. This was it. They had found their buried treasure.
“Stop the car!”
With no hesitation, the squirrel hit the brakes and the coupe came to a sudden halt on the far end of Linwood’s domain near a long tract of some twisting pedestrian trial.
“Where? What is it?” the squirrel uneasily inquired, scrutinizing every square inch of park in view. The businessman compulsively opened the driver-side door and asked his spectral commuter, “What should I do?”
“Stay here,” the ermine answered, ghosting over the driver and out into the waning sunshine. “I have no other use for you.”
The squirrel stared offended and aghast as the young man, only he could see, began to climb the steep slope that peaked with bright red lights swooping under the oak branches. But the squirrel didn’t seem to notice them nimbly bob and weave in the tree line. He was so distraught with what was said, that the man simply pursed his lips and leaned back into the seat’s plush relief. He forcibly shut his eyes and wordlessly fell asleep in a peaceful slouch that was held up only by the grey cord of his safety belt.
“No other use for me, eh?” an immaterial voice enunciated, resonating on the cabin walls with marked contempt. “I’m more than just that bastard’s damn chauffeur.”
It was then that a second spirit exited the car to follow the path left behind by the first. But unlike the former, this spirit had its own vessel for the long drive to Boone: the classy squirrel with the posh gray business suit. The entity who had used this older man’s body as a medium for his own desire was a ferret who seemed about the same age as the ermine he was now pursuing. If anyone could have seen the polecat’s form trudge pass, he would have appeared to them as a young man with a bleach blonde undercut and bold, sapphire blue eyes.
As he sullenly traipsed uphill in a huff, the ferret muttered indignantly as he walked beyond the last few headstones that stood vigil before the mighty oak trees. Once he’d made it to the summit, the ferret was ready to seize the stoat by the shoulder and read him the riot act. However, this thought dissipated once he looked up and took in the sights that captured his comrade’s interest. The ferret stared frozen with enchanted enthrallment as he beheld the reddish-orange radiance of numerous red wisps of light dance above their heads. These omens of power had materialized around the stationary façade of a stone angel that was now streaming tears of blood from its expressionless, unblinking eyes.
“They’re red,” the ferret muttered, awe-struck. “But how? There’s no—“
“Angel. Yeah, we’re all alone out here,” Trace quietly replied, searching the cemetery with cautious eyes. But his unease soon waned when his searching revealed no sign of any heavenly interloper.
“I don’t understand. It should be right on top of us.”
“You’re right,” the ermine said slowly, allowing the evidence to simmer in contemplation. “It should.”
“Oh but you’re wrong, Trace. Can’t you see?” Orrin asked, grinning pleasingly and pointing his thumb at the crying stone angel, “We got this old biddy right here to keep us company. Maybe she’ll be the one to keep us on the straight and narrow.”
‘This can only mean one thing,’ Trace thought, amusedly gazing upon the bleeding statue. ‘A barrier’s been raised.’ He then coolly shrugged of any enduring apprehension.
“’The Host is near,’” the ermine answered flippantly, miming a phrase they often heard.
Once more, Trace’s interest drew back down to the reddish-orange orb freely floating in his open palm. A smug, self-congratulatory grin wrinkled his lips as he observed it travel the contours of his hand. Trace then curled it into a fist and felt the wisp’s storehouse of energy course into his body and flood his veins with raw, throbbing vitality. Not only would the wisps allow each of them to manifest a corporal form, but more than that, this same otherworldly power would grant them the capacity to expand their own personal strength as well. Their wings would grow sturdier. They’d grow bigger and become more formidable beasts if they were to absorb their collective power. Although no living soul could rightfully tell, after the fact they’d be much more of a threat than what their lean projections would likely ever allude.
Trace looked up and observed with mild intrigue as Orrin’s delightful smile had deteriorated into a savage simulation of satisfaction. It was almost a parody of self-gratification. But Orrin’s response was not unexpected. Trace had known and loved the man for more than fifty years, and in all that time one aspect had lasted unabated regardless of experience. Whenever he came close to procuring what he wanted most in that moment, the ferret would often be unable to suppress his own excitement. Trace was never bothered by his mate’s enthusiasm, but the stoat still found it fascinating that Orrin didn’t seem able of moving beyond this sort of childish response. “You know what this means, don’t you?” Trace asked with deliberate relish.
“Of course,” he said with his once charming smile now full of violence. “Our siren, she’s here.”
Suddenly, just as soon as Orrin outright stated what they each separately determined, a burst of light exploded down a nearby hill in an eruption of blindingly, bright blue fire. The two young men both stared downhill with wide-eyed wonder as a single column of flames soared over the robust oak trees that dotted the landscape’s hilly sweep. What made this spectacular spectacle all the more breathtaking was that the fire had also let loose a surge of sound to saturate the sky with the thunderous peals of great multitudes chanting in unison. The whole sight was both unequivocally exquisite and yet wholly horrifying. The overwhelming, fear-inducing phenomenon of this striking, contradictory conflict was tremendous enough to wrest tears from Trace’s eyes as he observed it unfold.
In short order, the fiery column of blue flames speedily subsided, and the afterglow’s radiance fell upon the shapes of two children standing before a parked dark blue Silverado’s tailgate. The two of them, a boy and girl around eight years-old, stood close while they both became enshrouded in the harmonious remnants of that heavenly choir’s cry. It was as if they were each shielded by the hushed echoes of angels in chorus.
The girl, a lynx who wore an oversize red and yellow flannel shirt with jean shorts and black Timberland boots, appeared to murmur a secret into the boy’s ear. The raccoon’s eyes remained closed as he held out his hand ready for a surprise. The boy’s comparably casual appearance, in some regard, did mirror the girl’s own color palette with his plain black hoodie, red t-shirt, blue jeans and black sneakers. His face flared with a broad smile as the girl jubilantly placed an object in his open, awaiting hand. Trace trembled with excitement as he examined what the raccoon’s so fondly held. It was an object as bright as white-hot molten ore surrounded by an aura of bright blue haze that palpitated like the steady drumbeat of a healthy heart.
“Start the car,” the stoat curtly commanded, his eyes still firmly affixed upon their prey. “We need to follow them, and we need to do it now. They just shot up a flare the whole town could see.”
“So what? I’m of use to you now that your grand prize is in full view?” Orrin asked irritably, doing what he could to set aside his own frightened feelings.
The stoat wiped away any lingering sign of weakness from his face, spun away from the two children, placed a single, outstretched hand on Orrin’s shoulder, coyly cocked his head and answered with a grand, crooked smile, “It’s as I’ve told you, love. We’re in this together.”
“Well then,” the ferret said, lovingly greeting the ermine with what seemed like his own smile of unspoken acceptance, “let’s steal their candy ourselves. We don’t want anyone else to snuff out those babes once they lose themselves in the woods”
But before the ferret could make his next move, the ermine calmly and coolly said with an implicitly sadistic smirk, “As the Good Lord said, “Suffer the little children.’”
***
“Thank you, Wes,” the rabbit said softly as the marten helped him get Tyson back into his seat.
Tyson trembled as the two men lifted his body back into position. He winced as the chair in which he sat loudly clicked into the floor with magnetic forcefulness. The young man tried to shift in place, but everything was mostly unresponsive to his many commands. His arms and legs shivered futilely as the marten wiped the water from Tyson’s face with a small towel before he snatched the manila folder off the floor, placed it on a nearby desk and promptly returned to the rabbit’s side.
“Tyson? It’s you, isn’t it?” the rabbit questioned with stated gentleness, his attitude for the moment abandoning the pretense of inquisitor.
“You threw acid in my face. Why?” Tyson asked in quiet disbelief, using his fingertips to assess his face for any damage as he talked. Even this simple task proved to be quite the taxing exercise. “Why would you do that?”
“Acid?” the man in black chuckled as he took his seat. “No, Tyson, that wasn’t acid. It’s just as I told you. Ordinary tap water.”
“Bullshit,” he hissed, scowling with those alarming reddish-orange eyes and bared teeth at the grimly garbed rabbit. He grimaced and squinted as the last few drops of water flowed off the raccoon’s brow and into his eyes. “Hot water doesn’t burn like that.”
He grimaced as a halo of pain suddenly throbbed to life from the base of his skull all the way back around to the space above his brow. All Tyson wanted then was to knead his forehead, but even that was yet beyond the reach of his weary limbs. And with each new painful pulse, a young girl’s voice echoed within the confines of his mind. It was a voice Tyson had heard resounding deep within his memory for most his life, but for whatever the reason, her identity now evaded revelation. This fact truthfully troubled the young man, but he wasn’t sure why though.
“Hey, close your eyes for a second. I want to give you your gift.”
“No, it’s true,” the rabbit pleasantly returned. In fact, as the older man spoke, a small lively smile played at each corner of his mouth with impish insistence. Even then, the man’s tone never rose above the pitch he had used when Tyson first awoke. “But to be honest, I may be stretching the truth when I call it ordinary tap water. If it were just that, then your reaction would not have been so severe.”
“What's this about? Why am I here?” But it wasn’t until that last question left Tyson’s lips that a frightening thought began to take root in the raccoon’s mind.
This horrible idea soon forced out everything that may have disarmed the tension’s stranglehold. It revved up his heart and filled the young man’s mind with an urgent desire to flee. It was a question that needed to be asked, but Tyson feared that the answer would inevitably spell the worst regardless of how well he cooperated.
“Are you going to kill me?” Tyson meekly murmured.
The older man’s bright blue eyes enlarged upon considering this question. Conversely, his mouth shrunk as he appeared to rehearse a proper response in his head. Tyson was taken aback by the candid surprise that revealed itself so splendidly on the man’s rigid facial features. It was the first real reaction that didn’t come across as overly prepared or pretentious. It had the peculiar effect of making the rabbit look childishly innocent.
‘What’s this guy’s deal?’ Tyson thought, studying the older man’s face. ‘He’s acting like nobody in their right mind would think to ask him that.’
A long, silent period of time passed before he seemed able to construct a suitable rebuttal.
“Believe it or not, Tyson, I want to help you,” said the older man with kind yet distinct detachment. His approach was that of a consummate professional who’d spent untold years mostly disconnected from the world at large and its troubles. “My goal isn’t to keep you here indefinitely. Once we’re finished with the task at hand, you’ll be freed. But neither of us can let you go until we learn what we need to know. Right now you’re a danger to yourself and others.”
“I’m not buying it,” Tyson declared. “You won’t let me go when this is all over. Any normal person would go to the police first thing. You’d be stupid not to kill me. I’d lead the cops straight to your doorstep.”
“Tyson, that’s highly unlikely,” the rabbit responded coolly. “I’d be surprised if you remembered anything from this conversation. I don’t need to kill you to make you forget.”
“I don’t understand. You said there was this thing in my body. Is that why I’m here? Can’t you just tell me as much? That’s all I want to know,” Tyson feebly petitioned, unable to muster more energy to preserve much of a fighting spirit. And as his mind wound down, his thoughts turned back toward the face—the sullen reddish-orange eyes of an ill-tempered impostor—he saw in the pocket mirror. The water’s scalding pain had eclipsed the image for a brief time, but now that he’d calmed down and could think clearly, it had since returned to the foreground of his waking mind where it was contending for ascendancy.
“I just want to know what’s wrong with me.”
“We’ll broach that in a moment. But for now that’s not a pressing issue. Like you yourself, that thing isn’t going anywhere. You’re in no danger so long as you allow us to do what we must.”
“What do you people want?” Tyson pleadingly asked. “And where am I?”
“Well, I’m thinking an introduction may be in order,” the man in black realized, clasping both hands together. “Mr. Bishop, my name is Dr. Haden Kelley, and this is my personal office. It’s a lab where my associates and I conduct experiments on the supernatural. You may not remember my name, but I was the man who examined you for head trauma when you had your concussion. Now that incident was a little over ten years ago. It’s hard for me to fathom that so much time has passed since then. My life was never the same after that night. Although, I can’t really take credit for your recovery. While I was there that night at the hospital, up until today, we’ve never actually met.”
“What does that even mean?” the raccoon retorted. If he had the strength to do so, he would have thrown up his hands in exasperation. “You’re being vague about everything like it’s all some big riddle. What’s wrong with giving me a straight answer?
The young man quivered and held his breath unthinkingly as a foreboding wave of indescribable horror suddenly washed over him. Even though it may have been nice and cool inside the office, it still wasn’t cold enough to make Tyson shake in his red tank top and black mesh shorts. Even though the warmth Dr. Kelley exuded with that grin felt like an honest effort to diminish Tyson’s distress, there was still more at play underneath it. While his smile didn’t come across as forced or sinister, it nonetheless obscured a pressure whose omnipresence could be felt buffeting his fur and flesh on all sides like a snowsquall.
“Trust me, Tyson,” the rabbit’ said, giving the young man a charming, reassuring smile. “This will all make much more sense in due time.
This mounting pressure building behind the scenes manifested, of all places, just beyond the man’s gleaming blue eyes. No matter how hard the rabbit tried to hide it from sight and disguise it with quaint pleasantries, the strength of will he exuded seemed impossible to conceal or contain. The longer you stared deep into those eyes, the less likely you were to feel at ease. It wasn’t so much that their vivid azure hue was an uncommon shade, but that their very nature was in itself an aberration. The icy weight of that pressure combined with the hypnotic radiance they emanated made it a trying feat to maintain eye contact for an extended period of time. Simply put, it made the heart waver just to look him in the eye.
“Now as I was saying, I do remember everything that happened even if I wasn’t all there to experience it. Your father informed hospital staff that you were found wandering a gravel road out near Fraser. You were thirty miles from home, Mr. Bishop, and no one could quite explain just how you got all the way there in the first place. And from what I was told, you weren’t giving anyone who asked a straight answer either. Just what were you doing all the way out there, Tyson? Did you make your way to Fraser a few days ago with the same goal you had in mind ten years prior?”
“And above all else,” stressed Dr. Kelley with the methodical rhythm of a man choosing every word with inordinate precision. The rabbit lunged a hand into a pocket within his pea jacket, once more pulled forth Tyson’s bracelet and deftly held it in such a way that Tyson could easily discern the metal plate. And just like before, the doctor didn’t break eye contact while he spoke, “did this object—or anything else—compel you to travel there again?”
‘Just answer as best you can, Tyson, and tell the truth,’ a bodiless voice implored. It was the same invading voice whose words echoed in Tyson’s head when he felt boxed into a corner as the inquiry took that intense turn some time ago. It belonged to the marten near the door who stood watch behind Dr. Kelley like an obedient shadow.
‘We don’t have much time. You got to do whatever it takes to convince him you’re not a threat to public safety. We don’t have the time to mess around.’
The young man lifted his chin off his chest and stole a momentary glance at the marten. His muzzle was one of the only observable facial features Tyson could perceive with his head still under that concealing hood of his jacket. The kindly and parental golden brown eyes Tyson once saw were now buried in an impenetrable shadow that masked any signs of allegiance. An unaffected expression of dispassion was all that was left behind on his lips.
‘And don’t look at me,” the voice urgently insisted. ‘It’ll draw his attention.’
Tyson swiftly drew away once the admonition was issued. But soon thereafter, the headache returned to once more rack Tyson’s mind with that insufferable halo of pain thumping in its horrid beat from neck to brow. And with it came that young girl’s familiar voice resonating its comforting presence as an unrecognized recollection. But this time around, Tyson was even less assured of exactly whom from his past retained that sweet voice. It was as if that particular detail was being erased from his memory like a sand castle being eroded by the encroaching tides.
“You remember that lady from the flea market, right? The one who sold you the necklace? Well, I went back, and I found this really cool thing I think you’d like.”
“Well, Mr. Bishop?” the rabbit calmly and abruptly insisted. As he observed the raccoon’s reaction, the rabbit stowed the bracelet and retrieved the black zippo from a coat pocket and began to clank it shut continuously in a curt, metallic rhythm. And as all this came to pass, the man’s constant, razor-sharp scrutiny didn’t waver even once.
“What were you doing out near Fraser? Why return after all these years?”
“I had to get away. I was upset, and I needed an escape,” Tyson timidly admitted, speaking into his lap so as to sidestep the rabbit’s critical eye. “Barkley’s always been a safe place for me. We used to go there a lot when I was little, but I’ve been back there since my accident.”
“How do you mean? It wasn’t a safe place ten years ago. Why return when your last memory of it was so unpleasant?”
“That was just the one time,” he expressively argued in a transitory outburst before settling down, “It wasn’t always that bad. Still, I didn’t want to tell anyone where I was going. I didn’t think I’d be long, so it didn’t occur to me to be honest with them.
“Why not? From what I’ve seen, as a family, you’re all quite close. What need was there to hide your plans from them?
“It’s not that I didn’t want to tell them what was wrong. I just didn’t know what to tell them,” Tyson asserted, agitated with the man’s constant assessment. “There are things they just won’t get, okay? Things that I don’t even understand myself.”
“Does it have anything to do with your boyfriend? The otter. Brent, was it? We haven’t seen him come anywhere near your house in weeks. Did you two have a fight?”
To say this question caught Tyson off-guard would have been an understatement. Tyson likely would never admit this openly, but right then and there, Tyson wanted to do little else but lash out at Dr. Kelley. It was no secret that the young man was bisexual, or that for more than a year, he’d been one half of a gay couple. It didn’t even occur to Tyson to be upset at the man’s apparently systematic surveillance of his home and activities.
No, what set him off was that the rabbit had tactlessly picked at a fresh wound that had yet to properly heal. Ultimately, what made Tyson angry was that the man was right. In that one incensed instance, Tyson felt the overwhelming desire to strike the man for his persistently meddlesome behavior. Tyson was aware that such a move would only hurt his chance to assert the notion that he was no threat or public menace, but it still would have been satisfying to strike back nonetheless. In the end, Tyson chose to bite his bottom lip and look anywhere else while he tried to temper his rage and resentment.
“You asked me about this thing—my bracelet,” he answered, slowly choosing each new word with care so as not to accelerate the conflict. “Where it came from and who gave it to me. Trace wasn’t the person who gave me it. No, it was my best friend, Daeja,” the young man emphasized, almost struggling to vocalize her name out loud. “She it gave it to me on the day I turned eight. And that was the last time I ever saw her.”
The rabbit sat silently with his left hand covering his mouth so that it rendered his facial expression all the more indecipherable. The rabbit then leaned back, drew in a single deep breath before dropping his hand and offering the young man the conclusion his relentless scrutiny had returned.
“I’m now under the assumption that we each both share a common thread, and what happened to me all those years ago likely happened to you as well,” the rabbit postulated, abruptly ending the metallic clanking of the zippo lighter’s casing. Kelley then rolled his right thumb down the flint wheel and set the throne within alight. The rabbit then held it upward so that it was in view for all to see.
“Such a thought didn’t occur to me until many years later, but now I’m positive that I have the resources here at my disposal to help you recover.”
“’Recover’’,” Tyson repeated scornfully, scoffing at the man’s insistence of assistance. “Is this how you help people, Dr. Kelley? Drug them, kidnap them, toss acid in their faces and then draw shit on their arms and legs like this? No really, what is this crap?”
“Well, I can assure you that they’ll come off in the wash,” answered the rabbit with a warm wink and sly smile. His reaction soon elicited a scowl from Tyson, who was unable to tell if this warmth was honest kindness or rhetoric rooted more in smug superciliousness.
“Each symbol on your body is a specific sigil—or spell—designed to bind select people should they choose to resist. It has been my experience that chemical restraints aren’t nearly as effective. But anyway, may we please continue? I’d like to learn more about Daeja. What was she like during those years? And why did she move away?”
Suddenly, Tyson’s body twitched and shivered as the halo of pain reasserted its presence. But unlike before, the headache was met with both profound nausea and tremendous mental upheaval. In effect, the young man sat shuddering at one of an incredibly long, gloomy tunnel, and everything else stood still upon the other end across a starless chasm of empty space. But the young girl’s voice came back in turn to fill the void with her reassurances one last time.
“I want you to think of me every time you wear it. I’ll never be too far away if you take this with you wherever you go. Just don’t ever forget, Tyson, that you will always be my squid,” she declared, bringing forth one small, intriguing tear to roll down his face as he sat in a daze.
“I don’t know,” he said breathlessly at long last, wobbling uncontrollably. He then turned toward Dr. Kelley, bestowed upon the rabbit a feverish face full of abject terror and asked sleepily, “Who’s Daeja?”
And once those words left his mouth, Tyson expelled his stomach’s contents onto the tile. With no word to instruct him, the marten rushed behind Tyson’s seat to restrain the young man as his body soon seized altogether and later shook all the more savagely within the terrible throes of a grand mal outbreak. Wes steadily positioned Tyson’s head so that his eyes could still perceive to some degree the fire Kelley held high. There was no surprise upon the man’s chiseled face. The rabbit had probably foreseen this end result the moment Tyson first grimaced in pain. It wasn’t as if he retrieved the zippo for the sake of his own recreation.
“Tyson,” the rabbit said authoritatively, calmly fulfilling what he most likely knew was his inevitable role as executor, “sleep now.”
There was no ostentatious flourish to Tyson’s movement as the alarming ordeal suddenly came to an end with the young man slumping over his seat. In the end, there was no volatile finale to conclude this eruption. There was only the soft, pathetic blow of an anticlimax.
“Sir, we can’t wait any longer,” the marten petitioned, gently cradling Tyson’s crumpled body. “We must expel them before we risk severe injury.”
But these pleas for clemency were met with silent indifference. Dr. Kelley didn’t even make an effort to look at the hooded marten as he proceeded to resume the metallic rhythmic beat of his black zippo clinking open and clanking shutting at a now much faster pace.
*clink-clank—clink-clank—clink-clank*
“Orrin,” the man firmly beckoned, his keen blue eyes focusing upon Tyson’s lifeless, drooling face. “I summon you to the deck. Take the helm and steer this ship.”
“You got your answer, Dr. Kelley,” Wes passionately implored, removing his jacket hood to reveal the short, messy auburn hair he once kept hidden. “This girl was the one who gave him the artifact. We need to find her and let him go. The demons don’t know anything.”
“Mr. Romero, if you must know,” the rabbit insisted decisively and monotonously, the sleeping Tyson still being the only matter his bright eyes graced. “this girl—this Daeja LaBrie—simply doesn’t exist. There’s no record of her anywhere.”
Wes was confused by this answer but chose, at least for now, not to argue the issue. The marten silently repositioned Tyson’s body so that the young man sat up straight and then walked around to reoccupy his post near the door behind the rabbit. Once Wes had gotten situated, he pulled a small black pair of welding googles down over his eyes in preparation for what was soon to come.
*clink-clank—clink-clank—clink-clank*
“Orrin,” the man reiterated, this time much louder. “I summon you to the deck. Take the helm and steer this ship.”
After being subpoenaed for the second time, Tyson’s body jolted back to life as if struck by lightning’s enlivening spirit. Each arm and leg then quivered separately before swelling in size with revitalized muscle mass. Afterwards, some invading presence delicately flexed every finger as the cruel creature that now manned the switch shook Tyson’s head from side to side as if emerging from a deep slumber. It then raised the head off the raccoon’s collarbone, wiped the mouth clean of stray saliva and flaunted for the rabbit and the marten in attendance a flashy and pronounced smile that cast a cold shadow over the proceedings. One look was all it took for them both to accept that the young man who now sat before them was not the Tyson they once knew. He was long gone. His identity had been commandeered by an impostor who now wore the raccoon’s fur and skin like a cheap, gaudy suit.
“Hey Doc! What can I do you for?” a pleasantly energetic voice inquired with an affectionate Southern drawl. “Any luck with the artifact?”
***
The last thing Tyson remembered seeing was also the first thing that received him in this facility upon awakening: fire. He first awoke to the sight of the zippo lighter’s luminous throne, and its smoldering visage was the last image to leave an impact before the cruel clanking sound of metal extinguished the fire and tore him out of consciousness. The young man no longer occupied a seat in some office. The raccoon now sat in the middle of a brightly lit corridor gilded with the same milky white lucent glass found lining the research lab. But now he was neither there nor held prisoner in that odd office lab with Dr. Kelley and his reticent assistant.
“You feelin’ okay, Tyson?” asked a voice from within the blinding mass of white light. “You don’t look so good.”
Blinking both eyes to fend off disorientation, Tyson slowly looked up, shook off his stupor and saw a young man’s face stare back a good ten feet down the hallway’s stark white tract. He was a skunk who stood a few inches over six feet and had the youthful appearance of a recent high school graduate. The young man wore what appeared to be a long-shaped black cardigan over a bright red cashmere scarf and glossy navy blue t-shirt. The skunk’s long legs were clad in black compression pants that ran into a pair of red and white Timberland boots. His platinum blonde hair was tightly tapered along the sides but parted on top and stylized with the polish of pomade.
“I feel sick,” Tyson answered unthinkingly, his own words resonating with an ethereal reverb.
He listened to his own voice resonate so eerily. As Tyson waved his right hand expectantly, the young man could see that it was both bright and blurry with a golden yellow luster enveloping each finger like an aura.
“This can’t be real. Am I dreaming?” he questioned, waving his hand and watching it create one successive afterimage after another in its wake along the arc.
“Then I’m glad I got here when I did,” the skunk cheerfully chortled, towing Tyson’s interest away from luminous limbs.
His was no face Tyson was prepared to see, but it was by no means unwelcomed. His open, approachable expression bore the friendly disposition of an ally even if his was not a face Tyson could recall from memory. He squinted to gain a better view of the young man while his eyes accustomed themselves to the overwhelming brightness all around them. As they suitably adjusted to their new surroundings, Tyson observed that half the hall—the blank, brightly-lit space where the skunk stood with such a commanding charisma—was carved into orderly partitions by beams of bright blue laser light.
Tyson wasn’t sure why, but the young man grew more uneasy the longer he looked. His heart raced as he began to take in the aesthetics of this hallway’s antiseptic and otherworldly milieu. It filled him with a sort of primal fear that felt both preposterous yet innately vindicated by the ghost of a memory he was unable to completely clutch. It danced around the dark recesses of his mind as if the memory itself actively resisted recollection as an act of self-preservation. Tyson dared not plumb those wells even deeper. The tears that instinctively streamed down his face served as the most persuasive premonition of danger he needed to steer clear of those dark waters.
“What happened?” Tyson asked apprehensively, scurrying away from the sights that conjured such unpleasant feelings. “Where am I? And where’s Dr. Kelley?”
The skunk’s response was swift and terse, “Does it matter? You’re free now.”
“I have to get out of here,” he anxiously announced, scrambling to regain higher ground on both feet. Once he achieved this feat—staggering from side to side during his struggle—Tyson made an effort to steady his breath and assertively asked the skunk, “Who are you, and why are you here?
“Well Tyson,” he sighed, flashing that same large, charitable smile with a tilt of the head. “my name’s Shane Knight, and I’m here to rescue you.”
“Rescue me?” Tyson reiterated, having to consider just what the skunk had meant.
The raccoon had become so intent on studying the young man who stood before him that the need for rescue eluded him in that moment. What mattered most then was that he’d been given a name to affix above this face that stared back from within a wormhole. His appearance itself was an open window into some disremembered realm where its features were ordinary facets of a friendly fondness. To gaze upon the skunk’s visage was akin to meditating over an unfinished puzzle. One could make out the image the finished puzzle would form once complete, but far too many pieces were astray for closure’s sake.
'Shane,’ Tyson thought, thoroughly studying the skunk’s appearance until all the puzzle pieces fell into position. ‘That name. That face. It’s all so familiar. I don’t know where, but I’ve met this guy before. I know I have.’
After a while, Tyson had to turn away from the smirking, incomplete reflection of a supposedly suppressed memory. Just like before, the once sturdy drumbeat of Tyson’s heart became fitful with fear and both eyes welled up with a flood of tears the longer he stared at Shane’s friendly figure. It was then that Tyson understood that his first reaction had more to do with the brightly-lit corridor in and of itself. He now knew that this person, wherever he came from and whatever his intentions, was eliciting the same irrational feelings of true terror.
‘I just wish I knew why it hurts so much to look at him.’
With that said, Shane lifted his left arm into the air to reveal an iron handcuff around his left wrist. As he held it up high, the manacle’s metal frame began to shake and shine a bright blue. It didn’t take long before the handcuff became like a white-hot, molten ore surrounded by a dense and resplendent atmosphere of blue fire.
Suddenly, a shrill, ear-splitting alarm reverberated throughout the corridor in piercing sporadic bursts. In less than a split second, the hallway’s lights dimmed and everything within Tyson’s range of sight was promptly bathed in an urgent, intimidating red radiance. But this barrel of bright red light soon subsided to where half the hall was as it had been before the sirens blared their ear-piercing shriek. Tyson stood shuddering in the harsh white light that remained, and Shane stood bound in the red by tendrils of electricity reaching out from each wall to seize every appendage. But the skunk didn’t seem fazed by what appeared to be an excruciating trap.
Tyson froze in place once he laid eyes on what lurked beyond the skunk under the glare of red light. A large, formless plume of black smoke had materialized behind Shane during the past few instants. As the smoke grew in size and its shape took on a more definitive body, a menacing face surfaced on it big enough to ingest a fully-grown man whole. The raccoon’s breath halted in his throat as two terribly large orange-red eyes acknowledged him with a devilish incisiveness. Even though this alarming, appalling face lacked a snout, a smile still revealed itself underneath the monster’s dreadful stare. Its sneer shone through the ominous haze of shadow like a dagger’s blade under the glare moonlight. Tyson faltered and fell backward onto the cold, hard floor where he found himself unable to turn away from the horrifying creature and its wicked and insatiable lust for violence.
“You best get ready to play your part, Tyson,” he said, the grin he bore shifting form around the edge into the telltale, complacent smirk of brash overconfidence. But even then, this subtle and menacing mutation did not convey any ill intent toward Tyson. This unfamiliar person with the most familiar of faces was not his enemy, but he was still no friend the raccoon recognized.
“’Cuz I don’t think you wanna miss what comes next.”
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