"I can't remember why we decided to tear into it, though."
"You said you hated the picture on top," Jayson's face took on a far-away look. "Mom had drawn on horns on your name when you had insisted on wings."
My face fell as the dim memory of plunging my hands into a cake made by spiteful mother played in my mind. With it came flashbacks of dark nights, hiding in hallway closets and flowerbeds to avoid a woman gone off the deep end. Everything turned back to her, and how she'd known from the start that she'd carried a half-breed for a daughter. A black mark on her pristine relationship with an angel named Michael.
"House of Horror was so befitting for this place," I barely whispered. No amount of bright paint or re-done kitchens could ever replace the nightmares I had experienced in this place. It had set me up for a life of time-ticking death. Some days, I wished she had aborted me when she had the chance.
"Jayson," I began. "If I don't come back after the summer-"
"
When
you come back," he corrected me, holding up a hand to silence me. "It doesn't have to be this summer, or fall, or winter. It could be next week, or five years from now. But when you decide to come back, remember you'll always have a home here."
"I'm just so surprised how a piece of paper with words on it can mean so much to the world."
His hand rested over both of mine, and I could hear him struggle with the right words to say. "We really do have a twisted way of needing proof people can do things. But you should be proud." His tone turned stronger, more confident and elated. "Several months ago no one thought you'd be here."
I pursed my lips and did my best not to sound sullen. "I guess Gram and Pop still didn't think so."
Jayson spoke soft. "I'm sure they're still on vacation."
"And I'm sure they're not."
"What makes you say that?"
"Because I know their schedule."
He sounded like a cross between half-amused, half-incredulous. "You have their lives pinpointed down to a schedule?"
I stared at him. "They come home the third week of May, every year like clockwork." My eyes turned to stare at the small suitcase propped against the wall as I shrugged.
When Jayson didn't answer right away, I looked back. He too had noticed the luggage that hadn't been there a few days ago. He strained to keep his tone pleasant. "Of course. Your home with them, back in New York."
Guilt washed over me instantly. I felt like I had just gut punched him, only to spit in his face and laugh as he curled into a defeated ball on the ground. "I didn't mean it like-"
"No, it's okay. Really, it's fine." He smiled, but it clearly didn't touch his eyes. "But you'll come and visit some time, right?"
"Count on it," I told him, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and giving a short squeeze.
I wasn't sure what to expect when I came home to New York. That maybe there would be a chance of finding two loving grandparents waiting for me to see that I was no longer this catatonic and introverted granddaughter that they had seen shuffled off to Maine only a matter of months ago. As I narrowed on the highway, and took the route down, I let my mind drift. I thought back to one of my first days at the small school in New York. It was a tiny little private place. One that held maybe a group of fifty kids per class. An elitist school, my grandfather would smugly say of his morning breakfast and paper. The kind of school you'd only dream to get in. And it felt like just like, a dream. I went through private school smoother than a sheet of water, cleaner than a sheet of glass. It wasn't until the event with Chase that I had been perfect, that I had been normal. I couldn't remember having any kind of oddities or events. I couldn't remember anything standing out about me until that night. That was when I felt like everything had turned. Like every pair of eyes turned to stop and stare at me. That no body left me room to breathe.
My previous home in New York had been a lavishly decorated one. My grandmother wasn't exactly the kind of person to skimp and cut corners. Everything held that neoclassical style with just a touch of Victorian accents you knew she picked up from private auctions for an easy six figure price. I remember spending most of my childhood unable to touch anything in that home, for fear of receiving a wrath like no other for ruining her 'precious' things.
As I entered the building, I gave a small nod to the bell boy, strolled to the elevator, and hit the number. Those two minutes riding in the elevator felt like forever. I suddenly realized I had no idea what I was going to say to them when I came face to face. Did I want to start off accusing and hot-headed, telling them of my fears that they hadn't believed I would ever return home, sound of mind? Or did I simply take them into my open arms and let it all fall to the wayside?
I looked up to see the elevator doors were wide open. I hadn't even heard the bell ring. Stepping off into the hallway, I watched the elevator shut the door behind me, leaving me alone with nothing but four walls to greet me. As I went down the hallway, it became clear I didn't want to start off things on the wrong foot with them, I didn't want things to be harsh and uncomfortable like they were with my Mother. I was tired of turning people away, my grandparents as far as I knew were perhaps the only remaining family who, aside from Jayson, actually cared about me, and not about some unexplained gift that was bestowed upon me.
I reached over to the door and looked down and stopped. It was slightly open, as if someone had forgotten to shut it. I could hear the soft sounds of orchestra music, no doubt coming from my Grandfather's study. Giving the door a small nudge, I stepped inside, leaving my bag sit at the door.
"Grand? Gram?" I called out. Nobody greeted me back.
It was unusual. They definitely had to be home. There was no way they left the door open, and a regular burglar was out of the question; the complex we lived in had enough security that made airports blush.
I looked over into the living room and saw the first sign of distress. A red flag shot up in my mind as one of my grandmother's prized vases had been smashed, shattered chunks of porcelain lying scattered on the floor. The couch had been slightly turned to an angle. I followed the path of destruction to the hallway off to my left, finding more destruction to greet me. A turned over end table blocked down the hall. I turned it over to set it back only to see one of its four legs was missing.
An odd ringing sensation started in my ears as I walked down the hallway. The pounding of blood in my head growing louder and louder, stronger with each overpowered thump. My bedroom door had been closed, the bathroom door closed as well. My grandparent's bedroom at the end of the hall also appeared shut. Only one room was ajar.
The swells of orchestra music grew louder as I inched closer to the door, my body quivering with an instinctive fear. For a second the ringing and music meshed into a noise so powerful I thought I'd never hear anything else. As I got closer, I saw no light coming from the room.
Stepping closer to the frame, I pushed open the door to fully expose his study. Hallway light blasted in, revealing a grizzly scene painted before me. A silhouette of a human slumped in the brown leather chair sat in the far corner. On top the desk, haloed in the light, lay my grandmother's corpse, her torso ripped open exactly like Chase's had been the night he had died. Red smeared over the scattered papers on the desk. I stumbled back into the door, screaming, and fell.
Scrambling to get back up, I felt a dampness cover most of my legs and arms. I let out another scream before bounding out the door faster than I could think, stumbling into the walls, smearing bloody handprints all over the creamscicle walls in my wake. I made it just to the kitchen sink before I threw my head into it and heaved everything in my stomach. I began to scrub furiously, pouring dish soap all over my hands as I did anything I could to get the red off my hands. Red, so much red.
I don't know how long I stood there scrubbing, turning the water hotter and hotter until my skin seared and screamed in agony. I turned off the faucets and sank down to the ground, looking down at my sodden appearance. Blood smudged and smeared over my jeans, my jacket soaked by blood. I couldn't believe it. Just how many people was I going to lose? How many more people were going to hurt me and those surrounding me?
There was a small crunch of something across the room. I immediately snapped up to attention, the ringing in my ears replaced by the fluttering effect of my heart, beating faster than a hummingbird's wings. Inching myself off the floor, I peered over the counter. A small figure dressed head to toe in black stood in the mess of my living room, eyes curiously examining a shard of the broken vase I had first seen. A small red heart was emblazoned on the jacket of her shoulder, the only source of color on her.
I gasped, and she instantly laid eyes on me. I went cold. Her eyes were a solid obsidian, no form of iris or pupil to speak. It was as if she were an incarnate of the devil herself.
Every instinct in my body told me to run, my veins burning with the need to put as much distance between myself and this person as I could physically manage. I never felt such an overwhelming urge to move in all my life.
The person took one step forward, I took one step back.
Suddenly the game shifted, and she leapt toward me, clearing the distance from the living room to where I stood in an instant. My body reacted before my mind could, racing for the front door. I burst through it and down the hallway, slamming into the wall and smacking the elevator button in the same breath. There was no way it would open in time before that... thing joined me in the hall. My eyes landed on the door to the staircase, and I flung myself through it.
I don't know how many floors I cleared before I looked up. She was practically right behind me, clearing steps in multiples with ease. I had no idea how she was doing it; my lungs burned, a rigid ache settling in my chest and throat, and at some point I knew I would have to stop to breathe. But the rising fear that she'd catch me kept me moving, willing me to avoid capture or even death.
I managed to get down the steps and out the front door, ignoring the gasps and shocked stares that followed me. My mind was racing almost as fast as my heart continued to pound, the streets signs passing by me in mixed blurs. Before I knew it, I had cleared several blocks and found myself in a street corner alleyway, alone.
I pressed myself against a cold and damp brick wall, wedging myself between two large dumpster cans. This was insane, my mind told me, absolutely insane. I had just cleared through a corner of Times Square, most likely running from a demon, like a zebra fleeing from a hungry lion. Every inch of my body burned and ached, yet I had nothing to show for it but some bloody clothes and beads of sweat.
Half-angel or not, you weren't supposed to run from the enemy. You were supposed to fight them, kill them.
All of Kayden's words buzzed at the front of my brain. He had asked me point-blank if I would be ready for this, ready to fight against masses of demons intent on killing me for their own benefit. At first, I had thought he was exaggerating; we weren't in the 1600's any more, battling with swords and crude weapons. Now, I wasn't so sure.
I wanted to tell someone, instinctively involve the police. But what exactly could a mortal officer do for a supernatural battle over me?
My eyes spotted a piece of broken mirror, and I picked it up. One quick look told me I wasn't going to get far with all this blood on me. I started to remove my jacket when I felt a familiar lump in the one side pocket. Pulling it out, I stared at the glint of shiny plastic and metal, my cell phone left in my palm.
My heart leapt into my throat, and I was dialing a number before I even realized who it was. Kayden's number rang a couple of times before sending me to voicemail. I hung up and tried again, only this time I dialed the one person I knew would pick up.
Jayson's voice sounded through my phone on the third ring. "Essallie! You made it there safely?"
"Jayson," I started, only to stop. My voice quivered and cracked, I sounded horrible. "Jayson, I-"
He caught the sound of my choked sobs. "Essallie, what's going on? Are you hurt?"
"No, I- I'm fine," I stammered out, clenching a fist and smacking the cold wall behind me. The words came in a rush, spilling from my lips in a snowballing effect. "Gram and Gran are dead, Jayson. They're dead, murdered, blood everywhere, and I saw it, and it's everywhere, and I don't know what to do and- and- and-"
I heard something crash behind me. Instantly I spun around, scream clutched in my throat. An emaciated street cat scurried across the alleyway into an open container.
I zeroed back in on the phone in my hand. Jayson was screaming at me, trying to get my attention.
"Essallie, Essallie are you still there?"
"I'm still here."
"Listen to me, right now. You need to go to the police. Let them know what you saw. I'm getting in the car right now."
"Jayson, if I go to the police, they'll arrest me on the spot. It's too much like Chase's death. How coincidental can you get? The second I'm home, and they're dead?"
"Running from the police is the last thing you want to do-"
"And turning myself in is on the same list," I sighed. "It's me they're after, not Gram, not Gran, not Chase."
"Who's after you, Essie?"
I started to answer when another set of footsteps sounded behind me. I turned around to come face-to-face with the woman I'd spotted in the apartment. Slowly, I lowered the phone from my face, pressing it against my leg so Jayson couldn't hear.
"Who are you?"
"Now, must we start with all the tense formalities? Or can we skip them and get straight to the part where you come along with me?"
I held out my free hand and ignited a ball of brilliant blue flame. "Why does nobody answer my questions?"
She gave me a sharp, cryptic smile. "Who I am is none of your concern." She extended a hand out to me, flicking tresses from her long ponytail over her shoulder. "This can be done easily or painfully. I'd rather take you in whole, and not in a jar. But I can promise you that, voluntary or not, we will get what we want from you."