Caterpillar, a Paranormal Romance With a Touch of Horror (9 page)

“So she doesn’t have any gifts?”

He merely shook his head, confirming what I dreaded to know—I was all alone after all.

“Apparently with each life, you’ll learn to use your gift and then carry it on to the next, where you’ll receive another.” 

I was neither excited to hear this news, nor pleased with the future I was learning about from a perfect stranger.  Mike must’ve seen that in my expression.

“You are a warrior, Cat.  You have a chance to save lives and free your daughter and your daughter’s daughters from living this way.  Embrace it!  Focus on the good; it’s the best weapon you have.”

“That’s easy to say when it isn’t
your life
being turned upside down.” 

Pastor Mike shrugged, but said nothing.  He reached for a box of long match sticks.

I watched as he struck a match.  He held it out to me, his hand shaking ever so slightly.  I knew I couldn’t possibly be ready for what lay ahead. 

As I watched the flame flicker at the tip of the stick, the spark of something I couldn’t identify fluttered in my chest.  It shimmered there in the orange tip of the flame, a burning shadow of what I could neither see nor fathom.  Carefully, I took the match.  Softly, Pastor Mike began to pray.

My limbs on autopilot, I turned to the table and held the flame to the wick of one unlit candle.  Fire leapt instantly from the stiff tip, a blue column rising taller than those around it. 

I watched the flame grow taller and taller, brighter and brighter.  My chest felt tight with emotion, with both relevance and fear.  It welled within me and flowed all around me.  A lump formed in my throat.  My eyes stung with unshed tears.  There wasn’t an adjective I could think of to describe it, but I had the sense that heaven had opened up a trap door and was pouring something hot, something old, down through the ages into my very soul.  It was powerful.  It was humbling.  And it was absolutely terrifying. 

Each wick I lit burst into a flame taller than the one before.  Higher and higher they grew, faster and faster the pastor’s prayers came.  As I touched the match to the last wick, the wind of something invisible blew across my face with a whoosh.  Then all nine flames exploded into one blinding light. 

And then the flames were gone.  Every candle on the table was dark, smoking helplessly in the aftermath of fire.

I stood, motionless, watching the wax harden, the acrid smoke stinging my eyes.  Something inside me hardened as well, as if the flames had burned away all other purpose from my life, all the childish things of all my yesterdays, leaving behind a single new path—a dark, steely, solitary one. 

Pastor Mike and I were both silent, awestruck.  We stood there for what seemed like an eternity then I heard him begin to pray again, albeit in a calmer, louder voice, one that I could understand.  I bowed my head.  It was over. 

When he finished, I lifted my eyes.  He was watching me.  “Jillian wanted me to give you this key.  It’s to her apartment.”

“Thanks.”  I took the key from him, a tornado of questions still spinning inside my head.  “Where has she been?”

“I don’t know.”

“Thank you for…” I trailed off, but he shook his head and smiled, understanding what I couldn’t put into words.

“You’re welcome.  I’m here to help, if you need anything.”

I shook my head, silently adding more questions to the pile in my head.

I turned to walk away.  At the door, I looked back at him.  I opened my mouth, to say
what
I didn’t know, but no words came.  He smiled again, that gentle, soothing smile and then turned and walked away.

I drifted out of the church on a cloud of surrealism.  I stopped on the steps and took several deep breaths.  The world looked like a different place than the one I’d left less than an hour ago.  The darkness looked alive; the shadows pulsed with the unknown and the terrifying.  Little by little, the cool night air washed away the mystique of the candle-and-flame ceremony and left me with the cold reality of what I’d learned.

With one eye on the shadows, I descended the steps, walking away from the church, away from my old life.  I walked forward, toward my new life, toward the unknown, toward the darkness. 

Chapter Eight

Monday.

I awoke Monday morning, stirred by the sound of an engine starting in the alley out back.  I pulled the pillow over my head, feeling tired and depressed, not wanting to get out of bed to face the day. 

My mind began to clear and the sound of tires crunching in the gravel had me up, looking out my bedroom window for a glimpse of the vehicle.  Twin red tail lights on the back of a black SUV flashed as the vehicle slowed to turn onto the main road.  Again, the sight was oddly familiar.

You’re just being paranoid, Cat,
I chastised myself.  I had done nothing wrong and there was no reason anyone should suspect differently.

Shaking off the disturbing start to my day, I headed into the kitchen for coffee, the milk of the gods. 

As the beans brewed, releasing their mouth-watering scent into the air, I checked my planner to see how busy my day was going to be.  No appointments, only busywork. I could do that anywhere, so I decided to steer clear of the office for the day.  Gone was my peaceful existence and I needed time, time to collect my thoughts and to process the little shop of horrors my life had become. 

…people you must save,
Pastor Mike had said. 
 

I thought of Mistee and the man in the kitchen at my showing the day before.  Who was next?  Was that the life I was supposed to save, one of them anyway?  If not, then who?  How?

Maybe it was Cassidy I was supposed to help.  I guessed that was as good a place to start as any.

I called Carter and talked him into going with me to the club, Feral, to look for Cassidy.  I asked if the cops had talked to him.  He said they had, but he didn’t elaborate.  Carter didn’t seem worried so I let it go.  Maybe I was overreacting.  It had been known to happen.

Later that night, I bathed again.  I let my hair air dry as I Googled Feral.  I wanted to see exactly what I was getting myself into before it was too late to cancel.  It looked to be a Goth club, a place I wouldn’t normally be caught dead in.  Of course, I was no clubber so it didn’t take much to achieve that special status. 

In honor of my first, and hopefully my last, momentous trip to anything inspired by the devil, I pulled on my most macabre lingerie to set the mood.  I felt dark and sexy instantly, which was unusual for me and would probably have been a cause for concern if I had thought too much about it. 

I sifted through my closet for my shadiest, hippest clothes.  I settled on snug, black, velvet hip-huggers with a boot cut leg, a black vest that laced up the front and black platforms.  My wardrobe was less Goth than vogue.  

I fixed my hair in the funkiest ‘do I could manage then worked on my makeup.  I overdid the eyeliner and mascara then slathered on my darkest wine color lipstick.  Maybe under dim club lights I’d pass casual inspection.  To round off my look, I went in search of some daring nail polish and was surprised when I discovered I owned black nail polish.  I quickly painted my nails. 

When I surveyed my appearance in the full-length mirror, I thought I’d pass; I looked adequately morbid. 

The sight of my transformation made me think of the darkness Goth people liked to portray.  I closed my eyes, resisting the panic that threatened to overtake me.  I wondered how many of them knew it was real.  I’d always assumed Goth was more a fashion statement than anything of substance, but no longer would I have the luxury of making such assumptions, of ignoring or discounting the presence of evil in the world.   Or those who followed it.

Carter’s horn broke my reverie.  I quickly stuffed a few essentials into the pockets of my tight pants and headed for the front door.  He was waiting impatiently for me in his dark blue Toyota truck.  I hurried around to the passenger side, hopped in and we sped off toward the city.

********

Feral was a two story brick building.  It was painted flat black with the name was spelled out in red neon over the door.  The F and the L ended in points that looked like fangs.  A little thrill of excitement raced down my spine.  Before, I’d never have given the reality of vampires a second thought, but now…

As we approached, I could hear Marilyn Manson blaring behind the blacked front doors.  A malevolent air seemed to seep from every nook and cranny in the building and hover over the entrance.  I was instantly uneasy.  Add to that the fact that there was no line to get in and no security to keep anyone out and I had reason to be
really
concerned. 

“Have you been here before?”  I asked Carter, suddenly having second thoughts about the safety and wisdom of our little adventure. 

“A couple of times,” he answered noncommittally. 

“Why?”

“Cat,” Carter started, exasperation evident in his defensive tone.  “Do you want me to go in with you or not?”

“Of course.  Duh.”

“Then shut up.”

It was troubling enough that Carter had agreed to meet someone there, but even more so that he’d
chosen
to go at some other time—on purpose.  He virtually pushed me through the door, effectively ending conversation. 

We made a beeline for the bar and I scooted onto a barstool and ordered a Coke. 

“I’ll be right back,” Carter said at my back.  And just like that, he was gone.  Just like that, he left me. 

The bartender set my drink in front of me.  I hadn’t really paid that much attention to her when I’d ordered.  I couldn’t
help
but notice her now.

Her hair was almost completely shorn.  The remaining stubble was pitch black.  She was ghostly pale and wore the typical heavy black makeup and nail polish.  She had painted a trail of black tears from the corner of one eye all the way down her cheek to her jaw line. 

She wore skin tight black leggings and a tiny tank top, both in black.  She was also liberally adorned with studded collars: neck, wrists and waist.  Heavy silver chains connected the collar at her neck to the studded belt around her narrow waist.   I wondered absently how long it took her when she went to the bathroom.

“Seven dollars,” she said in a flat voice. 

“Seven dollars?”  I asked, thinking I’d misunderstood.  She nodded.

Reluctantly, I pulled a bill out of my pocket and grudgingly handed it over.  The bartender brought my change back—and she waited.  Seven dollars for a Coke and she wanted a tip? 

I pulled a dollar off the top and handed it to her.  She didn’t even thank me.  I hoped it at least greased the wheels enough for her to help me.  “Excuse me, do you know a young woman by the name of Cassidy?’

“Only one Cassidy that comes here and she’s gone.”

“What do you mean ‘she’s gone’?”

“I mean, she left.  Moved.  Took off.”

“When?’

“Few days ago.”

“Know where she went?”

“No.”

“Know why she left?’

“No.”

“No how I could reach her?’

“No.”

“No anyone who might?”

“No.”

“Ever meet any of her friends?”