Consequences (27 page)

Oh, I knew instinctually, even before my
death, fear forms in the imagination. Manipulate the imagination,
control the mind. I can’t even remember what I looked like once; so
many lifetimes of mutating my image for the sake of my hunger, has
destroyed my memory. I can taste fear, instinctively knowing what
one fears, and how to take advantage of their plight. My greatest
gift was being reborn into this world, where I can do whatever, and
be whatever, I want. Few have tested me over the lifetimes; human
and monster alike, they all fail.

Always their greatest weakness is lust for
gold, power, esteem … they walk eagerly into my arms. Loneliness
drives me to my own lust, for offspring. Who knew the coupling
would produce terror that struck cords of fear, even in me. Oh, how
I loved my babies. Killed, killed by their fathers … now, the only
way to feed my hunger is with the deaths of children. Watching the
fear in their fathers’ eyes, the gut-wrenching panic in the
mothers’ screams … I feed off the disgust as much as the gore. If
humans thought I was a monster before that fool Beowulf came to my
home, they can’t even conceive of what I am now. Their tiny,
ignorant minds can only create folklore, tales of incredible
monsters. Their nightmares are too horrible for them to believe
that their monsters could be one individual. I thank their
stupidity; for they just give me more monsters to recreate, more
terrors to touch.

My mouth is watering at the prospect of
hunting again. People just aren’t afraid of monsters like they used
to be, I need to expose myself to the new fears of man. Hunting has
always been easy enough; I am sure that there are always plenty of
opportunities to bring horror to light, especially with
children.

In the past fifty years older children’s
fear, once sharp and ragged, is now dulled and full of doubt. I can
still sense the terror, but it’s not the same … now mind games,
beyond mythical monsters, must be played. The thoughts that bring
terror to a young child’s mind are still primal, based out of a
need to survive … human infants are still, and will always be, the
neediest of species. When nurturing an infant, the parents' bond is
usually very strong … If I am going to feed; I have to find young
families to hunt.

The shock of a shift in my connection to the
mist startles me. The ancient one is moving? I’ve never known her
to travel so far from home. She is aggravated, full of dread …
deliciously strong, her emotions give me strength. Walking out into
the sunlight for the first time in a half of a century … the light
burns my eyes. My compulsion to find Cassandra is too strong to
care about the pain.

“Misery … sweet anguish!” I call back into my
subterranean home, as if the spiders and snakes know, or care,
about what is pulling me from their company. I find myself in
hysterics again as I give into the enticing pressure of finding my
old friend.

The air is cold, and the soil under my feet
is damp from a recent snow… dead leaves stick to the bottom of my
soles as I shift from partially intangible to touchable. Stretching
out my form, flexing the muscles that have become weak from decades
of neglect, I’m starting to feel the power of being fully
reawakened, coursing through my veins. Cassandra may never be this
vulnerable again … I don’t believe I’ve ever felt her, this close
to emotional collapse before. Always in control, resolutely holding
onto her guilt and depression … but never exposing the tiniest
imperfection in her armor. Oh, the meal I could absorb from her
ancient, terrified mind. Feeling her defensive walls crumbling like
this … is making my stomach rumble. One phrase in her mind,
screaming and projecting the sound, I can hear each syllable,
“Christopher!” I don’t care who that is, or why she is calling that
name … I need to feed, need to find her. I will follow her to the
end of the earth if necessary.

As meticulous as Christopher is, I know I
will never find anything around the cabin that could possibly be
traced back to Ann. Since I already know about Ann, all I have to
do is look up her information on the internet. So much for trying
to hide from the world; she still works as a messenger of the dead,
and runs her new age shop in Vegas. Christopher has said she loved
her work too much to give it up after she became a millionaire. I
have to scoff at the thought of calling a fake medium to help a
dying kid … but I’ve seen too much to turn away from the idea
now.

Typing in the name of her shop brings up all
kinds of spam on the occult, “If people only knew how close these
jokers are to the truth.” Hearing my voice, Lune comes over and
settles beside me, leaving Artemis to continue sulking on her
pillow.

“Heavenly Messages? Where in the world did
she come up with that name?” Lune responds to my one-way
conversation by shoving my leg with his nose.

“Okay, Okay … I get it; you like the name …
and I shouldn't insult people that obviously know more than I do.”
He confirms by sneezing all over my lap.

Ann’s site isn’t flashy; it has a simple
elegance to the design. She only volunteers pertinent information,
nothing that will divulge any kind of personal knowledge, but it
still feels very welcoming. I scan the page closely and finally
find what I am after … a business number. Respecting hers and
Christopher’s wishes for secrecy, I decide to use my work cell and
leave a message that, hopefully, she will understand. When the
phone stops ringing and her message begins, I suddenly become very
nervous … she has a beautiful voice; a soft and rich, extremely
inviting voice.

Stuttering for a second when I hear the beep,
I force the words out in a rush. “I’m not sure if I dialed the
right number … I found a dog with a tag and this number. I think I
may have your dog … um, Lune. Could you please call me back?” After
prattling off the digits for my cell, I hang up.

Lune is looking at me with a raised eyebrow,
“I know … very smooth, huh … don’t know why I’m still single,
right?”

I thought I was going to have to wait for at
least a couple hours before hearing from her, but my cell rings
after only couple minutes. I see the blocked number and know it
must be Ann. Trying desperately to calm my nerves, I know from
experience that the stuttering will only get worse if I don’t
compose myself. I haven’t felt like this since high school … maybe
it’s because I'm dealing with unknown variables, like dangerous,
ethereal creatures. Accepting my excuse that my nerves have nothing
to do with Ann, I answer the phone.

There is that voice again … I know I must
sound meek compared to the defensive, business-like tone in her
voice. She asks briskly if I understand the seriousness of
contacting her directly … obviously understanding the ruse over
finding her lost dog. “I understand. Do you understand why a friend
would need to contact you?”

She pauses for a moment, and when I hear her
voice this time, it is tainted with doubt and concern. She also
obviously understands why I called, and that it doesn’t have
anything to do with Lune. “How bad is it?”

“Very bad … I don’t know if he’ll survive
much longer.” The serious subject of our conversation pushes my
jumpiness to the back of my head.

“I’m on my way.” She hangs up the phone
without saying another word.

On her way? I feel the anxiety coming back,
crushing me. I hadn’t realize how attached I’d become to this
mysterious woman. Now, faced with the prospect of meeting her … I’m
forced to admit that I’ve fallen for a daydream, one that I created
around Christopher’s stories.

“I think, perhaps … I may have commitment
issues.” The vulnerability must have been evident in my sarcastic
statement, because Artemis joins Lune in consoling me.

Speaking to the dogs, I explain, "Even if she
can get a flight out today, she’ll probably be held over in Seattle
before she can fly into Kalispell. She most likely won’t be here
until tomorrow, but if she does somehow make it today … I need to
get this place cleaned up."

Flying around the cabin, picking up stray
clothes and towels, and then moving Christopher so that I can strip
his bed and put on clean sheets, I have to catch my breath when I
stop long enough to load the washing machine. The kitchen is
relatively clean, since I’ve only been feeding myself and the dogs,
but I give it a quick once over with bleach just to make sure. Ann
is going to need a place to sleep while she’s here, and we
obviously can’t share the loft. I stop my mind from wandering into
places I can’t afford for it to go. Running upstairs, not sure why
I am rushing, I pick up the guestroom and make the bed with fresh
sheets. After picking up the guest bathroom, I finally settle down
in a chair by the stove.

Lune and Artemis watch me the entire time
with unreadable expressions. Now they come and sit at my feet. “You
think I’m acting like an ass, don’t you?”

Artemis nudges my hand with her muzzle,
gently forcing her face under my palm. Rubbing her ears, I can feel
the stress of the past week slowly fading. I have noticed Artemis’s
talent for changing the mood of a room just by walking in … but for
the sake of my ideals, I’ve made an effort to write it off to her
sweet temperament and wolfish beauty. I can’t deny the effect she
is having on me now, though. I may not communicate like
Christopher, but she and I do have a connection. Right now, she’s
telling me to relax … and, whether I like it or not, my body will
listen to her.

**~~**

My stomach wakes me with a loud growl, and
sitting up becomes a chorus of cracking joints and moans from my
stiff muscles. I fell asleep in the chair again. I don’t know why I
even bothered cleaning the guestroom … I never sleep up there. As
my mind mentions the guestroom, the memory of why I cleaned it,
flashes into my head. "Ah hell, what time is it?"

Artemis tilts her head, as if to ask why, and
then proceeds to get up and stretch. With her furry butt straight
up in the air, she pokes Lune with her front paws as they slide
forward on the wooden floor. He growls sleepily, and then
grudgingly joins her as she prances toward the door. I can almost
hear him saying, “Damn kids, what do they have against sleeping
in?”

Chuckling to myself, I let them outside. As
soon as I open the door, I realize it is morning … “Ann!”

I turn and walk directly to the bathroom,
where I can get cleaned up … nerves bubbling up in my stomach
again. After washing my face, brushing my teeth, and shaving, I
almost feel presentable. Checking on Christopher, I find that he’s
been up at some point during the night and pulled out his I.V. …
well, at least he didn’t go far. Slumped on the floor, in front of
the window, on his knees with his forehead pressed against the
glass, it looks like he fell asleep while watching the tree line.
Blood, from where he tore out the needle, is crusted on his arm,
leaving a sticky pool in his hand. I can smell the metallic aroma
coming from the trail of blood he has dripped around the room. By
the looks of it, he has been pacing frantically. Like sucking on a
penny, I have to cringe as the scent entered my mouth. He is pale
and cold from sitting under the window; but he has a pulse … he is
still alive.

“Come on man, enough of this …” I bend down
and pick him up over my shoulder. “… We need to clean you up.”

I take him into the bathroom, and as gently
as I can, I lower him into the bathtub. Leaving all of his clothes
on, I decide they can use a cleaning, too. Starting up the shower,
and making sure it is good and hot, I adjust the spray nozzle so it
drenches Christopher’s chest; then I leave him alone, to go make
some coffee.

After about ten minutes, I check on him. He
is waking up, but he still isn’t lucid. He's warm though, and while
the water is still running hot, I decide to let in the dogs.
Artemis’s claws slide on the floor as she runs past, spins, and
then playfully attacks Lune’s neck. Lune tilts his nose up towards
the bedroom; moving cautiously, he is drawn by either the smell of
blood or the sound of the shower. Artemis, who is still worked up
and playful, runs past her wary father and barges into the room.
Before I can even make it to the doorway of the bedroom, I hear her
crashing through the bathroom. The loud grunt tells me she has
found her mark. Entering the bathroom, I find the white wolf
sitting on Christopher’s lap, under the pouring shower, licking the
water droplets off his chin. He has his hands on her sides, but he
isn’t stopping her affectionate attack … either too exhausted or
just not caring, he lets her clean his entire face. I move forward
to pull her out of the tub, right as he puts his arms around her
and presses his face into her neck. The way his shoulders are
shaking, I know he is crying, and needs some privacy.

Walking back into the bedroom, I am accosted
by loud, urgent pounding on the door. Lune is pacing and antsy, his
tail wagging hard enough to shake his entire body. Not even
thinking about why he would be reacting that way, I stride over to
the door and roughly pull it open.

“What do you want?” The boldness catches in
my throat as I look into doe-shaped, amber eyes. “Ann?”

“And you must be the meathead that called
about Christopher.” I am not sure, but I think I detect a touch of
playfulness in her tight voice. She is extremely concerned, that
much is obvious by her expression, but her tone is still very
detached. She doesn’t know me, and therefore, doesn’t trust me.

She brushes past me and strides into the
living room, looks down at the computer, and then walks over to the
window that faces the tree line. Turning around she briskly removes
her coat, and after tossing it on the couch, she strides into the
kitchen and picks up my freshly-poured cup of coffee. Taking a big
gulp and licking her full lips, she continues to walk around,
giving herself the tour. Working her way back from the wood burning
stove, still holding the mug with both hands, to either warm her
fingers or to hide that her hands are shaking, she stops at
Christopher’s bedroom door.