Mercy (9 page)

Chapter 10
Stalker Theory

Maeva sat on the pier dangling her legs over the edge. Black reflective water, tiny ripples splitting the smooth surface, distorting the outlines of evergreens in her backyard. She drove to the harbor in a daze, feeling like the world around her was behind a thick screen. Sounds dull, vision blurry, fingers tinged with numbness. She leaned towards the water, an urge to pour herself into the depths battling against the inherit fear she’d had since her concussion. She could look at it, canoe in it, and accept it was everywhere, but she couldn’t swim in it. Lake of the Woods was a mix of mountains and marshlands and thousands of tiny islands and lakes. She appreciated the beauty of the land and loved the trails in the forest, but the water—she couldn’t do it.

Her dad said fear was silly. He tried tossing her in the water when she was seven but she screamed and ran into the house, huddling in the corner of the kitchen until he let it go. No matter what she tried, she couldn’t shake the feeling there was something in the water, creatures willing to strangle the life out of her as the sky dimmed to nothingness.

Sitting on the pier was a way to cope with everything. She glanced at her canoe and felt a lump in the back of her throat. Nothing made sense anymore. She was just a girl as far as she knew. The boy didn’t have a reason to hate her, but everything in the way he looked at her, touched her, and spoke to her said there was something abnormal about him. She gritted her teeth and glanced at the back door to their small house, contemplating whether she should tell her dad about it. He wasn’t even home yet, his motor boat parked at St. Mary Harbor. She let out a breath as the last dying embers of the sun slid over the horizon. The back door banged shut and Maeva’s eyes snapped to the door. Scott hurried down the walk, pulling a black sweater over his white t-shirt. He had a twenty in his mouth, which he grabbed when he had the sweater on.

“You sad about probation?” he asked, stepping onto the pier. Maeva shifted a little so she was clearly out of his way, drawing her legs to her chest and hugging them. She shook her head, sending locks of curly black hair rustling.

“It’s only three months,” she muttered as Scott stepped into his canoe.

Scott laughed but it wasn’t funny. “So you’re off the hook in November then huh? Isn’t that kind of pointless?”

Maeva didn’t want to do this. Scott had a snarky comment, comeback, or joke for everything. He went from being a twelve-year-old prankster to this fifteen-year-old punk she couldn’t stand. The worst thing about it was the way her mom believed in him, like he was going to be a doctor. They didn’t think she’d amount to anything, and clearly thought her music was going nowhere. In November the lake would be frozen. She didn’t want to give Scott ammunition. “Where are you going?”

“Dairy Queen,” he said, picking up his paddle. She raised an eyebrow. “Tait told me to come.” He sounded like a follower, paying homage to the biggest jock in town. She didn’t jab him about his choices, she really didn’t want to hear what he’d have to say about hers in return. She gripped her knees tighter and looked out across the water, rocky shores lined by trees in the distance.

“Who’s driving?”

“Sarah.”

Maeva swiveled so she could see him better. “Is she your girlfriend?”

Scott laughed and pushed the canoe into open water, it rocked slightly sending Maeva off balance. Her hand flashed out to steady herself. “She’s just a girl. I got sports scholarships to worry about!” He yelled as he faded from sight.

“Curfew is ten you know!” Maeva shouted, standing. She waited, hoping he heard her, knowing at least if he was out of earshot he wouldn’t be able to fire anything vile at her.

“Mom said midnight!”

She scoffed and shook her head. Typical parenting, give the boy free reign to go anywhere, keep the girl locked inside. She silently padded down the concrete path and went in. She tossed her shoes on the rack behind the door and grabbed a glass of water. She poked her head into the living room, her mom watching some reality show on the flat screen above the fireplace.

“Can I use the computer?”

Her mom didn’t look at her. “No, I’m watching something.”

Maeva sighed. “I have some homework.” She was lying but she didn’t want to call Steph to talk, she really didn’t know what to say. Skype was better, they could video chat and she could see Steph’s reaction to her apparent psycho stalker.

Grace sighed. “Your dad left his laptop on the desk, you can take it downstairs.”

Maeva felt a surge of relief. She tiptoed behind the other black couch and grabbed the laptop from the cluttered desk. There was an old style computer, tower, boxy monitor, mouse pad. The rest of the desk had all sorts of things, a pair of Scott’s hockey gloves, the outer padding ripped. She guessed it was on her mom’s list of things to sew. She grabbed the power cord and snuck downstairs, being careful not to disturb her mom again. If there was something she knew about Grace it was that being invisible was better than being on her radar.

Soon she had Skype running and Steph’s little icon was green. “Maeva!” A little box popped up, interrupting her before she had a chance to say hi. She rolled her eyes and typed in the box.

“I’m alive.”

“Are you in the living room?”

“No, laptop in my room.”

“Good because I have so much to tell you.”

Maeva tried not to scoff; Steph always had a lot to say. She shifted so the laptop was on top of a pillow. Her arms hurt where his fingers dug into her flesh and her shoulders were a bit sore from where he’d slammed her against the wall. She stretched, working out the kinks and went back to what Steph was saying. It was a long message, but skimming over it, she learned two things. The boy had classes with Steph, and he refused to talk to anyone. Unless a teacher called on him to answer a question he was completely mute. Fear rumbled in Maeva’s heart, guilt attacking her for no apparent reason. She rubbed her eyes trying to clear the incomprehensible emotions and typed in the little box.

“He talked to me.” She knew she was going to regret this. Steph was friends with her but also simultaneously friends with Colleen and Kelly, girls that willingly joined cheer team. She hoped Steph wasn’t going down that road. She waited for the response, which popped up quickly, a string of exclamation points, confused emoticons, and capitalized letters: OMG. She sighed.

“Don’t get so excited. He only said three words.”

Silence. Maeva waited while Steph processed. “Oh. What did he say?”

Maeva’s stomach churned, a thousand radioactive butterflies beating their wings against her insides. She didn’t know if she should lie or tell the truth. He could have said something like “How are you?” or “Can you help me?” Or “Do you know where the gas station is?” or anything a normal boy could have said. Instead his actual words pounded the forefront of her mind making her feel just as deranged as he was for being obsessed with him.

She put her fingers on the keys, chewing on her bottom lip. “He said, ‘You don’t remember.’”

Steph didn’t respond for a while and Maeva put the laptop in front of her and laid down, an arm above her head. She looked at the panels of drop ceiling and ran the phrase over and over in her mind. His eyes were accusing, his posture threatening. The laptop beeped and she sat, crawling over to read the message.

“That’s random.”

“I know.”

“So he’s officially scary as fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“What are you going to do?”

Maeva thought for a moment, revisiting her train of thoughts on the dock. She could tell the principal, but he couldn’t protect her. Her parents wouldn’t do anything, nor could they. The police wouldn’t care because being threatening and scary wasn’t enough to arrest someone. Kenora was small, spread out, forests and lakes surrounding them. Really, Maeva wasn’t safe anywhere, and unless she proved he was stalking her she had no reason to alert the authorities.

“Nothing,” she typed.

“Aw, well I’ll do what I can to keep you away from him.”

“Thanks.”

Maeva sat back, staring at her dresser. She crossed the room and opened the box, pulling the golden pocket watch into her palm. She clutched it while Steph typed a monologue, recounting every detail of her chance encounters with Tait. To say she was a little Tait obsessed was an understatement.

“What do you think?” Steph asked.

Maeva was pulled out of her daze. She reread the recent messages, a detailed plan to accidentally bump into Tait at school on screen. She thought it was risky and very cliché. “What if it doesn’t work?”

Steph sent a frowning emoticon. “I’ll look like an idiot.”

“Exactly,” Maeva typed.

“What do I do to get his attention?”

Maeva sighed. She wanted to ask Steph how to be invisible so mystery boy didn’t catch her again. “I don’t know.” She stared at the chat window for a long time. Steph didn’t say anything more and she yawned. It was eleven thirty. “Sorry, I have to go,” she typed, figuring Steph got into another heated conversation with someone else and forgot she was there. She closed the laptop and put it on the floor. She shed her skinny jeans and laid down in her tank top and underwear.

O O O

Maeva thought she recognized the forest, but it played tricks with her. Branches tangled above her, making her duck and twist to get through them. Her heart hammered and she was out of breath but she couldn’t stop running. She crashed through the brush, afraid of the thing following her. Her foot snagged on her shoelace and she collapsed, splaying out in the mud, every limb feeling paralyzed. Blinding fear won out against pain and she forced herself up, something prickly stinging her palm. She wiped her hand on her jeans and kept running. When her lungs burst for air she didn’t stop, when her stomach made a sickening squishing sound she ignored it. The urge to run rocketed through her, making it impossible to stop. She darted down a path on the left, her feet skipping over rocks and cresting hills and jumping off a shallow cliff. She landed in a bed of moss and glanced behind her, seeing nothing but white eyes crackling with lightning. Her stomach dropped and she screamed, cowering against the stone. She pressed her back into shale moss covered rock, holding her arms up to shield her face as she waited for the man with the white lightning eyes to end her. She continued backing up until rocks scraped along her back and she was thrown off balance, like the forest tilted and she was on her back. She refused to open her eyes, letting everything spin out of control until a bone-chilling explosion sent spasms through her.

She gasped, opening her eyes, nothing but darkness surrounding her. Groggy, she reached for the lamp on her bedside table and clicked it on. Aches rested in her muscles and her heart thrummed like it was still dreaming. She forced herself to sit, dragging in a breath and letting it out slowly. She cleared her eyes and blinked. Every time she closed her eyes she was in the forest, the sound of her own feet clapping against the mud. She pushed the comforter aside and crept upstairs, filling a glass of water. She took a few gulps and set the glass on the counter, her hand trembling as the glass made a loud clunk. She glanced behind her but the house was eerily quiet. Pushing the basement door open, she descended the stairs, passing the laundry room. She used to be afraid the furnace was a monster that would eat her and quickened her steps past the door. She nestled into bed and glanced at the books lined up on her headboard. They were stacked horizontally so she could read the spines without tilting her head to the side.

She pulled out her copy of
Alanna
and turned to the middle. Myles, the minor knight, ordered everyone out of the room so Alan-Alanna could help Prince Jonathan, heir to the kingdom. All of the palace healers’ power had been drained and Alan, though he was only a lowly squire, was trained in the healing arts and had the Gift. He-she alone could help Jonathan against the fever caused by sorcery.

Maeva skimmed through the text, but it didn’t calm the heavy feelings inside her. Alanna felt guilty for denying her gift and letting Francis die. Even though she wasn’t the one who plagued him with the fever she felt responsible. She vowed not to make that mistake again.

Maeva read the line over and over, the words resonating in her bones. Making a mistake again, feeling guilty for something that wasn’t her fault. She shot the flare gun by accident; she didn’t mean to burn the forest. And yet, her stomach shook and when she closed her eyes all she heard was the rumbling of an eruption in the distance.

***

Chapter 11
School and Daggers

Mr. Weir had a thing for writing his name on the board. Maeva stared at the jagged chalk letters, the W drawn in a hurry, followed by a slanted E, a dotted I and an R with a tail that extended well past where it was supposed to. The classroom buzzed with chatter, phones going off with little dings and donks every two seconds, bags shuffling, people muttering to each other. Maeva closed her eyes, her head drooping towards her desk. In the past week she managed to avoid the boy from the forest. In fact, she hadn’t seen him around school at all but Steph faithfully updated her on his whereabouts. He usually showed up halfway through the morning and left sometime before last period. Classic skipper. She glanced at the empty seat on her left and pulled out her binder, slapping it on the standard black tabletop. The chair was an ugly gray plastic, another standard issue.

“Is this everyone?” Mr. Weir asked; his hands on his hips. He was short, sandy blonde hair combed back, glasses, and faint blonde stubble along his double chin. He wore a beige sweater vest and khaki pants. He pulled the sweater vest over his bulging midsection and sat in his chair, moving the glasses to the end of his nose and squinting at his attendance list. Maeva yawned and tried to hide it as he called out names, ticking them off as people raised their hands or grunted a response. There were a couple of names he called every day that never answered. Ten times and those people would be booted from the class.

Her name was halfway down the list and she raised her hand halfway, meeting Mr. Weir’s tired gaze. He nodded pedantically, and continued down the list. Maeva turned her attention to her binder as someone stepped inside the room. Maeva glanced up, her breath catching. She stifled the scream in the back of her throat and scrunched down, using her hair as a sheet to hide her face.

“Mekelle Norton,” Mr. Weir began. “Nice of you to join us.”

“Um, Michael,” the boy from the forest said. Maeva peeked at him from her desk, noticing his awkward stance. He had his binder under his arm, and Maeva noticed the lines of his chest muscles defining his shirt. A warm feeling crept into her and she swallowed it, forcing herself to remember all the reasons he was not a hot boy.

Mr. Weir pushed his glasses onto his nose and pulled a look. “It says Mekelle on your transcript.”

The boy looked at the floor and adjusted the backpack on his shoulder. Maeva averted her eyes, not wanting to notice the shallow breathing or the fact he was trying to hide his accent.

“That’s the UK pronunciation,” he said softly. Maeva savored the cadence of his tone, the way syllables rolled off his tongue in perfect succession. He was nothing like the deranged boy in the hallway a week ago, his breath smelling like chalk, his body almost pressed against hers. He actually seemed shy.

“Okay, so what do you go by?” Mr. Weir scratched the pen along the paper.

“Michael,” the boy said. Mr. Weir jotted the note and waved a hand at the class, pen gripped between his fingers.

“Sit anywhere you like, Michael,” Mr. Weir said, correcting his pronunciation.

Maeva nervously shifted in her seat and grabbed her pen, twirling it between her fingers while Michael trailed down the row of desks next to her and at the last second swung into the seat beside her. She dropped the pen on her binder as Mr. Weir began the lesson. Maeva felt like someone had put their hands over her ears. She straightened her posture and hunched over her binder, letting the wall of hair separate her from him.

He fidgeted a lot. His boots squeaked minutely against linoleum, his binder slid onto the table, zipper grazed along teeth, papers flashed, a pencil eraser clunked against the tabletop. Maeva frowned, the rhythm of the pencil eraser uneven and choppy. She pressed her lips together and looked at the chalkboard tracing the pattern of the A in Aristotle on the board. Mr. Weir explained photography in the fifth and fourth centuries BCE. She tried to pay attention but it was impossible with the boy’s labored breath flushing in and out of his lungs. She noticed his left hand on his thigh, fingers splayed out, bracing himself. He jotted notes with his right hand, but the symbols scrawled on the page weren’t English.

Mr. Weir came up for air and the boy interrupted him, not bothering to raise his hand. “You’re wrong you know,” Michael said. Someone across the room snickered as a shade of crimson crept into Mr. Weir’s ears.

“Excuse me, Mr. Norton?” Mr. Weir had his hands on his hips, chalk digging into his brown leather belt.

“Mo Ti was the first to theorize pinhole cameras. Aristotle came after him, but he developed the theory with Euclid. And technically Joseph Nicephore Niepce was the first to take a permanent photograph.”

The classroom was dead silent. Mr. Weir’s mouth opened as the entire class turned to stare at Michael and by association, Maeva. She slunk further into her seat, trying to hide as Michael laced his hands behind his head and crossed his feet, seemingly proud of himself.

Mr. Weir blinked and regained his composure. “Memorizing Wikipedia before class isn’t going to get you extra marks.” He turned to the board. “And there’s no test on this,” he added, his voice low. He went back to talking in his usual drone tone and most of the class stopped staring. A few whispers worked their way through the crowd and Maeva dared a sidelong glance at Michael who was scribbling non-English symbols on his loose leaf.

“You can sit anywhere you know,” she said through clenched teeth, unable to take the accusatory tone out of her voice. She didn’t know what kind of game he was playing but she didn’t want him anywhere near her, not even if he was going to pull a one eighty and be a completely different person every time she saw him.

He glanced at her, a challenge in his blue eyes. “He said anywhere I like.”

“Exactly.”

“I like here.”

Maeva narrowed her eyes, heat rushing to the tips of her ears. The way he looked at her suggested he was actually telling the truth, but nothing about him made any sense. Why would anyone move all the way from the UK to Kenora? And why did he have a dagger? And why did he claim she didn’t remember? Why was he so hostile, confusing, and sexy? She bit back the words and shifted her weight. Her fingers grasped her own shoulder, scratching behind her neck. She twirled her fingers through her hair, grabbing a strand and winding it around her fingers, tying a knot with one hand, untying.

“Were you trying to hide that accent?” she asked after several minutes of silence.

“No,” he said, his accent thicker, authentic. He unhooked his feet and placed his heavy combat boots flat against the linoleum, a foot apart.

“Why are you here?” Maeva pressed, glancing at Mr. Weir who was scrawling Joseph Nicephore’s name on the board.

“Photography,” Michael answered.

Maeva huffed, frustration making her feel warm. “No, why are you in Kenora?”

“My uncle.”

“What?” Maeva thought about the old man in the diner. That must have been the uncle. She grimaced, looking at the clock. Class was almost over.

“Real Estate,” Michael amended, the pen hanging in suspended animation as he paused between symbols.

“That doesn’t explain anything,” Maeva hissed, her tone caustic. She was trying not to alert the other students to their heated private discussion. She felt eyes on the back of her neck and slid a fraction of an inch away from him, taking up twirling her hair and seemingly ignoring Michael.

“Resorts,” Michael whispered.

She turned her head and noticed him leaning in, so close she saw the deep blue flecks in his eyes and gulped, her eyes locked to his for a brief second before she realized how close their lips were and abruptly pulled away. She bit her lip, trying to regain herself. “Are you going to keep giving me one word answers?”

Michael smiled ruefully and Maeva was shocked. His cheekbones rose, a dimple formed on his right cheek near his lips, and his eyes sparkled with mischief. “Yes.”

The bell rang and Maeva let out a breath, gathering up her binder and backpack as quickly as she could. She followed the steady stream of students into the hallway and glanced behind her, trying to prove her stalker theory, but Michael wasn’t there. She frowned and backtracked, hating herself for being so curious. Against the tide she pressed herself against a locker and glanced into the classroom. Michael slowly zipped his binder and fitted it into his backpack. A girl named Abby passed Maeva as Michael stood and wended around the tables. She gulped and pivoted, pushing her way through students so he wouldn’t catch her staring.

O O O

Krishani hated crowded hallways. He didn’t like lingering in classrooms either but he preferred them over throngs of students moving in ten different directions, fighting through each other to get to a class, a locker, or another person. He especially hated them because of the claustrophobia he felt when near other people. It was cacophonic, all the white matter, energy and body odor in the air. His senior school in Leeds had been impossible to navigate without bumping into people. The school resembled a castle, with carved stone statues adorning its turrets, and polished hardwood floors running the length of the halls. There were no lockers, just glass cases along the walls with various trophies, plaques, and picture frames showcasing the faculty, both current and deceased. They hung pictures of successful alumni in the halls and slapped little gold engravings detailing their accomplishments.

Three years ago Krishani was running his finger along the outskirts of one of those small gold plaques when the bell rang and the hallways became a sea of limbs, heads, and uniforms. Someone bumped into him and he pricked himself on the corner of the gold plaque, blood gushing to the surface. He gulped, white spots dancing along his vision. He turned and tried to squeeze through students, running his shoulder along the thick glass case against the wall. He didn’t make it. Some kid shoved him forward and he fell on his face. Nobody noticed he was there and he tried to curl into himself and stave off the pain but it lanced through him. He lost focus on everything but his breathing, a seizure running its course. He blacked out before the hallways emptied and woke up in a hospital bed, IV attached to his hand. Elwen had been sitting in a brown leather chair with his head in his hands.

“Did it come back?” Krishani had asked. He always had symptoms, but the real question was always whether or not those symptoms led to further complications. He didn’t want another round of tests, disgusting food, and sympathetic nurses. He really hated people treating him like he was a helpless thing. It’s not like he would have spared them if they were dying.

“No, they said you’re fine,” Elwen responded.

Krishani shook himself out of the memory, walking past the cemetery. He stayed to the sidewalk and passed under the bridge, taking a left at the rotunda. His legs were shaky by the time he found Main Street. He passed the red bricked building with the pewter and gold sign out front reading “CITY HALL,” and the furniture store, a large window showing off a line of mattresses. Beside that was a weird boutique with bouquets of flowers and a black sandwich board sign out front, decorated with highlighters. He passed the blue mailbox and the handicapped parking meter and pulled his keys out of his shirt. He kept them on a plain black lanyard. He took the steps slowly, his mind wandering back to the girl. She was Kaliel but she wasn’t Kaliel. He realized he didn’t know her name. She didn’t answer when Mr. Weir continued through the list of names so he missed it. Regret washed through him, and part of him really wanted to know what she called herself. He hadn’t thought of asking, because when he first saw her it didn’t matter.

She would always be Kaliel to him.

He shoved his shoulder into the door after unlocking the sets of deadbolts. Elwen wasn’t there. Krishani crossed the floor and opened the fridge grabbing water. He contemplated sleeping away the afternoon but agitation snaked through him and he clomped down the hall in his boots and took the dagger off his bedside table. It was sheathed, and he fastened it to his belt in a swift move, buttoning the small leather clasp.

He clamored down the steps and emerged on Main Street, passing the bank, more boutiques, restaurants and an insurance place before he reached the water. He weaved through the streets until he was back in residential zones, passing a series of white houses characterized by peeling paint. His memory attacked him and he held back, forcing himself to focus on the cracked sidewalk, moss sprouting through the cement. He didn’t understand. She shied away from him, hid her face under her hair, and slumped in her seat. That wasn’t like the Kaliel he met at a waterfall almost ten thousand years ago. The thought made his chest clench, heavy feelings papering through him. He blinked, a flash of her ivory maiden’s gown behind his eyes. She used to be brave enough to swim with merfolk: innocent, curious, uninhibited. She wasn’t any of those things anymore. She was shy, timid, and nervous. He passed a few fast food restaurants and three motels before seeing the lumber yard and the Wal-Mart. The forest seemed to close in around the parking lot and Krishani headed across it, wanting to find a place that felt less like cannibalized society. Terra was never beautiful but it wasn’t covered in gaudy bright colors, steel, cement, and plastic. In the past hundred years he only occupied three human forms for longer than a few minutes and the vapid development of the land made his head whir with confusion. He wondered where all of this came from, when it seemed like only yesterday they were living in straw huts and cabins.

He followed the sidewalk until there wasn’t one and walked aimlessly down the gravel shoulder, cars passing him every few seconds. He glanced at the sky to check the time and estimated almost four. He crossed the street and passed a golf course. On the other side of the street was a thick steel railing, tall bushes, and triangular roofs of houses, a cove, and two docks stretching into the water, a blue motor boat floating beside one of them.

He was beginning to dislike Kenora with all of its lakes and marshes blending together. He wanted a good forest trail, something he could get lost in for a few hours before returning to the flat. He passed a large gray metal building, an obtuse triangular roof stretched across the top. He glanced behind him, nothing indicating what the building was for, only a few letters on the small square window on the door reading “Earl’s Garage.” He noticed a parking lot and a few boats in a harbor ahead. He crossed the street again, not caring if there was a trail or not, and crashed into the forest. A car rumbled by behind him and something made him turn and look. It was a gray Sundance, the driver behind the wheel a girl with long curly black hair. Krishani stopped at the top of a hill, and watched her from the cover of trees. She parked, went into Earl’s Garage. He couldn’t imagine why she might be there and so he waited, his hand on his dagger, until she emerged and disappeared in the harbor. Curiosity almost got the best of him but he turned, pushing ferns and skinny trunks out of the way as he made his way through the brush.