Seduced by Lies (4 page)

Not a whit, we defy augury. There is special providence in

the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, 'tis not to come; if it be not to


come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come—the

readiness is all. Since no man, of aught he leaves, knows what is't

to leave betimes, let be.

— William Shakespeare, Hamlet

THE BARLEYS LIVED
near the forest where Jared had been killed. Curtis and I pulled up to their house, a small one-story with peeling paint and rotting wood. One shutter hung off its hinges, looking like it was about to fall off as a giant black spider scurried across it.

The sun beat down on us, and a trickle of sweat tickled the back of my neck as we waited on the porch for someone to answer the door. I turned to Curtis, whose body was tense. “You okay? We can leave if you want.”

He shook his head. “I need to do this. Thank you for coming.”

The door opened, and a stooped old woman with white hair, tinted blue, shuffled into view. “May I help you?”

“Mrs. Barley, it’s me—Curtis.”

He was more formal than I expected, but I held my tongue.  Curtis had told me that Jared’s grandparents had raised him after his own parents had died in a car accident.

Mrs. Barley’s milky blue eyes widened, the wrinkles lining her face crinkling into deep wedges as she gave a grimace that looked like an attempt at a smile. “Curtis, hello. It’s been too long.” She opened the screen door. “Come in, please.”

Curtis stepped aside to let me walk in first. “This is my friend, Rose. Rose, this is Jared’s grandmother, Mrs. Barley.”

I smiled and held out my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Her hand felt like a bird’s, so tiny and fragile.

The house smelled old and musty. It was clean enough, though quite run down. She gestured to the couch, a pale peach floral pattern so faded it looked stained. We sat as she called her husband down and disappeared into the kitchen.

Family photos and needlepoint pieces cluttered every surface and wall in the living room. I recognized Jared’s face from the news, and saw his progression from childhood to manhood spread out on the mantel over the fireplace.

Mrs. Barley returned a few minutes later with a tray of tea and cookies. “Here you are. Please help yourself.”

I wasn’t hungry, and the cookies didn’t look particularly fresh, but I took the tea to be polite. “Thank you.”

Curtis took a cup as well, as an older man stomped down the hall.

Mrs. Barley’s hand shook, and her smile didn’t reach her eyes when she looked at her husband. "You remember Curtis, dear?"

Mr. Barley grunted. "I remember he went to that school.” He faced Curtis, his eyes hard and voice gruff. “They let you out whenever you feel like it, boy?"

My new power opened up, and I could see into his heart, into the hearts of everyone in the room. His had darkness seeping out of it, anger and hate and pain boiling inside of him.

Mrs. Barley, whose heart was kind, but weak, held out her hand. "George, please—"

Curtis interrupted just as I was about to say something to put this old bastard in his place. "It's okay." He faced Mr. Barley. "The school is voluntary."

The old man’s lips curled around his teeth in a sneer. "They should change that."

Tension filled the room, and I released a strand of my power to calm everyone, despite my own anger and raised pulse.

Mrs. Barley handed her husband a cup of tea. "George, he's here to talk about Jared." At the mention of his name, tears fell from her eyes and her breathing hitched on her sobs. I could see the grief pouring out of her, nearly suffocating Curtis.

He put his cup down and looked at Jared’s grandparents. “Do you know anything beyond what they’re reporting in the news? What happened to him?”

The tears continued to fall as Mrs. Barley spoke. “The police said it was an animal attack. A wolf, it looked like.”

George laughed a humorless laugh. “That’s a crock of horse shit, Delores.” He pointed to Curtis. “We all know it was one of your kind. Don’t pretend it’s not.”

Our kind?
Who the hell did this guy think he was? I was about to argue with him, but Curtis put a hand on mine. We stared at each other, and even though I couldn’t read minds like Sam, I knew he wanted me to back off, to not start a confrontation. I took a breath and relaxed my body, channeling my power to calm myself this time. I was here for him, not my own agenda. I needed to let him set the tone of this meeting.

Still, George pissed me off. It was because of people like him that we all had to live in fear and secrecy. He was the reason our kids were in danger from the world, and I hated it.

Curtis, with more calm then I could have mustered, asked, "Why do you think it's a paranormal?"

"I heard about him hanging out with some of your kind,” George said, spitting the words
your kind
at us like a vulgarity. "It's not his fault, though, I told people that. They tricked him somehow. Used some powers on him. And now…" His voice halted, sadness gripping him. "Now he's dead."

"Do you know who he was hanging out with?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Some kids, I don't know. I told him not to see them again. But they made him, somehow."

The pieces fell together, forming a picture of what had really been going on with Jared before he died.

Curtis leaned forward. "I know about Jared, about his… special gifts."

George’s bushy eyebrow shot up as his face shut down. "What?” His voice escalated into a shout. “What are you implying? Are—"

"George," Delores put a hand on George’s arm. "It's time to stop lying about him."

"Lying?” He shrugged his wife’s hand off his arm. “I've told them the truth."

And I didn’t have to be Lucy, the human lie detector, to know he was telling a fat one.

Delores turned to face us. "There were times when water in the house would boil for no reason. In the bath, in the pots…"

"I just left the stove on," George grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest.

"And your burn?" Delores asked.

His eyes dropped to a faded scar on his arm. "My boy had nothing to do with that. The water heater was acting up, and I turned the bath water on too hot."

"Your grandson was a paranormal,” Curtis said it as a statement, not a question. “Likely, that's why he started hanging out with others. I don't think they're responsible—"

George stood, knocking his tea over as he bumped the table. "My boy was normal. How dare you!" His body shook with anger.

Delores wiped up the tea. "George, please.”

"Be quiet,” he shouted at his wife. Then he turned on us, raising his arm and pointing to the front door. "Get out of my house, now!"

Delores stood, wiping her hands on a napkin. "No, you don't have to go.”

Curtis smiled at the old woman. "It's fine. We need to get going anyways."

I followed him out of the house and to the car. As I pulled out the keys and started the engine, Curtis hung his head and cried.

"I should have helped him get away from these people," he said, his voice thick with tears. "They’ve always hated what he was. Well, George did, and Delores was always too weak to stand up to him, even for her own grandson."

I thought of my family, of my father—or the man who I’d thought was my father—who bent to the will of my mother, to the point that she almost killed me for more power. I understood his anger. "It's okay. You did your best."

"Did I?" Curtis asked. "He made me promise not to tell. But I could have done more, talked to him about it more. All these other kids I've helped, and I couldn't do anything to make my own cousin's life easier."

I'd never thought about it much, that underage students would need permission to join our school, and many parents weren't ready or willing to acknowledge their child's para-powers. "This is what you've been fighting, isn't it? Not just connecting with the kids and helping them transition, but working with families who refuse to see the truth." My respect for Curtis increased ten-fold in that moment.

He nodded. "It's the hardest part of my job, especially when a kid is so eager to be with others like him or her. Most families aren't bad. They're just scared. Scared that if people or governments start targeting paranormals, their child will get caught in the middle. It's a valid fear, too. By coming to our school, they're outing themselves, and I know what it feels like to come out of the closet, in all ways."

He chuckled at his own joke, but I knew it hadn't been easy for him. In some ways, being a young gay man was still more sensational than being a paranormal, and I shuddered to think what that said about our society.

"Did you ever regret coming out, either as a paranormal or as gay?" I asked.

His blue eyes stared into mine. "Sure. I'd be lying if I didn't say it was hard sometimes. I went from being the bully to being bullied when some kids found out I was gay. And I didn't grow up at Rent-A-Kid like many of my friends, always knowing who I was, always having a place where I was 'normal.' Not that they didn't have their own pain and terror, but I had to hide who I was for most of my life, living a lie about my sexuality and my powers. When I heard about this school, it was like a haven for someone like me. Still, it took time to admit to people, to admit to even myself, that I was also gay. It was like being a freak in every possible way there was, and I hated myself for a while."

I put a hand on his, sharing my power with him, showing him a reflection of what I saw in his soul. "You know, it doesn't matter whether you're gay or not, whether you have powers or not, I can see into your heart, and it is beautiful. And the work you do to help these kids, that is something no one else could do. You've lived it. You know what it's like, what they're going through. It's what makes you the perfect person to help them."

He sighed, his shoulders slumping. "I hope so. But, Rose, what if I'm the reason these kids were targeted? What if I'm the reason my cousin is now dead?"

Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounc'd it to you,


trippingly on the tongue; but if you mouth it, as many of our


players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines.

— William Shakespeare, Hamlet

THE SCHOOL ERUPTED
in a flurry of excitement when a dark sedan drove up to the mansion and a Bishop stepped out of it.

Father Patrick always dressed casually for a priest, in black slacks and a black shirt with the priest collar, and simple crucifix hanging from his neck.

The Bishop who descended on us didn’t know the meaning of understated. He wore a black wool cassock trimmed in black silk, a purple silk sash with fringes, an elaborate gold cross studded in jewels, a purple silk skullcap with crimson lining and gold ring with a blood-red ruby the size of a small egg on his finger.

Looking past the pompous clothing, the man underneath wasn’t particularly remarkable. Medium build, dark hair, brown eyes, mid-50s but fit—a very average-looking man.

His assistant was dressed like Father Patrick minus the priest’s collar, but stood tense, as if ready to respond to a threat at any moment. After years of super strength and too many fights to count, I could spot that energy in others even without my new empathic abilities. He was younger, closer to my age or maybe a few years older, somewhere in his mid-20s, with a face hardened by life.

Looking at him took me back to my days on the street, hustling for a drug that would return my powers to me while Sam dealt with her pregnancy alone. I wasn’t that man anymore. I’d changed and she’d forgiven me, but I’d never forget what I’d done.

My instincts hummed with warning as I took in our visitors, but the emotions emanating from them both were calm enough. They were curious and tired from their journey. I caught Sam’s eye as the strangers were greeted by Father Patrick. Could she read their minds? See their intentions?

She frowned and her voice filled my mind.
They’re not thinking anything specific. Mostly images of their drive. They’re tired from their trip.

Sam had always been able to read minds, and she learned how to speak mind to mind with people when she and I first met telepathically while she was a student at Rent-A-Kid.
Can you dig deeper? Find out their intentions?
I asked.

Her face went blank as she focused inward. After a few moments she sighed internally.
They're wondering if they'll get any food.

That's it?

Sorry. They're just very present-minded people. I've met a few before.

Father Patrick greeted the Bishop with a handshake. “Your Excellency, welcome to our humble school.” He turned to introduce everyone. “This is Bishop Alaric Sarlo, and his associate…” He paused, waiting for the Bishop to supply a name.

“Ryder Conway,” the Bishop said curtly. His face was stuck in a perpetual frown, as if life were a constant disappointment. Waves of judgment rolled off of him as he examined each of us. When he came to me, his eyes widened a fraction, then narrowed before moving on to pass judgment on Sam and a group of kids who’d just gotten out of their physical education class.

Father Patrick ushered Bishop Sarlo and Ryder into the large study and offered them seats. Sam and I sat on a loveseat while they sat on the couch.

Father Patrick served everyone tea, then settled into his leather chair, ready to get down to business. “Why did they send you here, Bishop Alaric?”

The Bishop looked at Sam and me, clearly waiting for us to leave or vanish. When we didn’t, he looked back at Father Patrick. “Is there somewhere we can talk privately?”

Father Patrick sipped his tea and smiled, looking to everyone else like a man calm and in charge, but I could feel his frayed nerves. “You can speak freely in front of them. They help run this school.”

Ryder sat forward on the couch, ignoring his tea and food, his jaw set in a hard line and shoulders tense. The Bishop placed a hand on his arm and Ryder sat back, feigning a more relaxed pose. “This property belongs to the Church,” Bishop Sarlo said.

No. Father Patrick had warned me of this. But how could they own the mansion?

“This is my property, not the Church’s,” Father Patrick replied.

Setting his tea down, the Bishop leaned forward. “You received this property from Father O’Henry when he died, but he wasn’t at liberty to give it to you, as you well know. He owed this to the Church, and we intend to maintain control. Do not fight us on this, Father Patrick. You won’t like what happens if you do.”

The threat hung in the air, and though I had no idea what the Church could do to Father Patrick, I could tell from his emotional response that the Bishop’s words carried weight.

"I've never fought you," said Father Patrick.

Bishop Sarlo leaned back and picked up his tea, sipping it. "You've withheld information about this place."

"I gave as much information as I felt was necessary. I’m not running this school. I’m just assisting in the development here. You’ll meet Professor Shaw later. He had another meeting to attend to. You got here earlier than we were expecting. He’s the Headmaster here.”

"Not anymore." Bishop Sarlo grinned. "This situation falls into our jurisdiction. We need make sure it’s handled appropriately. The Pope wasn’t happy with how much was leaked to the press about these paranormals, and he's aware of your reputation. He sent me here to make sure nothing else goes wrong.”

Father Patrick shifted on his seat, his face aging even as we talked. “Are you here to close down the school and reclaim the land for yourself?”

Sam squeezed my hand, her anxiety flooding me.

Bishop Sarlo laughed. “You have always been such a doomsayer. No, I’m not here to close it. I’m here to run the school with you. That way, the students get to keep their teacher, and the Church has someone more loyal in control.”

An uncomfortable silence filled the room. I wanted to protest, but I didn’t think anything I could say would have a positive effect right now.

Ryder broke the silence by asking me about myself. “What sort of powers do you have?”

We still weren’t used to speaking of our powers with outsiders, and this guy definitely counted as an outsider. I almost refused to answer when Father Patrick nodded. “You can answer, Drake.”

“I’m an empath. I can sense emotion in others.” I didn’t mention my ability to see the future, as haphazard as it still was. Only a few close friends knew, and I wasn’t about to let these people in on my secret. A secret too easily abused.

Ryder cocked his head, his blue eyes probing me. “Is that all?”

I wondered why he seemed suspicious, but I nodded sharply. “Yes. Sorry to disappoint.”

He raised an eyebrow, looking as if he wanted to ask more, but then fell silent.

Derek stormed into the room, a barely contained urgency in him, but paused when he sensed the tension. “I have news on the investigation, but it can wait until our guests leave.”

Father Patrick introduced Derek, and Ryder glared at him in much the way he’d glared at me. Perhaps he recognized that Derek and I were both skilled fighters, not to mention paranormals. He probably hadn’t spent a lot of time with our kind and didn’t like the idea of us being strong physically as well.

Bishop Sarlo frowned. “What investigation might this be?”

Before Derek could speak and antagonize the Bishop any further, Father Patrick stood. “Bishop Sarlo will be joining our school at the behest of the Pope. You may speak openly in front of him. He could be beneficial in helping us solve the mystery we are faced with now.”

And so Derek reluctantly filled our guests in on what had been happening to date, then revealed his latest find. “The news was right, it does look like a wolf attack. But, something’s not right. I didn’t smell wolf, only human, even when I followed the tracks. And the tracks changed as well. As if the wolf started walking on two legs.”

“Was it another shifter?” I asked.

Derek shook his head. “No, I would have smelled another shifter.”

Ryder stared at Bishop Sarlo, his eyes hard. “A lycan?”

The Bishop furled his eyebrows. "Perhaps."

“A lycan?” I asked. “As in lycanthrope? As in… werewolf? Are those even real?”

Sam, Derek and I all had similar reactions of shock, but the other three men in the room didn’t feel surprised at all.

Father Patrick pursed his lips, ignoring my comment. "What would a lycanthrope be doing here?"

"I don't know," Ryder said. "But we’ll find out."

Derek started nodding. "That's why I couldn't smell a shifter. I’d of course heard myths of werewolves growing up, but we never believed they existed."

Father Patrick frowned, still distant. “This isn’t typical behavior for them.” He looked at the Bishop, his voice controlled but firm. "You and your people had better deal with this.”

"We will.” Bishop Sarlo stood, with Ryder following. "We will return in a few days with our belongings."

My own anger finally boiled to the top, at least I thought it was my own. I was still learning to separate other people’s energy from my own, and there was enough anger, fear and anxiety in the room to make anyone lose their cool. I pushed to my feet and faced the intruders. “You can’t just come in here and take over. You can’t control us.”

Ryder stepped in front of me, a foot taller than me. Few people were able to tower over me in this way. “You’d better hope you’re wrong about that. Because if you can’t be controlled, you’ll be destroyed.”

Derek and I could have taken them and ended this right then, but Father Patrick gave us that look he has, and we both reined our emotions in as the Bishop and Ryder left, shutting the door behind them.

The tension in the room deflated, but the anger still filled me. I spun on Father Patrick. “You’re just going to let them take control like that? Threaten us like that?”

"Of course not," Father Patrick said. "But we must tread carefully. They are very powerful."

Derek laughed without humor. "More powerful than us?"

Father Patrick nodded. "Lycans," he said, his voice low, "are all leaders in the Catholic Church."