Shade City (13 page)

"You are strong," said Catriona, showing a mouth devoid of many teeth. "I can see that much. But do you know what makes that so?"

I thought about her question. The obvious answer was Violet. She had given me the insight to do what I did. She had instructed me. But even before I'd found her, back in Miami, I had the dreams. Violet had given me the knowledge. But did she give me the strength?

"Does it matter?" I asked, brushing off her point.

"It does. Even if you don't realize it, it does."

I looked down at the pocket watch and thought about Aster, clutching her father's possession. I thought about the violence she'd seen and wondered how far all of this had gone, and for what?

"I don't know if you know what happened to your brother's son," I started.

"Killed," she said. "That feisty wife of his went on a rampage."

I was surprised she had heard that much. The woman spoke of it with such a lack of remorse that it threw me. "Alexander didn't die," I corrected. "He's awake, and I think he's in trouble." I drilled into her eyes and saw a recognition there. "You said he was cursed. What did you mean by that? What's after him?"

The woman contemplated me severely. Her eyes shifted to a coldness I hadn't seen yet, and she laughed. It was a labored display but she enjoyed it. When she had enough, she leaned forward in her chair.

"They said I was wicked," she whispered in a scolding tone. "I heard the same about Livia. But that's not the truth. Livia did what I couldn't do. She did what I should have done!" I pulled away from the woman but she grabbed me with a hellish grip.

"Catriona," I said, "she killed a poor little girl."

"She saved the girl from my life," she insisted. "Don't you see, young man? Don't you understand what the curse is? Are you prepared to face the evil?"

I gritted my teeth and sat firm against her spitting voice. She was just an old lady.

"The women of the family were poor souls. They were always the victims, daughter and mother alike. It was my father Fingal who murdered my mother. It was he who spurned us by destroying our inheritance. My brother Finlay was a criminal yet my sentence was far worse. And Livia, she wasn't an evil woman. She was troubled, but she killed her girl to save her from Alexander. She tried to finish him off to end the tyranny of the men!"

I was affixed to my chair throughout her diatribe. Catriona was a lunatic, broken from years of institutionalization and tragedy, but her madness was not without merit. Of all people, I knew that well. What if what she said was true?

"Alexander's the evil?"

The old woman released me and leaned back in her chair. "Now you see," she said, a sense of fulfillment returning to her.

I had always assumed that Livia was the one that was taken. That she had slowly degenerated until she turned on her family. But... what if...

I stood up in an instant, knocking the plastic chair backwards. "He was fine when I saw him," I insisted. "Normal."

Catriona smiled. "The McAllisters are many things, young man, but never normal. The world will be a better place when we retire from it."

I shuddered at her words. "I'll get to the bottom of it."

"The bottom is a scary place. I have been there many times." Catriona shook her head. "I fear your visit is a sign that I might soon be there again." The woman lowered her gaze to the pocket watch in my hand. "It's been so many years..."

"No, Catriona." I knelt down and put my hand in hers. "You'll be fine." I left the pack of sage cigarettes in her palm and patted her on the back. "You'll be fine."

* * *

The walk back to the car was not a pleasant one. It had started drizzling, which only happens a few times a year in LA. Everybody in the city panics at the first sign of water. Nobody knows how to deal with it. Without exaggeration, I would likely see at least two accidents on the highway on the drive back.

My mood may have mirrored the weather, but it wasn't caused by it. Violet had been lying to me. I finally uncovered enough of her family history to understand what had gone wrong in her life. For some reason, she'd refused to tell me herself.

It wasn't until we were well on our way that I broke the silence.

"You should have said something."

I clicked the wiper lever to trigger a single manual swipe. The rain was slow enough that even the lowest intermittent setting was too often, and I hated the sound of the rubber blades squeaking against a dry windshield.

I sighed. "I know it must have been very tough for you, Violet. Just thinking about what must have been going through your head as your mother bashed open the closet door..."

I stopped talking. It was coming out wrong. I wanted to show her that I understood—that I was trying to understand—but recalling vivid imagery wasn't going to help things.

She began crying.

"Don't say that. She attacked your father first. She saw what was in him."

I just nodded. She was overwhelmed. I couldn't blame her. Catriona's testimony was tragic and heartfelt. It was a firsthand account of why I sacrificed my personal life to do what I did. What we did. Even if I had never thought about it like that before.

"It's okay, Violet. But you should have told me." I tried to sound as comforting as I could while also being instructive. The poor girl had probably never been taught right from wrong. "Livia wasn't taken. It was your father. She tried to kill all of you to keep you from the shade."

"I just need to know that you understand."

The patter of the raindrops on the glass picked up in intensity. I couldn't imagine what the girl thought of herself. Was she a victim, abandoned by her loved ones? Was she a runaway, striking out on her own? And where did that leave me? Was she afraid that I would leave her too?

"You and me, we should trust each other."

Violet didn't answer. We drove in silence and the traffic picked up. I was back in Los Angeles County, nearing the city. Most of the end-of-day congestion was headed north, but the weather was slowing the inbound lanes as well. I was just going to need to wait this out.

One day, Violet would come around.

 

 

 

It was day yet it was dark. The world a lucid blur. I was walking but, at the same time, floating. Everywhere, the softness of the world surrounded and prevented me from affixing a grip.

I was alone on the streets of Los Angeles again. Stone behemoths lined up like soldiers at attention, and I walked between their ranks as if I were a one-man parade. But there was no frivolity here; no applause or recognition would follow. These streets were mine alone, and I passed through the desolation without fanfare.

I knew where I was headed. There was only one place—one person—that I cared about saving. The muffled nothingness attempted to stifle me so I pressed harder against the ether and made my way to Bunker Hill.

Grand Avenue. I stood across the street from the St. Angelo Hotel, its arched tower pointed at the black above. The entire building almost appeared to shift on its sloped foundation.

The play of the dream was especially strong now. It was resilient as I was tenacious, and the world blended between sharp and soft, black and white. It was a struggle—there was no one here to help me this time—but somewhere in the gray I caught a handhold and forced my will upon this hell.

In an instant, as if it had been effortless, the Dead Side obeyed. It came into focus. Sounds separated from each other. Shadows solidified.

And there I was, standing in front of the hotel with a clear path up the steps and inside. Smiling, I wasted no time.

* * *

Violet was standing on the marble tile, her foot sliding in place on its polished surface. The girl's head hung down as she stared at the idle action. She was distraught. She didn't want to see me. She had probably thought that I didn't want to see her. But I was here.

"You can control it now," she said. "The focus."

I noticed the sharp red and black stripes of her dress, the white skull patch etched on her chest, the little buckles on her black combat boots. I had seen them before, even clearly, but that had been Violet's doing. She had pulled me in. This time it was me.

"I've had practice."

"A good teacher, you mean." She raised her head and brushed the purple-white hair from her face. The same color was in her eyes, eyebrows, lipstick, and even accented by her pitch black eyeliner. "I've been trying to help you," she said with quivering pupils. "To help people."

I smiled at the girl and nodded. I didn't know where I would be without her. Violet was conflicted and I didn't fully understand why, but I wanted to help.

"Like lonely streets," I said, "they're better walked with two."

The twelve-year-old girl turned away momentarily, overcome with emotion.

I waited patiently for her to say something. I had trouble myself, to be honest. I'd never known Violet to be someone that needed affection and approval. For too long I'd talked to the voice in the pocket watch without understanding the child behind it. I was twenty-four years old and a bachelor—what did I know of support?

"Whatever it is, Violet, it's okay."

I thought she wanted to tell me something. I examined the high walls of the lobby to give her time. Large, marble slabs encased us. A mirror with an intricate frame hung behind the reception desk. Its reflection of the room wiggled slightly. Just a minor shake, a reaction to an invisible tremor, then nothing.

Violet was still looking away, her attention on her past. But I was in the moment. Something was not right.

The floor trembled. Not visibly, but I felt it in my feet. The front door chattered on its hinges. And then the whole building started shaking.

I turned to the door. "Not again." It was Nero, no doubt. That fiend would not rest until it had dealt with me. I clenched my fist and waited. "Get out of here, Violet."

There was a faint feeling of air bristling against my face, as though the pressure outside was creeping in. Then, as before, the door flung open. The skeletal shade had returned.

"Death comes to all life," he hissed through black teeth, and entered.

Nero's haggard body looked more decrepit than the passage of a few days allowed. His orange hair had almost all fallen out, and one of his eyes had glazed over. His movement was more erratic and his legs and arms more emaciated. He was weakening, no doubt, but his ghostly power was still frightening.

I stood my ground to allow Violet's escape. I had controlled the world this time. Focused it to fit my needs. Maybe I could prevent Nero from suffocating me in his muddy grasp. As he approached, I summoned my courage, ready to meet his might.

"This needs to stop, Nero."

"Neros," he whispered in a raspy voice. "My name is Neros. And there is only one end to this."

I paused at his correction. Had he changed his name or had he always called himself Neros?

Before I mounted an offense, Violet charged out in front of me. I clutched at air as I tried to stop her. Too late. The shade that was Soren raised his cadaverous arms as the girl approached.

No. I wouldn't let her sacrifice herself.

Neros lunged, but the girl grabbed his chest and stopped him in his path. It was as if he jumped into a pane of glass. He wiggled, unable to move further. Enraged, he placed his clawed fingers around her neck.

"No!" I yelled, leaping forward. But Neros jerked as if he had touched a power line. He released his feeble grip and shook violently in the little girl's arms.

I stopped as I saw a warm glow overwhelm the fiend. His body became soft, his expression distant, his jaw lax. I watched in awe as the light became blinding and illuminated the room.

"Give me life," he stubbornly said.

And then I realized that this dilapidated shade wasn't a man anymore. Not physically, of course, but not in spirit either. It clung to life because it was the only thing that gave the fiend sensation. Even its name, Neros, was not a name at all. It was Soren spelled backwards. A sad imitation of something it desperately wanted to be.

"I..." said Neros, locked in radiance, "I'm scared..."

"You're free," said Violet, then the light was no more.

A peace overtook me, stunning my senses by depriving me of sight and sound. Then, slowly, the world faded in. The room was quiet again. Still. Violet and I were standing close to each other, same as before. Where Neros was, only a faint glow remained. An aura.

The warm luminescence pulsed in intensity and began to move. It floated by me like a jellyfish riding a smooth current. Eventually, it faded out completely.

"What did you do?" I asked Violet with reverence.

"Nothing you wouldn't have."

I didn't know what to say.

"Bravo, my dear," came a familiar voice from the open door.

Violet, one moment triumphant, suddenly turned around and looked panicked. "Father!"

I looked at the stoic figure on the threshold. It was a man in a fine suit with a black mustache and wavy black hair. In his left hand, held over his shoulder, was a walking stick with an alabaster rose.

"Son of a bitch."

"My proper name, Mr. Butcher, is Alexander Ambrose."

* * *

The well-dressed man glanced around and cleared his throat. "May I?" he asked, motioning himself inside. He made a show of cordially removing his top hat. When no one answered, he let himself in anyway, and the door fell closed behind him. Then his hat resumed its place on his head.

"Who are you?" I demanded.

A smirk crossed the man's face. "I have just told you, sir." He pushed past his daughter carelessly and approached me. Violet averted her gaze, trying not to call attention to herself.

"I mean, why are you here? What do you plan to do?"

"To lay my cards on the table," he answered. He lowered his wooden stick to the floor and the metal tip clicked on the tile. "Let's face it. You were on the verge of discovering me anyway."

"Livia recognized you," I said, narrowing my eyelids. "She attacked Alexander McAllister to defeat Alexander Ambrose."

"Ah," he said, frowning, "I see that you already have found me out." He clicked his tongue several times, as one might do to a child. "One step ahead of me."

"Tell me then," I said. "What do you want from me?"

"I've told you that shades can find those that poke into their affairs."

"But why did you save me from that fiend last time?"

"Bah," he said dismissively, "I doubt that I prevented any grievous damage. The fool was weak, as even my daughter has proved."

"Leave Violet out of this," I warned.

"Is that what she is calling herself these days?" The man turned his head partly to face the girl but she looked away. He chuckled. "Things in this world are not often what they seem."

I studied the calmly composed gentleman. He was the sort of person who exuded power so much that he didn't need to prove he had it. It was in the way he spoke, the way he dressed, and it was apparent in the casual attention he gave everything.

He locked eyes with me but spoke to Violet.

"Why are you helping this man, dear?"

The young girl fidgeted and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Oh come now," he demanded. "It has been six years since we've had the pleasure of speaking, and now you are mute?" The man turned to face her. "Why are you helping this man?"

"Because he's good," she answered indignantly. "Because I can."

The man laughed softly. "I notice you didn't affirm that you were good." The man was amused with himself.

"I'm better than you," muttered Violet.

I had never seen Alexander Ambrose get upset before. In the little time I'd known him, it was apparent it didn't happen often. But now, his cheeks flushed with anger and he set his jaw.

"How dare you!" he boomed. His voice carried a mystical reverberation that echoed off the high walls. Violet cringed at the sound. "You will not speak to your father that way."

"Hey!" I yelled, rapidly losing patience with the man for his cryptic arrival. "Leave her alone. She's just a little girl. Just another tragic victim of your careless meddling, like Sal and Livia." The man turned to me and I drew my face close to his. "She's not even your daughter, you twisted fuck. Aster was Alexander McAllister's daughter. She was killed because of you. And now a broken man woke up from a coma and found himself all alone."

Alexander Ambrose took a measured breath and regained his cool. The heat left his face and gave way to a faint smile. That smirk, that crooked smirk, widened—then broke out into a walloping laugh.

"Ha, ha, Mr. Butcher! So you are one step behind, after all."

I shot a puzzled look at the man and backed off. I didn't try to hide my confusion. I didn't try to play cool. I just wanted to know what the hell was going on.

"What are you talking about?"

The man beamed, amused by the proceedings. By my consternation. After a moment, he broke his silence. "What did I tell you about trusting shades?"

"What is he talking about, Violet?" I asked.

The girl lifted her head and tears were in her eyes. Lines of black eyeliner ran down her puffy cheeks.

"For starters," said Alexander, finally showing mercy, "her name is Viola Ambrose, and she was born in 1902."

I swallowed something wrong. I choked. It became difficult to breathe. But I could see in the girl's eyes that the man wasn't lying.

"You're not twelve," I said to her, each word a dagger. "You're a hundred and twelve."

* * *