The Light Who Shines (13 page)

Bluebell Kildare: May 28, 2022, Red Ages

I’m awoken suddenly by my phone’s blaring
ringggg, ringggg!
I extend my arm and thump along the nightstand, searching blindly for the blasted
thing. After encountering what feels like my keys, a glass of water, and a
candle, I admit the necessity to open at least one eye. Squinting, I flip the
phone open and mumble, “Hola.”

“Blue?” Gambino says.

“What do you want?” I ask, not even attempting to hide my
irritation about the early morning phone call.

“Someone broke into the evidence locker, and the only
evidence box opened was the one for our case.”

This not only requires that both eyes be open but also that
I remove myself from my inclined position. Irritated at the necessity, I sit
up.

Gambino continues. “What is strange is that nothing was
taken.”

“They want the amulet,” I say unnecessarily. Of course we
both know that.

“Do you still have it?”

I weigh my answer and settle on, “Yes. It’s well hidden.”

“Good. Now listen, there was no sign of forced entry.”

“Hmm.” My interest is piqued. “Did you catch anything on
camera?”

My mind starts spinning through the magical capabilities
that would allow someone to steal something in a protected room without
breaking and entering. There are a number. Someone could locate the object and
dematerialize it. But nothing was missing. Someone could hypnotize the guard
and just enter. Someone could simply break in with skill and stop the cameras like
my coworker Xavier Ramsey does. Someone could also portal in and portal out. That
would fit with the rapid disappearance of the man under the truck and in my
alley.

“Negative. The cameras are located on the outside entrance
of the room. No one came in that way,” says Gambino, “and the exterior walls
are well warded. We don’t know what this is. It could be an inside job or
someone working some magic. Given the situation, if you’re sure your hiding
place is safe, it is probably best for you to hold on to it.”

“Wait, Gambino. How did you know someone had broken in?”

Gambino’s gruff voice answers, “The heat censors inside set
off an alarm. We know someone was in there, we just don’t know how they got
there or how they got out.”

“Well, at least we know it wasn’t a phantom. I’ll ask Jack
to file the paperwork to keep the evidence in our possession.” I breathe a sigh
of relief because I wouldn’t be able to give him the amulet anyway, given its
capabilities. Feeling somehow accomplished at avoiding that discussion, I move
on to the next topic of the day.

“By the way, I’m going to question the O’Connells this
morning.”

Gambino says, “Let me know if you find anything interesting,
and I’ll let you know if we get anything on the vehicle. Sorry to wake you so
early.”

“No problem,” I lie. “Thanks for calling,” I lie again.

I flip the phone closed and slide back down under the
covers, rolling over in their cozy warmth. Then I feel a weight dip the
mattress down toward the floor. I roll back over and glare at Varg, who is
looking at me hopefully.

“Okay, okay,” I say. “I’ll take you out.”

Reluctantly, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed to
start my day.

At seven o’clock sharp, I pull up to a curb in the
neighborhood of Talon’s Grasp in front of Jason’s father’s residence. Squinting
through the morning sun, I see a mundane, brick row house that looks about
right for a middle-aged, middle-income man who is still supporting a family in
another house. I imagine he’s no longer required to pay child support, but
Jason was almost eighteen, so that’s probably irrelevant.

As I exit my car, I close the door on Varg, who looks at me
unhappily as I leave him behind. The cool mountain air still hugs the earth
from the night before, so I know he won’t overheat in the small space of time
I’ll be away. As I walk up to Ian O’Connell’s townhome, I prime my sixth sense
to get a candid look at his feelings.

A man quickly answers the door wearing a pair of tan tweed
pants, loafers, and a light sweater. His face is unshaven, and his dark, thick
hair is rumpled. Bloodshot eyes framed in dark circles stare back at me. I
glance inside, but it is difficult to see beyond the wide shoulders blocking my
way. I deduce this is Mr. O’Connell because I feel huge gray waves of grief
flowing from the man.

“Mr. O’Connell?” I ask.

“Can I help you?”

I show him my ID. “I’m Inspector Kildare with the Supernatural
Homicide Investigation Unit. I know you’ve already answered some questions from
the Crimson Hollow Detectives, but do you mind if I ask you some questions as
well?”

Mr. O’Connell glances at my ID and twists his lips in a
bitter parody of a smile. “Yes, of course. It’s ironic how you police people
are all very interested in my boy now that he’s dead.” His voice is heavy with
anger and pain.

He waves me into a living room that is just beyond the entryway
and says in a resigned voice, “Well, come on in. I’ll tell you what I can.”

I step over the tile entry and into the sad living room. It’s
furnished bare bones with a blue plaid sofa that has seen some wear and a cheap
glass coffee table. A small, outdated television sits in the corner on a
spindle leg bookcase. It looks like he did his shopping at a resale store,
which is not unexpected given his situation. Aside from the eclectic décor, the
place is comfortably lived in and not overly messy.

We sit at opposite ends of the sofa, and I dive right in so
he doesn’t have a chance to prepare himself. Making sure that both my face and
my voice are laced with all the empathy I would feel toward a totally innocent
man, which he very well may be, I slowly and softly say, “Mr. O’Connell, first
of all, let me tell you how very sorry I am for the tragic circumstances under
which you lost your son.”

I see tears spring to Mr. O’Connell’s eyes before he turns his
face to swipe them away. The emotions I feel from him are still coming in very
loud waves. The strongest feeling is of huge loss and very deep grief. Tinges
of anger, guilt, and fear lace through the grief, and my job is to figure out
why.

Mr. O’Connell says, “Thank you, Inspector. You can call me
Ian.”

I look at him gently and ask, “Ian, do you know anything
about where your son was on April 28?”

By the way Ian is looking down at the carpet and furrowing
his brow, I can see he struggles with how to answer this. Guilt floats in the
air around him in accord with his averted eyes as he answers. “I’m sure you
heard that I’m separated from my wife.”

I say, “Yes, I’d heard that,” keeping my voice free from
judgment. I hope he is about to reveal the reason for his guilt.

He continues quietly with a faraway look in his sad eyes. “Unfortunately,
because I moved out, I wasn’t up to date with what Jason was doing on a
day-to-day basis. I was out of touch. The detectives have already confirmed he
was at school that day, and he just didn’t come home. They thought he had run
away, but Sandy and me, we didn’t believe it. I can’t say more than that.” His
voice falls off at the end of his answer, and he takes a deep breath.

I wonder if this is the source of his guilt: that he had
been out of touch with his son. It could be. In his eyes, he may have failed
Jason in his hour of need.

I ask, “Can you tell me what he usually did? Who his friends
were? Where he usually hung out?”

Ian sighs and focuses his gaze on the blank TV with another
blast of guilt permeating the air. The corners of his mouth turn down in a
frown. “Jason was a very serious boy. He kept to himself most of the time.
Maybe it was because of the magic stuff.” When Ian says the last, I feel a
spike of fear coming from him.

He continues. “He had a hard time making friends. The only person
he really hung out with was a boy named Tim Pulgowski. They would hang out
after school. I don’t know where they went. My wife always kept up with that
stuff.”

“Do you know Tim’s address?”

Ian looks at me directly now and says, “Sandy will have it.
Have you talked to her yet?” I feel suspicion coming from him now. I think he’s
fishing to see if he’s the only one being questioned.

“I will be speaking with her next.”

Ian nods, and his shoulders relax a little.

“Ian,” I say, “I know this has been very hard on you, but I
do need to ask. What brought on your separation from your wife?”

The force of the guilt is now so overwhelming I feel it
inside of me and have a desire to confess and beg forgiveness. However, I also
feel righteous indignation that I imagine keeps him immobilized. His face becomes
stiff as he tries to hide it, and he answers in a scratchy voice. “You know, my
wife is an Aberrant. She kept it hidden from me for almost twenty years. When I
found out that Jason had it too—” He says this like it is a disease. “—and my
wife had been lying to me all of those years, I just couldn’t deal with it.”

Sadness weaves heavily with the guilt now as he looks down
at his hands and continues. “I know a lot of people are prejudiced against Aberrants,
and I guess I’m one of them.” He says this like a confession.

My respect for Ian, previously practically nonexistent, goes
up a notch. It takes strength to recognize your weaknesses. It’s the first step
toward mending them.

Then a roll of violent rage rises up, and he looks directly
at me as he points his finger, punctuating every word. “You find the bastard
who did this! Whoever did it is a monster! I don’t care if it was prejudice or
not—no one should hurt a boy like that!”

Then tears start streaming out of his eyes, and I feel only
loss and grief. “Not my boy. Jason was a good boy. It wasn’t his fault he was an
Aberrant.”

Ian turns his head and tries to hold back his sobs in a manly
way. It is astounding how quickly his rage instantly melts under his profound
grief. He covers his mouth, and the sounds come out in short, heartrending bursts.
He tightens his neck and face, trying to stop it, but it refuses to be caged.
His grief is real and inconsolable.

I came here feeling so angry at him for his prejudice toward
his wife and his son. But now, I just feel pity. Still, I can’t leave without
addressing his prejudice. I should ignore it. It isn’t my job. But the idiocy
of it burns me up, and this man is the perfect example of how much harm it can
do. It destroyed his family as it destroyed mine.

So despite my better judgment, I put my hand on Ian’s
shoulder, which is still shaking from his sobs. I speak softly. “Ian, I know
you are very mad at your wife for hiding the fact that she was Gifted for almost
twenty years. I get that; anyone would. But remember that she loved a man for twenty
years even though she knew he would hate her if he found out she had a gift
that she couldn’t help having. She may have hidden it so she could stay with
you. If that is the case, she must have loved you very much. You may not
realize it, but a gift is a wonderful thing. It is called a gift for a reason.
Even so, she suppressed it to be with you. It sounds like the only thing that
would cause her to risk her relationship with you was her need to support your
son through his transition.”

Ian lifts his head from his hands and looks at me with wide
eyes. I see a small flicker of understanding in them before he turns his face
into his hands again and starts sobbing anew, unabashedly this time.

With that I stand and say, “Thank you, Ian. You have been
very helpful.”

I quietly let myself out while Ian continues to weep on the
sofa and waves of grief, sorrow, and regret curl around me and accompany me
through the doorway as if trying to escape.

Bluebell Kildare: May 28, 2022, Red Ages

I walk out of Ian’s house, and Varg is inexplicably waiting
for me on the stoop.

“Varg, did I leave a door open?”

I walk to the car and check. Nope, no open door. I look up
and down the street, and the only person I see about is an older lady with gray
hair tied up in a bun, dressed in a beige, ankle-length skirt and a pretty
floral blouse. She’s sitting on her front patio two townhouses down, enjoying a
beverage. She looks approachable enough, so I walk up to her.

“Hi, Ma’am, I’m sorry to bother you, but did you happen to
see anyone near my car?” I ask.

She replies in a snippy voice. “No. I didn’t, as a matter of
fact. I only saw that wolf of yours. I was scared out of my mind, by the way.
It almost gave me a heart attack when he suddenly appeared from the other side
of the car! Luckily he walked as quick as can be straight toward Ian’s door and
sat on the stoop like a well-trained circus animal. I watched him for a bit and
since he didn’t move, I didn’t move either.”

I frown at this. “Oh, I’m so sorry he scared you, Ma’am. I
left him in the car and was wondering if someone let him out. I wouldn’t have
just left him wandering. How long were you out here?”

She says in a slightly appeased tone, “Since you got here
and well before that.”

“And you are sure that you would have noticed if someone
walked up to the car?”

Now she snaps some very intelligent brown eyes at me and says,
“I’m old, not blind, Missy. Of course I would have noticed!”

I smile at this. “Of course. I just meant that perhaps you
had your head turned.”

“Humph!”

I smile wider. “Thank you so much, Ma’am. I really
appreciate it.”

Goodness, I love older people, I really do. It seems like
once you get to a certain age, you can just say exactly what’s on your mind.
How nice that must be!

Varg and I walk toward my car, and when we arrive I cock my
head and peer at him keenly. “Varg, did you open the door by yourself?”

Varg does his little happy dance, which looks completely
undignified on his predatory form. Then he jumps away with a yip and does it
again. Well, if he’s guilty, he’s certainly not at all contrite!

As we settle in the car, I contemplate my route from Ian’s
house to his estranged wife Sandy’s. Sandy’s house is located in the
neighborhood of Whispering Falls, a solid, middle class neighborhood with
excellent schools and low crime. Talon’s Grasp, where I am now, is a lower
middle class neighborhood, a little rough around the edges, but it has a lot of
character. The fastest route between the two is to go through Shroud Valley.

Shroud Valley is another story entirely. Officially, because
it is east of Crimson Hollow city boundaries, it’s policed by the Misty Rivers
unit. Unofficially, it is policed by no one.

Three large rivers, the Great Oak River, the Weeping Ash River,
and the White Thorn River, pour though the Misty Rivers mountainside, giving
the suburb its name. The three misty rivers flow into Shroud Valley, pooling deep
in its center where the mist condenses into a deep fog that billows out over
the valley. An odd crosscurrent blowing between the peaks of the surrounding
mountains keeps the fog from rising completely even on the hottest days.

Today is not the hottest day, but my schedule is full, and
I’m not above jaywalking through another unit’s territory when expedience
requires.

A few miles down the highway, I take a right onto Widow’s
Pass and promptly hug the center line. It’s the main thoroughfare around the lake,
traversing the rivers in a series of covered wooden bridges. The road is narrow
with steep grades and winding curves that are impossible to see around, making
it easy to guess the origin of its name. A few miles from the first bridge over
White Thorn River, a gentle mist covers the landscape, hanging in the crevices
of the mountainside and drifting over the trees. As I drive on, the mist
thickens until a full fog envelops the car in a white netherworld. I keep my
headlights low and reduce my speed to accommodate my limited vision.

I see the two main portal posts of the first covered bridge come
at me quickly, and suddenly the rough wooden floor of the bridge replaces the
smooth asphalt road. My world of white is transformed into a world of darkness.

I hold my hands like steel bands on the steering wheel to
prevent the unevenness of the wood planks from taking the wheels in an
undesired direction. The river is below me, but it’s a great distance beneath
and would be no comfort in the event of a fall. I drive steadily toward the
center of white in front of me, grateful as it expands larger and larger, until
all at once I am thrust back into the white abyss again. Something about being
on this side of the bridge always gives me an eerie feeling.

I flip the defogger switch to clear my view and soldier on.
The road dips down a steep grade bringing me deep into the heart of Shroud Valley.
I can see ghosts of houses along the mountainside, but the fog clinging densely
to the land makes their individual forms indistinguishable. From experience, I know
the homes are painted in vivid hues, but the whitewash covering them turns
their merry countenances into nothing more than pastel smears.

As I reach the bottom of the valley, the road levels and
straightens out a bit, giving me a chance to relax. The fog is even thicker
here, and my defoggers aren’t working well, so I resort to blasting the heat. Still
the fog condenses, and my only remaining option is to unroll the windows. I do
and am greatly relieved to see the white patches on the windshield diminish.

As the window clears, I see the fast approaching portal
posts for the second bridge spanning Weeping Ash River. This time I’m prepared,
and while my hands are still gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles,
inside I am much more at ease. I can see glimpses of white through the gaps in
the planks that cover the bridge as I travel through. My car makes the familiar
thumping sound on the wooden bridge, and I feel a sense of accomplishment as I approach
the exit, knowing I’ve survived yet another of Shroud’s dreaded bridges. I
glance down at my clock and see that I’m running later than I expected.

Just as I lift my eyes to the road again and breach the
tunnel exit, I see a pair of headlights aimed straight at me. Holy Mother! I
jerk the steering wheel quickly to the right in a desperate attempt to avoid
the car. My fear of hitting the car is immediately replaced by my terror at the
thought of going off the edge of the mountain. I straighten the wheel as the
car zooms right past me with the curve of the road. My car angles down off the
road and rides at a tilt on the soft shoulder. I apply my breaks to safely slow
the car down.

Thank goodness I survived that! With my white knuckles
gripping the wheel, I decide the angle of the shoulder isn’t unmasterable, so I
continue, looking over my left shoulder to merge back onto the road. Just then
I hear a piercing scream and terrified wail coming from an area of homes on the
right. What in the world?

Varg growls from the backseat, and I bring the car to a
gentle stop on the shoulder. I slip out of the driver’s side, and Varg jumps
over the seat to exit with me. His hackles are raised as he starts racing
toward the noise without encouragement. I take off after him, knowing full well
he’s a much better tracker than I. However, tracking becomes unnecessary as the
screams continue guiding our way.

I jog up a side road and through a small copse of trees,
trying to keep Varg in sight. As soon as I exit the shelter of the trees and
stand at the edge of a clearing, I see a woman screaming and clutching a small,
wailing baby in her arms. Something else on the ground by the woman writhes
around, and my heart stutters in fear.

Varg arrives on the scene in advance of me and positions
himself next to the screaming woman. I reach into the small slit of my leather belt
and pull out a clear glass vial. Then I approach quickly, knowing there isn’t
much time.

At about fifty feet away, I can clearly see the woman holds
a long wooden stick— oak, I hope. She wields it toward the slithering mess
before her.

Varg growls and snaps furiously as he seeks to herd it away
from the woman. At twenty paces away, I see what I had expected: a debilitated
Night-Crawler thrashing his prostrate body in attempt to squirm forward. I quickly
glance up, and though it‘s mid-morning, the fog is so thick here that no direct
sunlight touches the land. The woman clutches a diaper-clad infant, trying to
spear the pathetic remnants of the ruined Night-Crawler.

Once a Day-Walker has killed in bloodlust, the crazed,
soulless remains have a limited survival time depending on their original
strength. Some can last for decades while others last only days. If they are
not eliminated, their own irrationality will eventually do them in as their
crazed minds increasingly lose grip of reality. In their demented ways, they
end up doing reckless things like running in front of cars or crawling about in
midday in the fog. Though the sunlight isn’t direct, even the diffused power of
sun reflecting off of the billions of droplets forming the fog is enough to
slowly eat away at their flesh.

This creature’s mouth is hanging open, and his eyes are
bulging out as he is slowly devoured by the sunlight. His skin is melting and
sloughing off in places, and dark patches of burns and gaping holes litter his
naked body. His mostly bald head is covered in blisters with just a few strands
of long, stringy hair hanging on. The flesh is completely gone from the bottoms
of his feet, and only the gleaming bones help him propel his body. Still, with his
insatiable bloodlust, he continues creeping forward toward his prey.

The woman’s back is against a tree, and behind her ascends a
steep wall of mountain too difficult to climb with a baby in hand. She could
dart to either side and probably outrun the rotten lump of melting flesh advancing
through the mud toward her, but one look at her eyes tell me that she is
incapable of coherent thought at this moment. If her eyes didn’t tell me, then
the feeling of stark terror flowing from her in abundance and the piteous,
continual screams emerging from her throat certainly would.

I ready my vial of holy water, unstopping the cork and stepping
up to the creature. Varg’s hair is raised from his forehead to the tip of his
tail as he snarls savagely at the Night-Crawler.

As soon as I become the closest source of warm blood in his immediate
vicinity, he snaps his red, glowing eyes on me and pivots on his belly in my
direction.

Exactly what I’d hoped and dreaded.

I shout, “Come on, you slithering sack of putrid flesh! Come
and get it!”

He follows my voice and starts slithering toward me. I hope
I’m the only one who knows I’m wearing a false bravado because I am fully aware
that even in the throes of death, his grip, once on me, would be unbreakable.

I slowly back up, bringing him further from the terrorized
woman. Her screams have turned to soft whimpers now, and hoping that she has
regained some rationality, I call out to her. “When I say ‘run,’ I want you to
run toward the house as fast as you can!”

She looks up at me with seemingly blank eyes, but I see a
slight nod of her head.

“Be sure to hold on to the baby tight,” I shout.

Holy smokes! All I need is for her to drop the baby. The
horrible image of the bloodsucker ripping apart the baby sears my mind.

I have my finger over the opening in the vial now, careful
not to let the precious liquid spill onto the grass. I take a few more careful
steps back, and the putrid remnants of the Vampire follow me.

I look up at the woman and see she is watching intently.
Good.

“Run!” I yell.

The woman lifts up her skirt with one hand, clutches the
baby tight with the other, and runs toward the house.

The Night-Crawler snaps his head toward her, his attention
snared for the moment by her sudden movement. He gives a sickening hiss, and lifting
himself up on his elbows and knees starts rapidly moving in her direction.

Cripes! I run toward him, determined to reach him before he
gets her. Varg moves around him in a circle, snapping his fierce jaws and heading
him off. The Night-Crawler hisses his rage at Varg, saliva dripping down his own
fangs, then whips his body back in my direction.

His sudden turn brings me immediately within his grasp. He
sticks his slimy, rotting hands around my left leg, jerking me forward toward
his gaping maw. In the same moment that my brain shrieks with disgust, I
realize that his grasp has unbalanced me and I’m falling backward. I know full
well that reaching the ground at his level, regardless of how close his
eventual demise is, will result in certain death for me.

I uncover the vial and throw the holy water in his direction
mid-fall.

As my backside lands roughly on the hard, wet ground, I see
Varg fly through the air at the Night-Crawler and land on nothing but a puff of
vapor rising up from where he had lain. A small scattering of ash lies at my
feet. I push myself up and gather a handful of grass to wipe the muck from the Night-Crawler’s
scummy hands off my boot.

“Disgusting!”

Varg sniffs around the pile of ash, and looking satisfied,
he comes to my side, sticking his head beneath my hand.

“Good job, Varg!” I say. “If you hadn’t cut him off he might
have reached the poor woman.”

Looking up, I see her stumbling on her front steps,
desperately trying to get inside. I resolutely walk toward her, knowing that
she is in no state to be taking care of a baby right now.

By the time I reach the house, she’s fumbling ineffectively with
her door handle.

“Miss!” I say to get her attention.

She looks around wildly at me.