The Light Who Shines (5 page)

Father O’Brennen asks, “Did you know you were with them that
day?”

“No,” I murmur. I’m almost beyond surprise at this point. I
suppose I might be in a bit of shock.

He continues with his tale—my tale, really. “You were barely
three years old and wrapped in a carrier on your mother’s back. It was very
cold that night, so she had thrown a blanket over your head. Your father had
been caring for an elderly woman, and because of her age, your mother accompanied
him. So there you all were, walking home late at night through an alley. When
the Dark Vampires attacked your parents, they pushed your parents against some
buildings in the alley. Your mother landed in a corner where two buildings
joined, so you were protected from the impact. Your parents were dead in
seconds, but the corner you were wedged in kept you out of sight for a moment.
A Daylight Vampire who was hunting these Dark Vampires that night came upon the
alley just as the Dark Vampires were feeding on your parents. You started
crying, and one of the Dark Vampires stopped his feeding, pulled your mother
away from the corner, and uncovered you.

“The Daylight Vampire had just approached and was about to intercede
when the entire alley filled with a bright light. The Dark Vampires shrunk from
the light, and their skin sizzled and burned black as though touched by the
sun. They tried to run away, but the one who had killed your mother was too
close to the light and instantly turned to ash. The Daylight Vampire picked you
up and brought you to me.”

Father O’Brennen pauses for a moment and then drops the real
bomb. “He told me that the bright light that drove the Dark Vampires off and
killed one of them was emanating from inside of you.”

I am astounded. I peer at him sharply to assess his
truthfulness before remembering who he is. The tale is just so outrageous that I
can hardly believe it.

He forges on. “The light coming from you burnt the Dark
Vampires like they burn when they touch holy ground or when they’re exposed to
the sun. When Daylight Vampires give into bloodlust and become Dark Vampires,
Lilith calls their soul to her, and their bodies are simply unholy shells of
who they were. Lilith operates them like puppets filled with the endless need
for blood and death. Since all good is gone from them and only evil remains,
they cannot stand the touch of that which is pure, good, and holy. Your gift forced
them back and even killed one of them. So I believe that your gift must be a gift
from God.”

“You think my aura holds my gift? And that’s what hurt and
killed the Dark Vampires?”

Father O’Brennen says, “I don’t believe that an aura is just
some miscellaneous light wavering on the outside of your skin, Bluebell. I
believe that an aura is the part of your soul that extends beyond the
boundaries of your skin. I believe the light from your soul hurt and killed
them.”

I stand now and pace the kitchen in front of the window. So
many thoughts are swirling in my mind. “But what of this Daylight Vampire who
saved me? He wasn’t burned. So then it follows that Daylight Vampires aren’t
evil, right?”

Father O’Brennen answers as though he has pondered this very
question for untold hours. “My heart tells me no. I believe that Lilith has her
mark on Daylight Vampires to entice them to do evil and give into their
bloodlust. I don’t think that the Father will allow her to truly claim them
until they actually do evil. Like all creatures that still have souls, they
have the will to choose. It’s more difficult for them, and it takes more
willpower, certainly. They can drink blood from people in a humane way by
keeping their bloodlust under control and getting consent. I don’t believe it
is a sin when the blood is freely given. After all, they require sustenance
just as you and I do. It’s when they give into their bloodlust by killing
during the process that they do evil. When they do give in to their bloodlust,
they are choosing their path, just like you can choose your path and you could
do evil or I could do evil.”

I respond heatedly, “Well, it’s clearly unfair that they
can’t die without Lilith claiming them. They have no chance to go to the Plane
of Light. Their only choices are to live here endlessly, denying their bloodlust,
or to give in and go to the Plane of Fire. They have to be good for so much
longer than we do with so much greater temptation!”

Father O’Brennen affirms my feelings. “I know,” he says. “I
don’t have all the answers, Bluebell. I wish I did. Just remember that as long
as Daylight Vampires are able to walk in the sun, they’re defying Lilith’s
enticement, so in my opinion, all Daylight Vampires are to be respected in that
regard.”

Just when I feel good and angry at Father O’Brennen again
for representing a God who gives inequitable graces, he goes and says something
that makes me see him as human and fallible and wise all at the same time. I
feel shame for my outburst now, and I think about what he said as I help him
clean up our plates.

As I bid him goodnight, I swallow back the heavy emotion I
feel thickening my voice and glistening in my eyes. “Thank you, Father
O’Brennen. Tonight you gave me more knowledge about my parents and my own
history than I’ve ever had before.” He smiles at me and grips my forearms in a
warm embrace. I turn and walk the short way home.

Bluebell Kildare: May 27, 2022, Red Ages

I draw back the lilac shower curtain that surrounds my clawfoot
tub and step out onto yesterday’s towel. Nuns aren’t exactly big on vanity, so
I’m grateful they installed a mirror when they renovated the space. I take the
corner of the towel I’m wearing and wipe the fog off the gold baroque mirror to
brush my teeth. My teeth are smallish and straight, and I like to keep them a
nice, bright white. My face is framed with dark brown hair that looks black
when damp except for the one-inch wide blue lock that hangs from my forehead.
It’s a pale blue, almost like a tinted white. When I was young, I tried to dye
it dark brown like the rest of my hair, but the color wouldn’t take. It
remained stubbornly blue. Sigh. At least it matches my eyes.

My eyes are vivid blue, the color of bluebells, or so I’ve
been told. I always thought that was why I was named Bluebell, not because I
turned blue when I died at birth.

As I assess my reflection, the bathroom light flashes on and
off and on again. I hear a roll of thunder and wonder if the apartment will
lose power today. A good storm is brewing. I shake off my ruefulness and decide
to stick with the original story of my name. I glance at the birthmark on my
shoulder in the mirror and release a deep sigh as I turn away. On my way to the
bedroom, I peek out at the terrace and see an ominously dark sky dropping
sheets of rain. Well, it’s going to be a dreary day.

I enter my bedroom to dress. Calling it a “room” is perhaps
giving it grander airs than it deserves. It’s more of a three-walled nook or an
alcove for the bed. Sheer curtains do their best to separate it from the living
room. It does have a nice, long closet running the length of one wall, which I
barely fill with my meager wardrobe. My apartment is small, but it’s decorated nicely
in bright jewel tones, and it’s my first real home.

Sitting on the edge of the comforter, I start rubbing a
mixture of coconut oil, lavender, and mint on my skin. I rarely wear make-up,
so this is the whole of my beauty routine. My phone, which is still sitting on
my nightstand, interrupts my calm with an annoying ring. I give it the evil
eye, but it ignores me completely and keeps on ringing. I answer it begrudgingly
with my oil-free left hand.

“Hello?”

“Blue? This is Jack.” His deep voice washes through me with
all the richness of a fine brandy.

“Jack, I know it’s you, on account of the fact that the
phone says ‘Jack’ when you call. Plus now that I’ve been working for you for two
years, I can finally remember the sound of your voice,” I tease.

How nice of him to use the phone instead of the chimerator
at this hour of the morning. Then again, maybe he thinks I look hideous before
I’ve readied for work.

“Blue,” Jack growls in warning, his voice becoming
impossibly deeper, making my insides thrill at the tone.

“Sorry,” I apologize, trying to suppress the image of his
strong body from rising in my mind, “but you called me early. What can I help
you with?” I suddenly notice that my right hand has begun to sensually massage the
oil into my thigh. I shake my hand as if to erase the action. Bad hand! Oil and
the sound of Jack’s voice do not mix.

“The M.E. is ready to give his preliminary report,” Jack
says.

Suddenly my mood is brighter and I’m able to focus. “Great!
I’ll head down there first thing. Actually, I’m glad you called. After the
forensics team left yesterday, I found a piece of evidence at the scene. It’s
an amulet with some sort of magical capabilities. I’ll hand it over to Gambino
as soon as I can. The amulet has a piece of dark red thread caught in the clasp
that matches a thread snagged on the boy’s fingernail. I checked with the
bartender at the Cock and Bull Tap, and a guy wearing a cloak of the same color
had just left as I entered.”

Jack says, “Really?”

“Really, and that is not all.” I relate to Jack the events
that followed after I left the bar, and to say he is unhappy would be a gross
understatement. As I finish the tale, Jack’s voice is thunderous.

“Why didn’t you send an alert to me? Why am I only finding
out about this now?”

“Jack, you didn’t know any of the details of the case, and I
knew Gambino couldn’t have gotten far. He was only gone five minutes.”

Jack orders, “Next time, send an alert! Absolutely no
excuses! Your safety is my responsibility, not Gambino’s!”

I give Jack the only response I can possibly give. “Yes,
Jack.”

Jack is not finished yet. “Let me say this in a way that is
absolutely clear. Anytime, ever, that you are shot at, the moment that you have
cover, if not before, you
must
push the alert on your chimerator. Is
that clear?”

I swallow dryly. I know he’s right. “Yes, Jack,” I repeat.

“Okay,” Jack says gruffly. “See what the M.E. has to say,
and we’ll speak when you get into the office.” He hangs up abruptly.

He really should learn how to properly end a call, but this
is probably not the time to tell him so.

I finish my modest beauty routine, comb my hair, and rifle
through my dresser for some fresh underwear. I select a pair of bright fuchsia,
French cut panties and a matching push-up bra, both decorated with tiny, black
satin bows. I look at myself in the mirror and approve. My body is slim and
long with modest curves, but curves enough. Maybe one day someone besides me will
appreciate my lingerie. I frown at this thought as I hide my treasures with
dark blue, straight leg jeans and a crew neck tee with a gray tone camouflage
pattern. My outfit is finished off with boots, a black leather underbust vest,
my gray pageboy cap, and, of course, my Glock and holster. My work clothes are
dismally boring with the only exciting part remaining my secret.

I grab an umbrella and bolt out the door. My boot heels click
down three flights of stairs, reminding me I need to replace them with rubber
soles. As I reach the marble tiled entryway, I’m stalled by a yellow sign
blocking the door. “Caution! Wet paint,” it warns. Shoot, I have no time for
this. I fly down the hall and out the back alley door.

Not more than a few steps into the alley, I feel a presence
behind me. As I whip my head around, I feel an iron clasp on my arm. I’m jerked
backwards into the chest of a man. I catch just a glimpse of a black mask with
two narrow eyeholes.

I jerk my body forward in protest with my other hand
reaching in back for my gun. A man’s voice scornfully laughs “too late” as he tosses
my gun on the ground in front of me.

I push violently backwards, then quickly pull forward,
trying to break free from his grasp, but the cold edge of a blade at my neck stops
me.

“Be very still and very quiet, or I might enjoy myself too
much,” a voice hisses in my ear.

I immediately still my body, but my mind is racing. His left
arm tightens across my chest like an iron band, keeping my arms still at my
sides. Rain pours down on us, but I hardly feel it. I glance to the left and
see he’s pulled me back into a corner so we can’t be seen from the street. To
the right is the long alley, blocked on either side by a tall row of brick
buildings. That way lies disaster. If I am to get free, I must go left toward
the street.

I quickly assess my options. With my gun lying useless on
the ground and my arms restrained, I have only my mind and my gift to aid me.

I push out my sixth sense and physically flinch away as I
feel the evilness of his soul, but the sharp prick of the knife slicing into
the skin of my neck stops my forward movement. A small stream of blood trickles
down my neck, intermingling with the rain. Lightning flashes, followed by the
low rumble of thunder. I can feel that the man is high with excitement, enjoying
his power over me.

I whisper, “You don’t want to do this. I am a Homicide Inspector
with the Supernatural Investigation Bureau. If you harm me, trust me, you will
be hunted down.”

I feel for his response, but the fear and surprise that I
expect to rise up in him are woefully missing. He knows with certainty exactly
who I am. My dread increases. This is no random attack.

He chuckles. “Oh yes, I want to do this very bad, in fact,
but you know what they say: business before pleasure.” The sick, seductive tone
of his voice makes me cringe. He digs his fingers into my arm and demands, “Yesterday
you investigated the scene of a crime. Tell me what you found, and then I’ll
let you go.”

Those are his words, but the malice I feel from him belies
those words. He has no intention of letting me go.

He presses the edge of the knife in a little harder. I feel
my heart stutter as visions of his gruesome work on the boy’s body rise in my
mind. I know exactly what he is capable of. I blink to flush away the vision,
and out of the corner of my eye I see a flicker of movement in the shadows of
the alley. Does he have a cohort? Or is it someone who might help me? Best to
keep talking until the hidden is revealed.

I know the man is referring to the amulet, so I purposely
avoid giving him this information. I whisper, “We found the body of a boy who
had been hit by a car and damaged severely. Was that your handiwork?”

A sneering voice responds, “Yes, you are a genius. So clever...”

I see shifting in the shadows along the buildings closer to
me now. Whoever is there is trying to stay hidden, and the overcast sky is
helping. If the man gets distracted, I could grab hold of his knife arm and
twist it or get out of his grasp and run. I could wrench away and use my
umbrella as a weapon. I feel my hands trembling at my sides with the force of
my desire to fight. It’s almost unbearable to just stand here waiting at the
mercy of a man who has none.

I need to discern if the third party in this alley is friend
or foe. I push my senses out, trying to penetrate the gloomy alley in the
direction of the flitting shadow. I feel a wild, predatory rage coming from
that direction. It feels both savage and extremely focused. Suddenly, I’m unsure
of an imminent rescue and wonder if something more dangerous comes that way. I
could alert my abductor to the danger and perhaps get free, or I could bide my
time and hope to get away when the distraction arrives. Beads of sweat form
around my hairline, blending with the rain as I war with my options.

The masked man digs his nails cruelly into my arm, and I
realize I missed something he just said. He repeats himself. “What of the amulet?”

I lie, “I didn’t find an amulet.”

He hisses and jerks me farther back into the corner. “I
don’t believe you.”

Just then, I see the shadow separate from the side of the
building and shoot into the air right at us. The masked man sees it as well,
and his grip on my arms relaxes. I feel the knife blade back away from my neck
just a smidge. I lift my left hand to grab on to his forearm, pushing with all
my might to further the distance between my skin and the knife blade while
swinging my right arm back and ramming the metal point of my umbrella into what
I hope is his gut. Letting go of the umbrella, I bring my right arm up to push
his knife away. I feel him recoil from the umbrella impact. I twist my body
away, gripping his forearm with both hands, then let go and spin out of reach.

Time seems to move in slow motion, and the creature from the
shadows appears suspended in the air over us. I see long claws and huge, gleaming
fangs in a gaping, hungry mouth. The masked man brings the knife up to defend
himself against the new threat. I see the glowing green eyes of the creature
and hear a vicious snarl as its fangs wrap around the man’s knife arm.

I am all but forgotten, so I turn, running toward my gun on
the opposite side of the alley. When it’s safely in my hand, I pivot, turning
it on the man–only he seems to have disappeared into thin air, leaving the creature
to snap and snarl savagely at the empty space where he had been. Now that the
creature has four clawed paws on the ground, I see that he is in fact an
enormous gray wolf, and blood is seeping out of his side.

I can’t believe I was just saved by a wolf! He seems to
sense me watching and lifts his keen eyes to me. I curse my stupidity for
staying around and aim my Glock at him instead. I start backing up slowly
toward the street again, not wanting to shoot, but the wolf starts running
toward me at full speed. I should shoot him, really, I should. He just ripped
into a man’s arm—but he also saved my life.

My hands, aiming the gun straight ahead at the wolf, shake
at the force of my indecision. Before I can make up my mind, the wolf has
already reached me. He slows his pace, circling around me, sniffing and yipping
quietly. Then he puts his forepaws and head down right in front of me and
sticks his rump in the air, wagging his tail as though he wants to play.

Rain still pours down on us and water is running in rivulets
through my hair, but I pay no attention. He is huge! And beautiful! When he
stands again, I’m amazed that the top of his withers reach my waist. His coat
is long and thick, fading from a charcoal color on his back and nose to silver
around his flank. He has touches of brown throughout his coat and around his
eyes, which have now changed from a glowing green to a pale, icy blue.

I reach out slowly with my left hand. He sniffs at the
proffered hand, then puts his head under it like he wants to be petted. I
comply and slowly scratch him about the ears as I slide my Glock smoothly back
into its holster.

The two of us are drenched in rain, standing in the alley,
greeting each other. What a strange life I lead! After a moment, when I think
he’s used to me, I gently feel deep down in his neck fur for a collar. His fur
is so thick that I can’t be sure, but I don’t think he has one. He appears to
have traveled a long and difficult road and looks too dirty and skinny to be a
pet anyway. I squat down to examine the gash on his side, but the blood and
rain obscure the wound.