American Goth (26 page)

At that moment, the doorbell rang and Cort stood. “Anyone expecting anything?” he asked. “No?” he said to our negative expressions. “Back in a moment, then.” His footsteps echoed across the floor, then faded down the steps to the door.

“I owe you an apology,” Fran said softly as she stirred next to me, and I twisted my head around to see her clearly. “I haven’t told you much of anything that I’ve been doing.”

“At my request,” Elizabeth clarified as she drew her seat closer, “at my very specific request. It was necessary at the time—it would have distracted you.” Her eyes still flickered with their own flame in the firelight as she neared.

Touch was a rare thing in this household. At first, I’d assumed it to be the normal formality that existed between people forced together who were still more strangers than friends, but as the weeks had flown by and my own knowledge had grown, I’d come to realize this was not the only reason for the physical distance.

There was no one in this group that was not a sensitive of some sort, and touch, the bare of skin on skin, could forge an instant connect, not merely the recognition of general mood or condition, but of mind-view, a peek into the inner thoughts and feelings. It was brief, certainly, but it was also intrusive and potentially uncomfortable unless one’s barriers were perfect or the sense of the person’s self was so familiar as to be comfortable, a normal part of the background noise, so to speak.

That Fran and I could sustain such continued contact was due to many things: we’d been teammates and friends for years, were linked because of the contact we’d shared when we’d dated, and now we were bound to each other because we were lovers, though that in and of itself made our rapport almost constant, to the point where we were almost extensions of each other.

So when Elizabeth briefly skimmed her fingers across the back of my hand as it lay resting on the arm of the settee, I was happily surprised by the level of affection it meant she held for me, that she
let
me see, and for a moment, I
remembered
her. I had a very clear image of her face reflected above mine in a mirror as her hands gently parted then plaited my hair…and then the image blanked.

And while I already knew she and Fran had a special bond by virtue of the learning they shared, I was stunned but pleased to discover the deeper, nurturing aspect of it: Elizabeth cared for Fran as if she’d been born to her. Perhaps, in another life, she had been.

??Francesca…is adept,” Elizabeth said softly. “She is very easily made priestess, High Priestess.”

“What do you mean?” I knew, of course, that there were different religions, pantheons, schools of theory and of belief, and each of them had their representations, their godheads. Some were historical figures, real, “living” incarnations of an archetype that had its root in the beginnings of the Universe, some of them were actually highly evolved and advanced beings, and a few, like the Elemental Lords, were the existence, the ultimate manifestation of a principal force, but most of them were constructs, the projections created from the combined energies of worshippers—and I adhered to none of them. However, it didn’t surprise me that Fran might or that Elizabeth had trained her in a specific Rite. Fran had told me about the “green ray”—and being a priestess, or, more specifically, High Priestess, was something unique within that school of thought.

Fran, with her essential…I didn’t know what to call it, couldn’t quite name it, but it was something akin to buoyancy, an unshakeable part of her core makeup. It was that part of her, I was certain, that responded so well to that philosophy. I had no doubt that it was her innate talent that made her adept, and the combination of her own personality, ethics, and intelligence that enabled her to advance, take on a larger role.

“It means…” Fran said in a low and throaty drawl, and she gently caught my chin in her hand and turned my face to hers. I couldn’t help the skip in the beat of my heart when I read her expression, caught the shape of her deeper desire. “It means that before you can have your sealing, you have to go through mine.”

I struggled to understand even as she kissed me, and I glimpsed a very clear image of part of the role I would play. This was not what I thought would happen; this would wreak havoc on my plans, on the path I had intended to take.

“There are some decisions that are not yours alone,” Fran murmured against my lips.

“But Fran,” I tried to explain, “you’ve already been threatened twice and approached—
attacked
—once. This hasn’t even started yet, and it’s only going to get worse. You heard what Cort said—it’s
not
going to stop.”

Fran leaned back, her eyes blazing, body radiating heat. “Do you really think I don’t
know
that? Do you really think I’d let you go through that—alone?” She gestured vehemently. “You’ve lost your mind if you—”

I caught her hands in mine and spoke over her. “I don’t want you to get
hurt
—or worse. I couldn’t—I didn’t—do anything for Nina, and she’s gone.” I didn’t know I was going to say that and it hurt, oh God it hurt, a churning lump of aching sorrow and anger that I thought I’d forgotten. I was wrong. I felt worse than ever, and it was because I now knew what it was I felt. Guilt. I felt guilty. I should have done something,
anything
, differently than I had. “Let me do what I can,” I said quietly. “This I can at least do something about.”

Fran stared at me, eyes wide. “What in the
world
could you have possibly had to do with that? Sam, you don’t
know
what happened. All either one of us knows is what her father told us.”

It was my turn to stare as I realized Fran didn’t know, had no idea about the conflict that had existed between our friend and her parents, the very real physical threat she had dealt with at least once at their hands and survived.

I don’t know why I had assumed Fran had known; thought she’d have been told. How much should I tell her? It wasn’t my story, it was Nina’s, but if she was gone, then shouldn’t someone besides me know it? That story was a part of who I was now, of who Fran was, whether she knew it or not and Fran…had loved her, still loved her too. And like it or not, for better or worse, Nina was also a part of how Fran and I loved each other.

“I know enough,” I said finally, “I know that…” We spoke as if we were alone, as if Elizabeth wasn’t there, and I started by holding Fran in my arms. I told her what I finally realized Nina hadn’t wanted to tell
anyone
—not even me—but had been forced to by circumstance at the time. I told Fran what I could.

“…and you think her parents or—or she herself…?” Her voice choked with the shock that so clearly suffused her, and though she couldn’t complete the sentence, I could complete her thought.

“Yes,” I said finally, the word spitting through my teeth, “and I still can’t tell which one I think is worse.”

“Oh, Sammer,” she whispered, her head tucked tightly against mine. I could feel her heart break within her, the equal echo of mine, the not-so-old hurt doubly renewed with the fresh cut of new knowledge, and I tore again, knowing I’d hurt her. “I wish I’d known—maybe we could have done
something
. My dad, I mean, maybe he—but it’s not your fault—I swear it’s not.”

I couldn’t help but laugh at the irony of what she said. “You just found out,” I said, raising my head from her shoulder and wiping my eyes, “just now, and even
you
think something could have been done.”

I touched her face gently, and my thumb wiped away tears that still streamed hot and wild from her eyes. “Frankie…I can barely live with that, I wouldn’t, if I didn’t have to. Do you think, even if you know what you’re doing—even if you accept responsibility for it—that I can live sanely with something happening to you? Especially if it’s something I can prevent in
any
way?”

She caught my fingers against her cheek, then turned her head to gently kiss my palm. “I hear you, Sammy, I really do. But this doesn’t have to happen now. Can we talk about this again after we both know more about what happens next for you?”

“I recommend that,” Elizabeth broke in, startling us both out of the little private world we’d just been in.

“By courier, today, as you asked,” Cort said, having just entered the room. He carried something large in his arms and I stared as he set it down before the hearth.

The skin on my scalp went numb as I recognized it: the footlocker. My Da’s footlocker. I got up on frozen feet to open it.

I hadn’t seen it, set eyes on it, since it had been sent to me from his station right after the funeral a few years before. I couldn’t bear to see it, to even begin to look within it, but I wasn’t going to get rid of it either—it was my Da’s, and I’d had it left in storage with other things.

But it was time, more than time, and I needed to find out if my Da had left me something besides the mixed blessing that was the blood I carried.

“Shall we leave you to it?” Elizabeth asked as I knelt before the first puzzle: a tubular combination lock that held the brass clasp firmly shut. She briefly laid a warm hand on my shoulder, a firm gesture of support, a lending of strength and affection I was grateful for.

“I’ll be in the workroom back of the shop, if you need me,” Cort said.

I didn’t even look up as I nodded and once more heard the tread of his retreating step as Fran knelt next to me and I faced her.

Lit by the fire that still burned happily away, her eyes carried the same flicker and I was struck sharply by how beautiful she was, by how much I wanted to forget the tasks that lay before me, forget everything to touch the delicate curves and planes of her face, to taste the honey-sweet soft of her mouth, the feel of her body yielding to mine, and for a brief instant, I did. I reached for her, folded her to me, let myself feel the beat of her heart against mine.

“I’ll wait for you,” she said quietly into my ear before we disentangled ourselves. She paused to give me a smile before she left the room, to leave me to my discoveries in the half-light.

The lock shimmered before me and I hesitated. My father, my Da, had been the last person to open and close it, and in my mind’s eye I could see his hands setting the clasp, then setting the bar through, giving the tumblers a final twist to scramble them before letting it loose to bounce back against the hasp. How could I disturb what his hands had wrought, who knew how long before he’d been taken from me?

Then again, whatever was in there was mine, was what I had left of him and maybe, just maybe, would provide me some insight into who I was and what I was doing.

I inhaled slowly before I took the lock into my hand, half expecting it to move, or be warm, or perhaps shock me in some way. Instead, the brass was cool, and I received a very clear image, hands firmly set upon the trunk, and a sense of finality, of resignation, before the tumblers were spun for the last time.

What would he have set as the combination? The two most important things in his life, or so I’d been told, had been me and my mother, and I smiled as I remembered how he’d joked more than once as I’d gotten older that they ordered me the moment they’d gotten married, they’d wanted me so much.

I’d never doubted the love, but now I wondered how much of what I’d thought was a joke had been true. I did a quick calculation; my birthday marked the beginning of the last week of July. Maybe…

I dialed in the numbers that signified my parents’ anniversary, a day of delight for many American children. First the ten, then the thirty-one, then finally the last two numbers of the year before my birth. I tugged the lock. Nothing. Damn.

No, I was doing this wrong. Perhaps…I reversed the order. Thirty one first, then ten, then the next—there was an audible click as the last number fell into place, the lock popped open in my hand, and I knew my father had told me a partial truth: I hadn’t been ordered, but I’d been planned.

I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding and took another as I laid my hand on the latch. This was it, the moment of decision. Forward to perhaps a dead end, or leave it forever unknown. My hands were steady as I shifted the brass, then opened the footlocker.

The first thing to greet me was the scent, the familiar coal-tar and smoke scent, and right on top of everything lay his bunker boots, neatly laid over an FDNY sweatshirt that covered most of what was beneath it.

I carefully lifted the boots out and set them on the side, then took out the sweatshirt, the slightly faded navy blue fleece with its worn patch. It was soft against my face and I let myself miss him as the scent washed through me bringing memory upon memory, things I’d thought forgotten: his laugh, his smile, the pride he couldn’t hide when he came to my swim meets, first at the community club, then when I was in high school.

I missed him, I missed my
father
, his comforting solidity when I was small and snuggled into him on the sofa where we’d watch Disney movies or karate flicks on a rainy afternoon; later, sitting side by side, shoulder to shoulder, we’d sit out on the deck in back of the house and talk, about everything: school, girls, cars, and even—sometimes, not too often, but occasionally—my mother.

Enough of that
, I told myself and sighed as I folded the sweatshirt then placed it behind me. Inside the trunk itself there were two well-packed and distinct piles. To the left were a few more articles of clothing, the first a T-shirt of mine that I’d outgrown at about the ripe old age of six. It still proclaimed “Fireman’s Kid,” and the sharp lines of the folds indicated that it was wrapped around something—in fact, it seemed like several shirts had been used in exactly that way, considering the stack that lay beneath it. I picked it up, felt the weight and solidity under my fingertips and, removing the shirt, stared. My mother, her hair loose and tossing about her, sunlight streaming over her in the park I’d played in, twirling me about by the hands and caught in the act of laughing. We had the same smile, and I traced hers with a fingertip through the glass.