Refracted (The Celadon Circle Book 2) (3 page)

Chapter Five

Quinn

The abrasive, raw temperature inside the house had nothing to do with the weather. As the three men shambled to the kitchen, Quinn noticed how dejected and empty the rooms they passed appeared. It wasn’t that they were dirty, not really. There was a bit more dust than usual, a few more cobwebs clinging in the corners, but with him and Nathan on hunts for days at a time and Uncle Case left to rattle around like the last bean in a coffee can, the house stayed fairly clean.

Quinn’s eyes fell on the coffee table. Normally cluttered with books and at least one coffee cup, the blank surface looked too clean, sterile. The plaid afghan that had belonged to their mother always rested on the back of the couch when it wasn’t keeping Jordan’s feet toasty-warm. It now lay folded and forgotten on a chair in the corner. Shadows that were once held at bay by the bright candle she kept burning in the window crept eagerly across the walls and floor. Soon, they would swallow the room completely.

Quinn remembered how he had yelled at Jordan for that candle, claiming her habit of leaving it lit when she went to bed would one day result in an inferno. His words, wickedly sharp and hurled with precision, had left her a sobbing mess on the floor. She’d been fourteen. It was the last time she had ever shed a tear in front of him. A few days later, Uncle Case told him Jordan kept a candle burning to serve as a beacon so they could always find their way home, as a symbol to hold onto while they were away, as a reminder that someone who loved them kept their names close to her heart and in her prayers.

Quinn bit back a sob. 

Standing at the faded laminate counter, Casen put on a pot of coffee while Nathan rummaged inside the refrigerator for sandwich fixings. Almost every room in the house suffered from Jordan’s absence, but this room seemed especially forlorn. The kitchen had been her domain.

From the time she was old enough to follow a recipe, Jordan had kept them all fed. There were quite a few failures during those first years. The men had choked down burnt biscuits, dry meatloaves, gluey mashed potatoes, and lopsided cakes. Gradually, her cooking had improved. By the time she was thirteen, Jordan could take the most meager ingredients and turn them into a delicious meal.

And I never thanked her – not even once.

An old vase filled with wildflowers sat in the middle of the kitchen table. Jordan had picked them a day or so before they left for Tennessee. Now, there was nothing left but shriveled brown stems, the water long used up. Scattered around the vase, dried petals lay where they’d fallen, memories of more normal times.

Uncle Case forbade them to touch the pitiful remains, as if throwing them away would be equivalent to tossing any chance they had of getting Jordan back. So the dead flora remained on the table – a shrine of sorts – and waited with the rest of them for her return.

They sat down to eat. Quinn attacked his sandwich with gusto, his hardy appetite rarely affected by anything. But his hunger waned when Nathan pushed his food away after two bites. His brother had lost weight. Quinn watched him lift the coffee mug with shaking hands. The dark brew sloshed over the side. Nathan’s eyes, partially hidden behind wisps of hair in desperate need of a trim, were lifeless and far away. He seemed unaware of his trembling hands, the spilled coffee, or anything else. He’d taken to falling into these trance-like states far too often.

Quinn and Casen’s chairs moved at the same time and still, Nathan didn’t notice. They met on either side of his chair, Quinn with a dishtowel and Casen with a bottle of Black Bush.

“Nathan.”

No reaction. Uncle Case set the bottle of Irish whiskey down and placed a calloused hand over the top of Nathan’s mug to steady it while using the other to gently pry his fingers away.

“Nathan,” Casen said a bit louder. “Let go of the cup, son.”

Quinn busied himself with the spilled coffee.

For as long as he could remember, Nathan had been the rock he’d clung to. At 6’4” and 225 lbs. of pure muscle, his brother was a formidable Slayer. He could snap necks, plunge knives through thick bone. He never backed down from an adversary, often going hand-to-hand against creatures with extraordinary strength, distracting them so Quinn could sidle up and deliver the fatal blow.

Brute force and powerhouse techniques were just a few of Nathan’s talents. As easily as he could take life, he could also give it. Hands that broke ribs and crushed skulls had delivered baby calves and mended tiny bird wings. He had a brilliant mind that could find answers where none seemed to exist and a heart as big as the Chrysler building. Nathan was the one they all came to for answers…for hope.

My brother’s falling apart and I’m cleaning up coffee. Damn, I’m such a douche.

Quinn straightened and tossed the dishtowel on the counter. Casen reached for the whiskey the same way Chinese people reached for tea. It was his preferred brand of medicine. If it didn’t cure what ailed you, it sure as hell could make you forget about it for a while.

Nathan rubbed his weary eyes with the heels of his hands and then pulled them down his face, as if hoping to wipe away the months of confusion.

“I phased out again, didn’t I?”

Quinn placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. God help him, he didn’t know what to say. Their positions were usually reversed with Quinn, always quick to anger, pissed off about something trivial like a scratch on his car, and Nathan soothing his twisted ego with words of comfort. The one time Nathan needed him to be the strong one, the one with the right words to ease his pain, and Quinn felt about as useful as a condom machine in the Vatican.

In a choked voice Nathan said, “I have no idea what’s wrong with me.”

Casen slid his coffee cup toward him, now spiked with a generous glug of whiskey. “Sip this,” he instructed, and moved back to his seat. “I know exactly what’s wrong.”

Uncle Case to the rescue
. Relieved, Quinn took a calming breath.

Nathan drank his coffee and waited for the explanation. Casen spiked his own brew before passing the bottle to Quinn.

Guess we all need medicating tonight.
Quinn took his seat and followed suit.

Uncle Case cleared his throat and pointed at Nathan. “You’re exhausted, son. You ain’t getting more than an hour or two of sleep a night.”

Nathan opened his mouth, perhaps to protest, but Casen held up a calloused hand and stopped him before any words escaped. “Those bible thumpers upstairs work you boys like dogs, and the few nights you have free are spent rambling around the house like a ghost with no one to haunt.”

Casen slid the paper plate with Nathan’s sandwich in front of him and grabbed their empty coffee cups for refills at the pot. “Eat,” he ordered, his tone leaving no question for argument. He crossed to the counter like a man with a mission.

Quinn was relieved to see a spring in his uncle’s step again. Nathan must have felt the same. He picked up the remainder of his turkey sandwich and took a bite, chewing and swallowing like a prisoner condemned to a life of hard service.

After cups of spiked coffee were back in front of their respective owners, Casen sat down and placed his feet firmly on the old linoleum, hands on his knees – gestures that were usually followed by serious conversation. Both boys paid attention.

“While Nathan finishes his food, we’re gonna do some talkin’. Afterward, Quinn and I will check our weapons supply and you–” he looked pointedly at Nathan, still taking rabbit bites of his sandwich, “–are going to bed.”

Nathan slammed his hand on the table – a sign of how tired he really was. He was hard to rile.

Quinn studied the dark smudges under his eyes and wondered how he’d missed them before. Then again, his bedroom was on the other side of the house from his brother’s. He wasn’t aware of Nathan’s nocturnal wanderings and sleep deprivation.

“I’m not a fucking kid!”

Nathan was cursing. Yep, he was definitely frazzled. Quinn could curse like a sailor on a three-day bender when the mood struck him. Nathan’s language was usually as clean as the Pope’s.

Uncle Case blew a deep breath out through his nose, sounding a lot like Jordan’s horse when he got impatient while waiting for his oats. “Son, calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down,” Nathan growled. “I’m not your son.”

The room went silent. Even the ancient refrigerator stopped wheezing. Quinn closed his eyes and wished he could push his brother back over the imaginary line he’d just crossed.

Uncle Case had taken over as patriarch of the family after his brother – their father – was killed by a demon. In many ways, he was a better parent than their dad. Though he loved his children, Richard Bailey lived a lukewarm existence at best. For the most part, he’d been apathetic, numb. The life of a Slayer fed on his emotions like a parasite, leaving a shell behind.

Casen, on the other hand, made sure to remind them there was more to life than the Circle. He encouraged hobbies outside of killing monsters and ancient lore. He’d bought Quinn the first clunker he’d ever fixed up.

Quinn smiled, remembering how he’d balked when Case dragged him out to one of his seldom-used outbuildings and rolled open the doors. The hull of that rusted Mustang resting on concrete blocks was the ugliest sight he’d ever seen. Quinn had restored many cars since then, including his own ’66 Charger and Nathan’s ’69 Camaro. Some he sold for extra cash, but he could never part with that Mustang. He’d passed it on to Jordan when she turned sixteen.

Uncle Case had bargained for Jordan’s horse. He’d scrounged up money for the internet, used laptop, and shelves of books since Nathan was kind of a nerd. His brother loved reading, researching anything to do with history or science, and had (in Quinn’s opinion) an unhealthy passion for epic fantasy books. It didn’t matter if the fads they pursued were temporary or not – from karate lessons to stamp collecting (God, Nathan really was a nerd) – Casen was there, cheering them on while Richard had kept to the shadows. 

Still, Quinn couldn’t imagine the guilt and stress his father had lived with, every breath spent protecting a child who wasn’t his. The only person to share that secret was his wife, and she had died giving birth to Jordan. There were so many unanswered questions. Why had his mother gone through with the birth if she knew a demon had impregnated her? Why had his father died to keep Jordan away from demons when the angels were just as hell-bent on taking her away?

Quinn took a quick peek through half-closed lashes. A vein bulged in Case’s forehead. His uncle flexed his fingers before uncapping the whiskey. Instead of spiking his coffee, he tipped the bottle to his lips and downed the remainder in three deep swallows.

“I’m sorry,” Nathan whispered. “I didn’t mean it.”

His eyes were those of someone tortured. Swollen and bloodshot, the red veins magnified by unshed tears.

Casen took a deep breath. “I know.”

“Please…”

Nathan held out his hand, as if needing something. Quinn wondered if he had any idea what.

Casen grasped his nephew’s hand in both of his.

“I didn’t mean it,” Nathan repeated. “I don’t know why I said it. I don’t feel that way. I’ve never felt that way.”

Casen nodded. “You needed to vent, to let the poison out. It’s about damn time.”

“Huh?”

“You keep it all inside – always have.”

Uncle Case pointed at the sandwich. Nathan picked it up the way one would a heavy bag of rocks.

“You’ve got to have an outlet. Lord knows I don’t agree with how your brother releases stress. He probably has several rug rats he doesn’t know about, and every demon within the first three pits of Hell wants a piece of him, but–”

“Hey!” Quinn interrupted.

“–But,” Casen continued, speaking over Quinn’s grumbling, “he doesn’t keep it
all
inside. Nathan, you can’t always be the anchor for this family. Everyone has a breaking point. If you don’t create some sort of outlet to release all that worry and tension, it’ll end up killing you.”

Nathan rose on unstable legs. Quinn jumped up, happy to be the one providing support for once, and wrapped an arm around his twin’s waist.

“I don’t know what to do – how to help her.” His words, slurred from lack of sleep and alcohol, were barely discernible. “It’s hopeless,” he mumbled.

Casen got up and pulled Nathan’s free arm around his shoulders. Together, they managed to half-walk half-drag him to his room. Once there, Casen pulled the quilt down on Nathan’s bed and Quinn helped him to sit.

“What are we gonna do, huh?”

His brother continued to talk even though his eyes were closed. Quinn unlaced his boots and pulled them off.  

When Casen slipped the T-shirt over his nephew’s head, a black leather necklace with a Crescents Rising protection amulet swayed back and forth from his neck. Jordan had given it to Nathan the same day she’d gifted Quinn the Celtic Warrior ring he wore. As he worked a knot loose in his brother’s boot laces, Quinn wondered if Nathan ever bought Jordan anything. His chest tightened and he swallowed several times. He never had.

They got Nathan stripped to his boxers and tucked under the covers. It probably would have been easier shoving a wild boar into a burlap sack. Nathan complained that he wasn’t sleepy, that they needed to plan. He flailed around and fell off the bed twice, once landing on top of Quinn.