The Darkness of Shadows (15 page)

The book that called to me the most was the one in the worst condition. Covers ripped off, no clue as to the author or authors. A few pages in held the title:
The Art of Healing
.

I perused the well-worn pages. Detailed illustrations that rivaled those in
Gray’s Anatomy
, and sort-of understandable text graced the pages.

A bit of the dedication remained.
To our Native American friends, who have shared and taught us so much.

Chapter 1 was filled with all sorts of goodies.
Healers are the doctors of the preternatural community. An extensive knowledge of anatomy and physiology is required. Their hands are their instruments.

Techniques to relax the patient include whispering and a hand pass over the eyes, while using a subtle energy to relax them.
Mrs. G did some whispering and hand gestures when she was taking care of me. I’d thought it was a mom-thing.

Depending on the severity of the injury, a Healer can combine powers with other Healers to save the patient.

She and her friends could’ve pooled their collective powers to save my ass the other day.

Val picked up a thin volume. “This is about Healers and Protectors.” She read aloud. “‘The relationship of a Healer and a Protector is like a witch and her familiar—they find one another. The kinship is lifelong. Energy is shared between them, a delicate balance that provides a guardianship for both.

“‘The Protector’s role is similar to that of a Samurai. They value honor above life. They are the warrior aristocracy of the preternaturals.’” She grinned. “According to this, I’m your bodyguard.”

“I’m getting you a T-shirt that says SECURITY.”

“Uh huh. And you’re like a doctor. Paging Dr. Nat. Dr. Nat, pick up line two.”

“Ha ha. Don’t quit your day job,” I said.

“Your grandparents and their
special
community had one hell of a fantasy life. This stuff isn’t cheap to produce.” She stood up. “I’ve got a conference call. I’ll be in the family room if you need me.”

She headed for the door but stopped, her arms pinwheeling out to catch her balance. “Whoa!”

“What’s wrong?” I said.

She turned with her hands on her hips, chin pointing skyward, and a smile. All that was missing was a cape billowing behind her.

“I sense a shift in the delicate balance—”

I threw a pillow at her.

An accordion folder held a crash course in family history.

The beginning was comprised of high honor roll report cards, sports and science fair wins. Pictures of my father and (I assumed) his parents were interspersed. Pride was in all of their postures as they beamed for the camera.

The college years were next. More academic accolades, but fewer family pictures. An engagement announcement, wedding stuff, a small birth announcement.

Newspaper and magazine articles were plentiful.

William and Karen Gannon are the dynamic duo of consulting.

Watershed win with major technology company brings Gannon Consulting extraordinary potential for expanded business.

Gannon Consulting celebrates a career milestone.

The Gannons believe it is their responsibility to build skills, confidence, and leadership opportunities in the companies they are rebuilding.

My father’s bombastic words were next.

This event is a celebration, but it’s a celebration with a purpose. This is an opportunity for us to experience the strength of our relationships. Some new, some built over a lifetime. A powerful demonstration of the diversity we embrace
.

Everyone loved the fairy tale of my parents’ life. William and Karen Gannon were everything to everyone: kind, generous, community-minded people, loved by all in the land.

I learned all of this from a box of crap strangers sent me.

The rest of the peccant tale was all too well known. I refiled the memorabilia and moved on.

Letters tied with a cloth ribbon were next. I opened the first in a series and recognized my grandmother’s handwriting.

The recipient’s name was eradicated, the words were faded, but most were still legible.

William’s become more distant. He is convinced that by marrying Karen, he can produce an amalgamation of a Healer and a Necromancer. He is capable of bringing his ideas to fruition, and our world will suffer.

John and I are unable to bring him back to our ways. We are desperate for your help.

The next letter contained a foreign penmanship.

Beth,

We understand your concerns, but William’s need to do what no other Necromancer has done or will ever do is ludicrous.

As for Karen, she is no longer a member of our family. Any offspring that she may conceive is not a concern of ours, nor should they be to you.

William and Karen have embarrassed us. It has taken much time and soothing of egos to repair the damage. We stand firm in our decision not to acknowledge them. You and John should consider this tactic as well.

We are returning your correspondence. Please do not contact us with regard to this matter anymore.

It was signed with a name I didn’t recognize. My stellar detective skills led me to believe this was an exchange between both sets of my grandparents. The holidays must’ve been a hoot with them.

William Gannon was an evil sorcerer and I was trying to take him down.

I turned off the light and fell into a restless sleep.

Something was tapping at the window. I tried to ignore it, but whatever it was persisted. “Natalie,” a familiar voice said, “it’s time.”

I threw the covers off and sat bolt upright, ignoring the pain in my stomach.

It couldn’t be.

I went to the window and opened the curtains. It couldn’t be.

It was my mother.

It looked exactly like her: brilliant blue eyes, long blond hair, same beautiful woman from the past. But there was no friggin’ way.

“Bring the pages,” she said. “Your father is ready.”

“Ma’am … I … I …”

“You know what will happen to Valerie if you don’t.” Her ruthless words floated in the air.

I let the curtain fall back into place. Seeing my father bring back a cat was one thing. This … this was a whole new bucket of fucked up.

And I couldn’t just ignore it. Because if that really was my mother out there, then William Gannon had the means to back up every threat he’d ever made against Valerie and her mom.

I went to the kitchen, opened the door, and saw my mother standing there, waiting.

“Come here!” she said.

I should’ve stayed at the threshold, but a labyrinth of nocent emotions drove me into the night.

Delicate hands took me from behind and pulled me back into the house.

“Natalie, where are you going?” Mrs. Guerrero said.

“My mom’s here. Don’t you …?” I pointed into the blackness, but my mom—or whatever had looked like her—was gone.

“Valerie!”

Footsteps and more hands pulling me back.

“Let me go!” I lurched into the darkness.

“You’re dreaming,” Val said.

“NO!” I wrangled free only to stumble to the ground.

“Valerie, get her back into the house, now!”

“I’m trying.” Val dragged me inside. The door closed and the lock slid into place.

“Why won’t you let me go?” I said as Val leveraged me off the floor to a standing position. Well, more like a ‘slumping against Val’ position.

“Your mother is dead. There is no one there,” Mrs. G said as we all headed to my room.

“But, ma’am …”

Val and Mrs. Guerrero exchanged a look. My ranting made me sound like the newest resident of Crazytown. But she
was
there! At least, she had been. I was getting pissed they didn’t believe me. I pitched forward and landed against Val.

“Easy there.” She sat me on the bed.

I tried to get up but Val was too strong.

“Valerie, please get me a cool washcloth and a glass of tea,” Mrs. Guerrero said. “It was just a dream. I need to check your stomach. Please lie down.”

She brushed her hand over my head in a soothing motion, whispered something. I relaxed. She seemed satisfied that I hadn’t done any damage.

“I have to go …” My words became softer as Mrs. Guerrero’s bantam hand continued its rhythmic journey across my head. Such relief from such a simple gesture.

“Hush, child, hush.” Her voice calmed me.

My breathing slowed and my body decompressed even more. “Ma’am, what are you doing?”

“Hmm?”

“Your hand … my … head.”

“It is just to calm you. Would you like me to stop?”

I took a slow breath and swallowed dryness. “It … feels nice.”

Her face was soft and I couldn’t focus anymore. The coolness of a cloth wiped the sweat off my face and neck. The grit on my hands from the patio was next.

“Take some tea.” Val put the straw to my lips and I took a small pull.

“She was there.” I pointed to the window. I so desperately needed them to believe me.

“Shh, rest.” The gentle cadence of Mrs. Guerrero’s hand brought me to a dreamless sleep.

A
few weeks after my salsa with anaphylactic shock, I moved into my grandparents’ newly renovated house. I still couldn’t believe it was mine.

Val and I had a few “discussions” about paint colors. As far as I’m concerned, there are two: white and off-white. But being best friends with a graphic artist, you get introduced to a world of colors and combinations of said colors.

I didn’t put up much of a fight—she had the decorating gene, not me. Between her style with my lack of style, we managed to make it a comfortable mix.

Sometimes I wondered why Val and I got along so well. Our interests were so different—she dragged me to museums and gallery openings, I dragged her to chocolate and dessert shows. I think she made out better on that deal. But we’d been friends forever. I guess after that long, there was no reason needed.

I checked and double-checked that everything was locked. The curtains—sorry, the
window treatments
—were drawn.

The money was holding up fine. Even after the renovations, all the stuff to furnish the house, and some new clothes, I’d still be all right for a while.

I hoped it would last until I figured out what I wanted to do for a job. I didn’t want to touch the money my grandparents left me.

I was applying some WD-40 to the aged crank of the casement window over the kitchen sink. The night air felt good as it blew in.

A small light whizzed by.

Wasn’t it too late in the year for fireflies? And the auras that accompanied my migraines looked nothing like that.

It zipped closer to the window and landed on the sill. I leaned over the sink for a better look.

The colorful, delicate butterfly wings stopped fluttering as it—he—stood on the windowsill in front of me. Four, maybe five inches tall, with light brown hair that brushed over tiny ears, Caribbean blue eyes coruscated in the light. A white T-shirt, denim jacket, faded blue jeans, and tiny work boots completed his outfit.

“Oh crud!” a smallish voice said. “She’s gonna squash me! Last week I got the ‘Age quod agis’ speech and now this!”

We stared at each other.

“Who the hell are you?” I leaned closer. “Scratch that.
What
the hell are you?”

He became airborne again and hovered about. His lime green wings were transversed with lines of black, and the outer edges featured a zigzag pattern dotted with concentric circles.

It’s wonderful what the mind latches on to in an effort to preserve its sanity.

“I’m in deep!” Flitting backward, he bounced like a hummingbird. “Man oh man, I’m screwed!”

“Hey, it’s okay. Calm down.” What the hell was I doing? Was I having a psychotic break? This little guy couldn’t be real.