The Faery Keepers (16 page)

             
I climb into my bed after turning on my ceiling fan and replay everything that happened today in my
mind’s
eye. Shockingly it helps me fall asleep despite the menacing presence of Chrysantha.

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


             
Screaming. Someone’s screaming a horrible high pitched keening noise that grates on my eardrums.

             
I start awake.

             
The screaming stops.

             
Oh
. It’s me.

             
My throat is raw and my tongue is dry as parchment. I sit up groggily just as my bedroom door opens. “Baby, are you OK?” Mom demands as she bursts into the room. It’s dimly lit with the soft blue glow of predawn light. I glance at my clock. Just after six.

             
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Bad dream.”

             
“You wanna talk about it?”

             
“I don’t really remember it, Mom. You can go to sleep.” It’s not a total lie. I don’t remember most of it. But I do know the more gory details. I hold back a shudder, covering the slight tremor with a yawn.

             
She doesn’t move.

             
“Really, I’m
fine
. Go. Get your rest.”

             
“You’re sure?”

             
“
Yes
, Mom.”

             
She leaves and I hear her bedroom door close a few seconds later.

             
I take a deep breath and allow the images to flood back to me, trying to decipher what they could mean. The man, the one who killed my father and the same one who was chasing Maggie and I the day we ran into Derek, was in some sort of room that had benches everywhere, raising from the floor to the wall so that there was a circle of space in the center. It kind of reminded me of a courtroom. But why would he be in a courthouse? We were there. Maggie, Derek and I. It was obviously some sort of face off. Derek and the guy circled each other like lions in an arena. I could only see it as if through a window cut into the wall and watched in horrified fascination as they fought. Derek’s moves were blindingly quick, reducing him to a blur for a millisecond so that when you blinked he wasn’t where he was before. That all ended when the man pulled out a long curved blade that was black as night and had no shine and plunged it into Derek’s chest. He fell to the floor, his body drained of blood, his skin ghostly white. The look of pain and surprise still painted upon his face even in death haunts me even though I’m wide awake now.

             
I shuffle to the kitchen and gulp down a glass of water, wondering what the day will bring. I’m too wired to go back to sleep now.

             
I decide to call Maggie.

             
“Hey Mags, sorry it’s so early.” I apologize when she picks up.

             
“It’s cool, I couldn’t really sleep anyways.”

             
“I know what you mean,” I confess.

             
“You too, huh?” She pauses. “You wanna go out? I could use some air.”

             
Code for
I’m overwhelmed and could use some major space
in Maggie speak.

             
“Sure,” I say, wanting out myself. “What do you have in mind?”

             
“How about the lighthouse? Meet me there in an hour?”

             
“Sounds good. Bye.”

             
“Love you, babe.”

             
“Love you, too.”

             
We hang up.

             
The Hawthorne Hollow lighthouse is one of our old haunts. We used to sit on the pier and dangle our bare feet into the water on less choppy days, avoiding all of the annoying tourists by going early in the day.  The original red cylinder was destroyed in a storm 1852 but it was rebuilt three years later. It still stands tall today but no
one’s
allowed inside it which is a bummer to Maggie. Terror of heights and all. There’s a small house at the end of the pier, the front of which was remodeled to look like the prow of a boat to protect it from the stronger waves of the lake. The whole thing freezes over in the winter creating a thick shell of ice. It’s really eerie.

             
When I arrive I find Maggie already sitting on the wooden planks of the pier not too far off shore. Not many people are here yet because it’s only a few minutes after seven o’ clock and the grounds open at seven. Guess
it’s
good neither of us can sleep.

             
I sit down next to her.

             
“Hey, babe,” she greets. “Uh-oh, what’s wrong?” she asks, peering at my forlorn face.

             
“Do you want the bad or worst first?”

             
She ponders for a moment. “The worst. At least then nothing can get anymore awful.”

             
“Mom wants to meet Derek. She’s going to call Parker about him.”

             
She sucks in a whistling breath. Nods. “Next.”

             
I fiddle with a stray strand of string on my cutoff jean shorts. “I had a nightmare earlier,” I confess, my face flaming like a tomato.

             
Her eyebrows quirk. “Want to tell me?”

             
I recount everything I’ve been replaying over and over so that I didn’t forget anything.

             
“Man . . . Are you OK? I mean obviously you aren’t but . . .” she grows silent. I know what she’s thinking. How can I ever be OK again? I know who killed my dad. I was poisoned. I nearly died myself. I mean sure, I’ll get over it. But after this, my take on life will be different.

I’ve grown in the last few days. I’ve went from a semi-carefree teenager to someone burdened with watching over
Faeries
who also knows who her dad’s murderer is. And also the fact that he’d been murdered not just some random person who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. There was a rhyme and reason to why he died. And I will have to live with that for the rest of my existence. I want revenge. Something I’d never felt before boiled through my veins. I’d never hated anyone. Not really. I dislike people, I don’t
hate
them. I don’t like people who think killing an animal for consumption is justified. I don’t like when people cheat or line jump or unfairly judge others. But I’ve
never
hated
anyone. Ever.

             
“What are we going to do about it?” She looks at me with her sapphire eyes.

             
“What do you think?” I ask, grabbing a stone near me and tossing it angrily into the sparkling water beneath us.

             
“I know, but do you really think that it’s wise? This vendetta? Don’t you think your dad would want you to stay safe? Keep away from all of this?”

             
“That’s just it, I
don’t
know. He’s dead. He was dead before I was born because of this man. You can’t expect me to sit around and do
nothing
. I
can’t
sit around and do nothing.  Wouldn’t you want to bring justice to the driver responsible for your mom and dad’s accident?”

             
“That’s different. But would your dad want you to bare your neck for this guy like a deer to a mountain lion? It’d be easy for him to kill you, Katie.”

             
“Oh, now you’re comparing me to a deer?” I snap grumpily.

             
“Well there is a doe-like quality to those emerald beauties.”

             
“What kind of deer has green eyes?” I snort.

             
“Haven’t you seen them? Strictly native to Michigan. They’ve gotta blend into all of this
greenery
,” she winks one Kohl lined eye at me.

             
I give her a shove, “Oh, shut up,” I say, but my hearts not in it.

             
“Do you hear what I’m saying, though? No parent would want their kid to sacrifice themselves for something that they died trying to save them from.”

             
“Yeah, well no kid should have to go through losing their parents either.”

             
“At least you didn’t know him. You don’t know what you’re missing that way.”

             
I sigh guiltily, kicking myself mentally for my idiocy. “I’m sorry,” I apologize. “You have a point, though. But don’t you see why I have to do this? I don’t want us to be on separate sides. Please.”

             
“I suppose,” she gives in. “You know I won’t be able to live with myself if you get hurt, right?”

             
“I know.” I feel the same way about her; I know it all too well.

             
“So how are we going to find out about him? We don’t know this
guy’s
name let alone what kind of freaky cult he’s involved in. I mean, how are we supposed to find him?”

             
“I don’t know. The Internet? There’s gotta be some kind of public records. The police had to have had some sort of lead as to who it was who killed my dad, right? I’m sure of it. Cameras from a building
nearby
when it happened?”

             
“Sure,” she agreed. “It wasn’t that long ago, so there has to be
something
. But as for the Internet, I’m not sure how much help that would be. They wouldn’t have some fan page advertising that they kill
Faeries
. I mean, who would believe that?”

             
“I’d ask myself the same question. . .”

             
“What about your mom?”

             
“What about her?” I ask.

             
“Well, she has to know something. They
were
married after all.”

             
“People keep secrets,” I say disbelief coloring my tone as I think of how normal my mom is. “She could not know anything about any of this.”

             
“True, but you can always ask, right?”

             
I nod. But my mind is telling me that if my mother knew about this all this time and she hasn’t told me then what kind of person does that say she is? How can you keep something like that away from your own flesh and blood? Let them believe that your father was an ordinary man when really, he wasn’t. Not in the slightest bit. My chest constricts just thinking about it.

             
We fall into silence, listening to the waves lap against the pier and the calls of the gulls up in the air as they circle and dive for the unlucky fish swimming about. The sun is still low on the horizon, a burning ball of orange-yellow in a sea of colors.  The chatter of people stirs me out of my reverie, making their way down the beach towards us.

             
“Uh-oh, looks like our time is up,” Maggie’s glance slews over to the approaching crowd of tourists. “Guess it was good while it lasted.” We get up, brushing off our shorts, and go back the way we came.

Later that night I’m alone at my house. I can’t sleep. My mom is at work. I have to wait til
morning so I can ask her the questions that will surely undo us. I know it’s pointless to call her cell phone. She hardly ever answers it at her job. I can’t bring myself to leave a message. That sort of thing should be taken care of in person, not over voice mail. She never likes talking about my dad, anyways. It dredges up unpleasant memories of him. Now, at least, I can understand her reasoning behind that. But it doesn’t mean that her keeping it from me is right. I have every right to know everything that she does. I’m his
daughter
after all.

             
Sometime in the night I fall into a fitful slumber because next thing I know I’m blinking away sunshine that glints through my bedroom curtains. I roll out of my bed, still in the same clothes as yesterday, to the smell of coffee brewing downstairs.

             
“Mom?” I ask warily as I turn into the kitchen. Sure enough she’s sitting at the kitchen table with the morning paper spread out in front of her, nursing a chipped white mug full of coffee like any other day. I fetch a cup for myself, pouring a steaming cup of the dark brown liquid and adding cream with lots of sugar, just how I like it.