The Marked Son (Keepers of Life) (8 page)

“I don’t know.” Grandpa’s forehead wrinkles. He probes the tall grass around the ewe. “Where’s her baby?”

“Can’t find him.”

Grandpa stands. The skin around his eyes crinkles against the mid-morning sunlight as he looks around. “Any prints?”

The three men grow nervous. “None.”

“Any clues at all?” Tension mounts in Grandpa’s voice.

Reggie shakes his head. “Not that we can find.”

“Look harder,” Grandpa barks, and then eyes Leo. “Get me my kit.”

As Reggie and Pop fan out to do another sweep of the area, Leo brings back a small plastic box. It’s some sort of medical kit. Grandpa pulls out a needle and a tube and draws some blood from the dead ewe.

I squat down next to him. “What do you think happened?”

“I’m not sure.”

“A vampire bat?” Leo suggests.

“Bats around here are insect eaters. You’d have to go pretty far south to get vampire bats.”

Leo leans closer and whispers to me. “Pop swears these woods are haunted by people we can’t see until they want us to see them. By then, it’s too late.”

An unexpected prickling attacks my skin. Haunted? I quickly stand and peer into the woods. Did the girl in white do this? I shiver. The thought is beyond creepy.

Grandpa scowls hard and shakes the vial so the blood won’t clot, completely unaware of Leo’s new theory, and my sudden attention to it.

The trees crowd the meadow, all nearly identical in height and color, except a nearby tree. There’s a dark, strangely-shaped spot midway up its trunk. I skirt the dead ewe to get a better look. “What’s this?”

Grandpa and Leo join me. The tree is scarred, the design rendered in deep, blackened strokes. From far off it looks like a smudge. Only when I get closer can I make out the design, and it isn’t pretty. There’s something sinister about the circle and the deep gouges that pass through it.

Grandpa shouts over his shoulder, “Are any of the other trees defaced like this one?”

Reggie and Pop rejoin us, and when Pop sees the symbol, he steps back and spits on the ground.

Reggie touches the scarred bark. “This isn’t good.”

“Why?” I ask. “It’s just a stupid design someone etched into the tree.”

“This isn’t just some stupid drawing. It’s a mark of intent.” He pulls his fingers away, and he sniffs at the black residue covering his fingertips. “And it’s burned in blood.”

Grandpa peers into the woods. I avoid looking at him, taken aback by the sharp edges that abruptly appear on his face. At the base of the tree, something shimmers in the leafy debris. I squat, pick up a stray twig, and poke at it.

“What’s that?” Leo asks.

I raise the end of the stick for Grandpa to see. “Blood, I think.” I dig deeper and uncover the carcass of the lamb, burned, buried, and hidden by a mess of scattered leaves.

The girl in white. A dead ewe. Blood spilled under an evil-looking symbol. A burned lamb. What kind of crazy, whacked-up place did Mom drop me off in?

Grandpa’s face hardens, and he glares at the three men. “Get this flock out of here, boys. Leave twenty of the older ones behind.”

The men nod and begin separating the sheep. I look at Grandpa. “This is some kind of cult thing, huh?”

“Something like that,” he says, though he’s distracted as he stares at the crude altar. “There’s an empty black plastic bag in the front compartment of my ATV. Go get it.”

I do as he says, even as a deep uneasiness slithers beneath my skin. This is out of control. I can’t believe Mom wanted to get rid of me so badly that sticking me in husbandry hell with a satanic cult on the loose really sounded like a reasonable option. God, she must hate me.

When I return, Grandpa’s on the phone with his closest neighbor, grilling him to see if he knows about any strange activity happening in these parts, and to keep his eyes open. He puts the phone away and takes the bag from me.

“Are you going to call the police?” I watch him slip the dead lamb in the bag and stand.

His eyes darken. I can actually see the hardened soldier in him take over. “You’re looking at him.”

Grandpa is a cop? “You don’t look like a cop.”

“Most of the time, I don’t have to be. We don’t get much trouble around here. Never have.”

“So, what’re you going to do?”

“Dig in and wait.”

As he strides away, I get the distinct feeling he’s comfortable with shooting first and apologizing later.

Lucky to be Alive

Kera awoke stretched out on a bed, swathed in gauzy fabric. Steam hissed and bubbled. Water dripped slowly, pinging and plopping against glass. At the sound of bottles clinking, Kera peered across the room. Faldon, dressed in his ratty, old lab coat, his hair standing out like an eaglet’s baby tuff, softly whistled a tune while he quietly puttered with his medicines. Two rows of beds, most empty, faced each other in the long, narrow room. She’d been in the infirmary many times, but mostly to help Faldon practice the art of healing.

“I’m not dead?” The croak of her voice hurt her throat and head.

The old sage drew close and smiled. “Nay, not today, though if you’d been brought to me any later…”

The clothes she’d borrowed from Lani, and the dagger, were lying on the bedside table. She touched the dagger. Signe’s gift had saved her life. “If not for this, I would be dead.”

“
Incordium
. A priceless gift. It can cut through anything.”

All Kera cared about was that it had helped her kill the millispits. She struggled onto her elbows, touched the spot on her neck and winced. “It’s hot.”

“My magic is still working and may take a few more hours to draw out all the poison.” He pushed her back down, a stern look in his eyes. “It’s best you stay in bed.”

Normally, the command would irritate her, but all she wanted now was to lie still. “D-did anyone else get hurt?”

“Only you. Navar has felt the sting of your father’s displeasure on that count.” He leaned closer and whispered, “Your father is secretly pleased by the boldness of your ability, as am I. All those lessons you talked me into giving you… I feel almost safe taking credit for your skills. Almost.” He pulled back, picked up a cup on the nearby bedside table and splashed water into it, then added a few drops of medicine. “Be that as it may, Navar is forbidden to use those creatures here. Ever.”

It was hard to believe her father would confront Navar. “He won’t obey that command.”

“He will, at first. The displeasure of the people must be avoided, but then he’ll become king and do as he pleases, which is why he needs a soft, feminine hand to guide him.” Faldon pressed the cup into Kera’s hand. “A draught to help you heal. You’ll be set right by this evening.”

Kera drank the medicine and handed Faldon the empty cup. “I pity the woman forced to have him.”

“Why say forced? She will be queen. A title sure to dazzle any maid.”

“A crown is not so alluring if it’s attached to a man more murderer than leader.” She closed her eyes. Already the medicine made her wish for sleep. She put her hand to her heart. “Lani’s dead. Navar killed her himself. I saw it.”

“I’m truly sorry.”

“She’s hanging in the square, her head on a spike.” It made her sick to even say it. “As soon as I’m better, I’m getting her.”

Faldon squeezed her hand. “She’s gone. It seems someone took her body down last night.”

A sigh escaped, and with it, the knot of tension she’d been carrying since Lani’s death. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. There are others who loved her as much as you.” He placed the cup on the bedside table, his eyes staring at nothing and everything. He saw the future, and she longed to ask what he saw of hers, but that was a subject he refused to broach. No amount of her whining would change his mind. So she chipped away at his knowledge about Teag’s future, demanding answers to questions that weighed on her mind.

“Why have we given Navar such power? It’s not right.” She glared at Faldon, knowing he wasn’t the problem, but he wasn’t doing anything to solve it, at least not fast enough.

“The majority are behind him. He’s been given their allegiance. You know once given it can’t be withdrawn, even if they’re moved by regret. Pride is a dangerous virtue.”

Frustration made her cheeks hot. “There has to be a way.”

“Only if someone stronger defeats him, and there’s no one stronger than Navar.” Faldon turned to her. His eyes grew gentle, and he swept the hair from her face. “Be at peace. There’s nothing you can do.”

“Nothing I can do,” she muttered. It was unlike him to think such a thing, let alone say it.

He left, and as her eyes began to droop, his words pierced like a dagger in her side. He was just like her father. Both couldn’t see beyond the moment. There had to be someone stronger than Navar. Stronger and nobler. “Someone…we must find someone…”

One name flitted through her mind over and over as the sedative took effect.

Dylan.

Wired for Trouble

I pull the ATV to a stop in front of the house, near the huge iron sculptures, glad to be back from the Clearing of Death—aka pasture number five. I study the sculptures, trying to see the beauty within the bizarre, and shake my head. I don’t get them. They’re just a bunch of intertwining metal coils and tall spires, painted bright colors, poking out of the front lawn like aliens guarding the mothership.

Then again, one man’s art is another man’s lightning rod.

I need to walk through them to get to the house, and when I do, my stomach roils and threatens to empty. My head spins. Before my legs give out, I stumble up the porch steps and lunge for the front door.

Once inside, I slam the door and lean against it. This doesn’t feel like a normal headache. I take a few steadying breaths before my stomach settles and my head clears, yet the headache lingers, burning like third-degree sunburn. I slowly push away from the door, still feeling weak.

“Dylan? Is that you?”

“Yeah,” I manage to croak.

As I walk toward the back of the house, the migraine fades enough to keep me from puking, so I head for the unopened computer box Grandpa has stuffed in the corner of his den. I need a distraction. Plus, if there’s any info on what’s happening floating around, I should be able to find it online.

When Grandma comes in to check on my progress, I plug in the last wire to the satellite modem and sit back. “That should do it.”

I rub at my head where it still throbs. I’ve never been sick a day in my life, but the headaches… At times they’re so bad, I can barely think.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just a headache.”

She looks me over, and for a second, I fear she’s going to sink into the role of inquisitor. Instead, she says, “I’ll get you something.”

It’s then I realize Grandma doesn’t gravitate toward unpleasantness. While Mom wallows in tacky displays of emotion, splattering everything and everyone unfortunate enough to be close by, Grandma still clutches the dream of the ideal family. Poor Grandma. Nothing will ever be right when it comes to Mom.

Or to me. My genetics have been stained by a nameless father and a self-serving mother. No matter what I do, I’ll never be clean. Sometimes I wonder why I even keep trying, since I’m predestined to fail at life. But I keep going.

There’s nothing else to do.

Grandma’s gone and back in no time, with a glass of water and two candy-coated pills. I hold out my palm, thinking if any kind of drug could fix the hole in my soul, I would down the whole bottle. I quickly pop the pills in my mouth and nearly choke on the metallic taste of the well water. Why do I even bother? Nothing helps, but I know it’ll make Grandma feel better.

“A-are you doing okay?” she asks.

Not even close. I swallow my heated reply and turn back to the computer. “Yeah.”

And that’s it. No prodding. No digging on her part. Just a quick question about Mom’s effect on me. She doesn’t know I’ve embraced the void. It’s easier than trying to get rid of it.

She stands back when I slip in front of the computer and bring it humming to life. Before I switch on the monitor, I see her face reflecting back at me, clouded with anxiety, a condition she’s had since the moment I showed up. It’s got to be rough being saddled with a kid you didn’t know existed until a day ago.

I click on the monitor, erasing her image. “So…I’ve got to do a little set-up work still, register this, and get an account going, if that’s okay.”

“Of course. What do you expect to find?”

“I’m hoping whoever messed with your sheep have some kind of website. A lot of them do.” I put my hand to my temple and give it a quick rub before I get started.

Out of nowhere, she asks, “What do you think of the sculptures?”

I look at her. “What?”

“Out front. The sculptures. Do you like them?”

From where I sit, there’s a clear view of the front yard and the collection of strangely contorted metal statues. I’m not a huge fan of abstract art, but then it hits me. What if Grandma is the artist? No need to let her know how I really feel. “Yeah, sure.”

Her stare lingers. It’s one I know very well. I’ve had it directed at me my whole life. She’s trying to figure out what’s wrong with me. Good luck. I’ve got issues nobody would want to poke around in. Her frown deepens. Maybe she knows how messed up I am, but she doesn’t want to say anything because she’s too nice.

“What?” I ask. “Just say it.”

Worry tinges the edges of her clear blue eyes, and then a wobbly smile appears. “Oh, never mind. I’m a silly woman.”

It’s the stress of Mom, me, and the dead sheep. For reasons I don’t want to explore, I reinforce her fantasy that everything is fine, and I lie to her. “It’ll be okay. All we need is a lead. Something to point us in the right direction.”

She continues to hover over my shoulder as I get everything up and running. I can feel her eyes on me. It’s not the first time people have stared, but from her, it’s disconcerting. Her gaze is intense. More calculating. Every time I glance at her, she looks away.

Digging into cults and covens is boring work. Some are real, some are weird, and all of them lead me nowhere. Grandma eventually wanders off, saying something about dinner, and I can finally heave a sigh of relief. I click here, move on there. Nothing.

Hours slip by. Grandpa hasn’t returned, and it’s getting late. I sit back in the chair and plow my fingers through my hair. I’ve checked out local cults, blood sacrifices, and ancient symbols for evil. Nothing matches. Although I think it’s a long shot, I type in a search for the girl in white.

Hundreds of references pop up. Mexican folk lore. Movie and book references. Even girl rappers who dress all in white. I keep narrowing my search, until I find myself on some guy’s website and read his post from last night.

dudes you will not believe what just happened… i saw a ghost... for real… i was walking in the woods (on my way home from this awesome party over at Hank’s house) and a heavy fog rolls in... okay that’s not so weird for around here but the next second this girl appears out of nowhere… she’s seriously pale… I mean glow in the dark white… creepy, dudes! get this… she’s hot! who knew dead chicks could look so good? i totally freaked… nearly pissed my pants! but when I looked again she was gone.

I click on his profile. All the basic info is there.

I’m straight and single and looking for action. Live in the rainy Northwest, so you know I’m a serious drinker and will smoke anything that can be rolled. Junior at Northcreek High.

I do a quick search on Northcreek and find it’s the nearest high school to where I now live. A rush fills me. Bingo!

I click on his email address and type out a quick message.

hey. i’m dylan and am new to the area. i think i saw your ghost... want to swap stories?

I call out to Grandma, “What’s the phone number here?”

She tells me, and I type it out and tell the guy to call me. I’m not holding my breath that he will, but it’s worth a try. I write down as much as I can about him, visit his photo area, and study his face. He’s a big kid, one of those guys that’ll jump out of a moving car onto a skateboard because someone dares him. I know this because there are pictures of him doing it. The last one shows the waist of his pants hanging near his knees along with his boxers, and he’s screaming at the top of his lungs with a “holy crap!” look on his face. It’s not a pretty sight. I’m surprised the board didn’t snap in two.

I shut the computer off and hunger gnaws at my gut. When’s the last time I ate? The sun is going down, and I find Grandma in the kitchen, hulling a huge bowl of strawberries and staring out the window toward the woods.

She smiles when I come in. “Look at this, will you? I swear, overnight, those strawberries in that pot took off. I’ve never seen them this good.”

I look in the back yard toward the strawberry pot I’d nearly overturned last night and the plants are full and heavy with fruit. Weird.

“Find anything on the computer?” she asks.

“Not really. Where’s Grandpa?”

She nods toward the woods. “Out there still.”

“He says he’s digging in.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” She continues to snip the tops off strawberries and drop them in a bowl, as if nothing were out of the ordinary.

How can she act so cool? My nerves stretch into thin, taut ropes. I wait for them to snap. A latent protective streak emerges, shocking the hell out of me. No way can I stay still and wait for whomever—whatever—to show up and do some more damage. “Do you think he needs company?”

“I’m sure he’d like that. Why don’t I fix a snack, and you can take it to him? Do you remember the way?”

“Yeah.” I never get lost. I’d like to think that’s one of the reason’s Mom never got worked up when I was out late. She knew I could find my way home no matter where I was. In reality, she probably just never cared if I ever showed up or not.

Unwanted memories begin to swirl through my mind; I push them away and say the very last thing I want to. “Let me help.”

In no time, I’m out the door with an old rucksack slung over my shoulder, carrying a “snack” that weighs ten pounds. Grandma offers me the ATV again, but I refuse. I’ve been walking my whole life. No point in changing now. I stick to the trail that runs behind the back fence for as long as I can, keeping a wary eye on the woods.

I don’t remember why I developed an aversion to nature. All I know is that something happened to me when I was younger, a memory I can’t recall that makes the event all the scarier, especially since it scared not only me, but Mom. I’ve buried the memory so deep, it’s impossible to bring it forth. Only the recollection of rough bark and strange whispers hovers near the edge of my thoughts.

I’d refuse to go to the park with Mom because there were so many trees. I’d beg her to move us to the city instead of the next hick town on her list so I could avoid trees altogether, but she would always stare out the window and shake her head. “You can’t go to the city.”

When I hit my teens and asked again, and once again she said, “You can’t go to the city,” I heard what she was really saying.

I didn’t belong in the city.

She thought I was too stupid or too ugly or too something. Whatever it was that made me different, I knew I couldn’t control it. It was inbred in me, and Mom liked it less than I did.

I stop where the trail to pasture five starts. The sun is setting, and the wind is rattling the leaves. I don’t think about what I’m about to do; I dive in.

Shadows lengthen as my feet carry me deeper and deeper into the woods. Once I pass through the gate, the trees begin to move, swaying in an invisible wind—a wind I can’t feel. Cold sweat prickles my skin. I stretch out my stride and break into a run, zipping past the trees so fast, I can’t feel anything but the rush of air against my skin, or hear anything but the
whooshing
it makes in my ears.

I break into the small meadow, my vision shattering into a thousand bright lights, and I bend to catch my breath. I’ve never run that fast. Ever. It felt surreal.

A hand slaps my back, and I nearly fall over.

“Whoa there, Dylan,” Grandpa says, catching me so I don’t fall. He looks back from where I came, and tension fills his voice. “Is anyone following you? Did you see someone?”

I climb out of my fear and blink back the haze that’s surrounding me. “No, everything’s okay.” Straightening, I shrug out of the backpack and hold out the bag. “Grandma sent me to give you a snack.”

He takes the bag. “No time to eat. We’ve work to do. Ever shot a gun before?”

I snap my gaze to his. What he’s saying crashes in on me. “No. Isn’t that illegal without a permit, or something?”

“My property, my rules.” He gestures toward a tight cluster of trees. “I’ve dug the foxhole over there. Prime spot.”

Foxhole?
Why do I get the feeling it’s not connected to a furry little guy’s den?

“Come on.” He grabs my arm, leaving me no choice but to follow.

“I’m thinking with these trees at our back, we’re good.” As he jumps down, I can only stare at the massive hole he’s dug. His dog is checking the place out and on seeing me, his ears prick up, and he scooches into the corner, whining. The last thing I want is to deal with a crazy Grandpa
and
a crazy dog. I wish he’d leave.