Evanescent
By
Kristen Portillo
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and events are fictitious. Any similarity to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Evanescent
Smashwords
Edition
Copyright © 2011 by Kristen Portillo
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or redistributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Acknowledgements
My thanks go to my sister without whom I would never have had the courage, the strength or the inspiration to finish this story. Thank you for your late hours of hashing out scenarios, role playing and having a great time with our characters! Love you lil’ sis!
I would also like to thank my first readers: My mom, my uncle and again, my sister for the critiques, the praise and the suggestions. Your feedback was invaluable.
And of course I would like to thank my creator without whom, my breath I would not breathe and my heart would not beat. Without whom my thoughts would not form and my fingers could not write. Thank you Lord for the opportunities in this life you have given me and may everything I do be for you.
PART I
PROLOGUE
17 Years Earlier in Yaxchilan, Mexico
Humans are a predictable species. Predictable and infuriatingly simple. Especially when faced with danger. Funny creatures really, defying instinct and any promise of self-preservation when faced with death. They run. They always run. Stupid humans. They should have evolved from rats instead of monkeys, the way they run themselves in circles, getting nowhere and only prolonging their inevitable demise by miniscule amounts of time.
He expected and counted on that as he waited. He watched from the towering and formidable trees, well hidden in the elevation that cast shadows on top of shadows. She was close. Not yet close enough to see, but close enough to smell. Her scent was pungent, mixed with the earthy smell of the wet grass that blew in the frigid wind. He could smell her among the creature filled moss, concealed treacherously in the dark. He would save her from it should it be necessary. She was not yet dispensable.
The girl’s eyes darted frantically around her. It was dark. Too dark. She could only see directly in front of her thanks to a small opening in the canopy of trees where the moonlight shined down. Her bare feet were swollen and throbbing. She was nearly ankle deep in the marshlands. The Usumacinta River was close. The fresh water swamps were even closer and she feared there would be alligators waiting for her to take a wrong step. As she blindly half ran - half wobbled, mud splashed up from her heels onto her calves. She led with her nearly full-term pregnant belly, holding it firmly under its girth with both hands for support and protection. All the while she murmured fervent prayers to the gods of her tribe that somehow she and her baby would get out of this unharmed – but most importantly, alive.
Sweat began to form on her brow, her upper lip, and the base of her neck. It burned as it dripped into her eyes and salted her chapped lips. Her hips and her back began to ache with the weight of her belly. The skin around her fingers and ankles felt tight as the retained water stretched it to its limits. Her breath came in short, heaving gasps as she ran but she tried to ignore the discomforts, continuing to murmur oaths and prayers. Her only focus was on getting as far away as possible.
Surely, they were after her. They wouldn’t just let her flee without attempting to bring her back. They, being her family. Her tribe. She didn’t know what they would do. She was horrified of what she knew they were capable of. She was unmarried, pregnant and a shame to her family’s name. Her family’s honor. They were sure that she had put a curse on them all. She and her baby would bring them bad luck, famine, poverty and death, all because of who she loved. Her family would take the baby. Of that, she was positive. And do what with it, she did not know. She didn’t want to know and shuddered, as she ran, not even allowing her thoughts to scratch the surface of possibilities. She could not let them find her. She couldn’t let them decide their fate. It would certainly involve pain, possibly torture and ultimately death. No, she would decide their fate, hopefully if for nothing more than a chance at life. And so she ran.
Without warning, her heel hit moss and in a desperate attempt to right herself, she fell to her knees, still cradling her belly protectively in her arms. A mangled moan escaped her lips as tears choked her effort to inhale. She tried to stand and found her legs had suctioned into the marshy mud. Panicked adrenaline shot through her core as she struggled to stand, slipping and sliding and ultimately falling back into the mud. Her hands shot out in front of her to brace her fall. Water flew. Mud splashed into and stung her eyes. Her hair dripped with it and quickly she began to tire. Fear gripped her as the sounds of the night seemed to rise in volume. She was suddenly aware of the hooting owls, the far away coyote howls and every rustle of brush made her eyes dance around in the dark.
Then something – something cold – was grasping her hand, pulling her up, like an invisible savior appearing out of nowhere. It pulled her, without effort, to her feet. She wobbled and it supported her weight easily. She couldn’t see very well in the dim moonlight, but she could see that it was a man. He was only a faint shimmer of blue-black hair and a glimmering reflection of pale eyes, but he let her lean on him. He felt unnaturally hard but undeniably sturdy beneath her and he steadied her when she began to slip again. He held her hand in his tightly and though relief had been her initial reaction, instinct and fear suddenly held her frozen. As frozen as her hand felt within his.
Why is his hand so cold? She thought. Never mind that! Is he part of the hunting party my family sent? Have I been caught after all? Is it all over now? After everything, have my efforts to save my unborn baby been for nothing?
Then, as her mind raced, he spoke.
“Do not fret, my child. I mean you no harm. It is not from me whom you flee.” The eloquent words left his lips in a throaty rasp. She wasn’t sure if it comforted her or frightened her more. “Come, follow me,” he added and gently pulled her alongside him. She had little energy to resist and followed quietly for a moment. Fear ebbed and flowed in waves. She found herself hesitating, but her miniscule pauses didn’t affect his stride. He pulled her along like a child. “Come along now,” he coaxed when she paused for too long. “In your condition, here is the last place you should be.”
“Who,” She began to ask who he was and where he was taking her but he quieted her with a noise similar to a hiss. Her voice caught in her throat at the sound. Panic choked her and her thoughts ran rampant.
What was that sound he made? Where is he taking me? What will he do with me? What will he do to my baby? Will I be able to stop him? Will I be able to escape?
They only walked a short distance before they came to a very small, very dark clearing in the trees. She could see the shadow of a small cabin, flanked by miniature bonfires at its two front corners. In the single large front window sat the sinuous outline of a snake’s profile. She inhaled quickly. Its mouth was open, frozen in time with a yellow glowing sphere set between the top and bottom fangs.
“It isn’t real, my dear,” he cajoled. “It is just a source of light,” the raspy voice came again, as though reading her thoughts, sensing her hesitation at the sight of the serpent.
He guided her up three creaking porch steps to the heavy looking wooden front door. He opened it and ushered her inside. The smell of chamomile herbs, fresh bee’s honey, and talc wafted around her. It smelled like home. It reminded her of her mother. In the corner of the room, which was undivided by any walls or partitions, sat a middle-aged woman. She didn’t glance up as they entered and the girl briefly wondered if the woman was deaf.
“Sit by the fire,” the raspy voice suggested. He gestured toward a rocking chair that sat beside a black wood-burning stove. Flames flickered within the depths.
The girl’s attention was drawn back to the man who had saved her. She saw him clearly now. His black hair contrasted heavily with his velvety, pale skin. His eyes, which now rested on hers, were such a pale brown that they appeared nearly golden. She had never seen such colored eyes before. They were mesmerizing.
“Please, my child,” He gestured again, with large, pale hands toward the rocking chair. “Sit. You must be exhausted.”
“Thank you,” she whispered and the sound was barely audible above the crackle of the fire. He nodded his acknowledgement.
She eased herself back into the chair and watched the fire flicker through the logs.
Who is this man? Where had he come from? Why had he saved me?
“My name is Chamuco.” His voice interrupted her thoughts, once again as though he was reading them. “I saw you in a vision, among the trees. I saw you were heavy with child and you were frantic. I couldn‘t very well just leave you out there to perish with your unborn child.”
He handed her a cup of what smelled and looked like tea. She was surprised at the coldness of the cup in her hands even though the hot liquid from inside sent steam rippling up into the air. She eyed the dark liquid skeptically. He had pulled a wooden chair from the table where the other woman sat, through the expanse of the room, to sit across from her. He sat straight with his hands palm down on the arms of the chair, looking straight ahead. He looked very businesslike, professional. Like someone from the big city. Like someone who belonged in a suit and tie. She immediately felt inferior in his presence.
“You are a curandero?” Healer.
“Yes.”
She sighed again, satisfied with the simple answer although still unsure of how she felt in the presence of this very unique individual. She raised the cup in her hands to her face, taking a hesitant whiff. It smelled delicious. She took a sip of the tea, testing it, and let the hot liquid trickle down her throat into her stomach. It was comforting and definitely tea.
“Is the woman your wife?” her voice was quiet, almost a whisper. She didn’t want to offend the lady who sat stirring the kettle. There were two knitting needles and a project of sorts in muted pastel colors displayed across her lap.
The girl thought that the woman must have been very beautiful once, with her sleek black hair and olive complexion. Even beneath her lowered eyelids, she could see the intense blue of the woman’s irises. In her culture it was not common to have any color eyes but varying shades of brown.
“Her name is Isobel and no, she is not my wife.” He glanced in the older woman’s direction dismissively. She never looked up even when her name was spoken. “She is a partera,” Midwife. “And will be assisting with the birth of your child.”
There was a long moment of silence, as the girl let the information sink in.
“So, you did know I was coming.” She glanced at the woman again, but was given no acknowledgement that she knew she wasn‘t alone. “You saw me in a vision some time ago and had time to bring in a partera?” The girl stared back into the flickering flames as she questioned the man, trying to understand the logic of the situation.
“In a manner of speaking.” He didn’t elaborate, but instead stood hastily. He motioned to a mat in the far opposite corner of the cabin, quickly changing the subject. “You will sleep there until you are ready to deliver your child. Unfortunately I do not, yet, have more comfortable accommodations. Please let Isobel know when it is time. I trust you will know when that is.
“You will not always be able to find me, so please do not attempt to do so. But Isobel will contact me when you do need me.” He put emphasis on the word need, which caused the small hairs on the base of the girl’s neck to stand up. “For the pain of course. I will bring something to help you with the pain,” he added quickly when the confusion registered on her face.
With that, he strode forward and out the front door, leaving the two women alone in the warm cabin. There was no sound other than the mild rumble of the boiling liquid in the woman’s kettle and the intermittent crackle of the burning wood in the stove. The girl wasn’t sure if it was her imagination or the extreme fatigue but as quickly as he had left, she didn’t remember hearing his footsteps. In fact, at no point since he had found her in the forest had she ever heard any sign of his presence. A chill crawled down her spine as she gazed into the fire.
Nearly two weeks passed. Rain fell in torrents instead of drops and the sun rarely shined through the dense canopy of trees surrounding the small cabin, leaving the clearing in a perpetual state of dusk. The man – Chamuco – came infrequently as he had foretold and rarely spoke to either the girl or Isobel during his visits. When he did appear – always seemingly from out of nowhere and always after sundown – he chanted to himself. The girl attempted to listen, to understand, but they were spoken in a language she didn’t know and some of them were spoken in a way that frightened her. On these occasions when the chants seemed more like incantations she was glad she couldn’t understand. She didn’t want to know what he might be saying, or even worse, what he might be doing. He carried small vials of unidentifiable substances in both solid and liquid form, sprinkling them methodically throughout his property and inside the cabin. The girl watched, intrigued but never questioned him for fear of what she might learn.
She befriended Isobel quickly and learned that the woman and Chamuco were long time acquaintances. It was not uncommon for Isobel to visit him, and when he had told her about his impending visitor, she had offered to stay to help. The girl listened to the story but wondered if it was the whole truth. The distant expression in Isobel’s eyes, sometimes longing, sometimes contemptuous, and other times filled with naked fear as she explained, confused her. Yet, she hesitated to question Isobel, not wanting to lose the only friend she had.
The two began making arrangements for the impending birth. A mattress, much thicker and more comfortable than the mat she had been sleeping on, took the mats place in the corner of the cabin on the tenth day. A woven baby cradle filled with soft down blankets sat to the side of the mattress and daily, old towels were replaced with new ones on a bedside table. The girl helped Isobel wash dirty clothing in the creek nearby, scrubbing the materials on a wash board and hanging them to dry out in the cool air when it wasn’t raining. She also helped with the food preparation, although it was only for the two of them. They made teas together, finished the pastel baby blanket Isobel had been knitting the night of the girl’s arrival and they waited.
The rain filled days trudged on as if the time would never come. With each sunrise and sunset, the girl became increasingly lethargic, increasingly swollen and worked much slower. Isobel was patient, and seemed to understand or didn’t seem to mind. In her uncomfortable state, the girl became more nervous and agitated as well. Not only was she worried about the birth, but about the time that she had spent with Chamuco and Isobel. She hoped she was hidden deep enough in the forest that her family or the search party wouldn’t be able to find her. She also hoped that neither her host nor hostess would soon tire of her presence and send her on her way; especially before the birth. She had no idea where she was, let alone where she might go. The thought of giving birth alone, in the forest with only God knew what out there, scared her more than anything else.
Her fears lived a short life. On the thirteenth night of her stay in the small cabin, it began; the gush of water and then the pain. It didn’t start out so horribly at first, only causing her to stop whatever she was doing to catch her breath. But the tolerable, within hours, became completely intolerable and then quickly turned so intense that the girl felt she was on the verge of insanity. Isobel had called for Chamuco, though the girl didn’t know when or how. She lay in a frozen sweat on her mattress, gripping the sheets so tightly her knuckles were white and her fingernails left indentations in her palms. Every couple of minutes, with gritted teeth, she shoved herself away from the mattress with the heels of her feet as though to distance herself from the pain. It didn’t work. She vomited. Several times. The room spun. There were moments when she thought she might lose consciousness. All the while, Isobel placed cold compresses on her forehead, encouraged her to sip cold water and moved her from one uncomfortable position to the next.
The cabin was dark, except for the glowing sphere in the bronze cobra’s mouth and two candles that lit the corner where the girl suffered. There was no rain and no thunder. Aside from the moaning of the girl, the quiet was eerie. Isobel was turning her from her side to her back when Chamuco came through the cabin door. The girl had never been more relieved to see anyone in her life – not even the night he had rescued her – and tears at the thought of an imminent reprieve poured over her flushed cheeks. He had said he would help her with the pain; that he would bring something to help her with the pain. She didn’t want relief. She wanted him to kill her.
He beckoned Isobel to his side without acknowledging the girl and muttered in the strange foreign language under his breath. He spoke so quietly the girl couldn’t make out any of the words that were spoken. She didn’t have the energy to even try. Isobel nodded and responded in the same muted tone. Then, suddenly their cordial interaction became tense and Isobel shook her head adamantly, staring at him in disbelief. Her eyes grew wide and fearful. The same fearful expression that had overcome her features when she had spoken of hers and Chamuco’s past. Again, the girl had insufficient energy and was unable to dwell on this as another bout of pain threw her over the edge. Few more words were spoken between the two but when Chamuco glared pointedly at Isobel she froze, then immediately went to the girl, preparing her for her baby’s birth.
Chamuco proceeded to produce a small black tin of what looked like chunks of gray sea salt, a broom and several flowers that were so purple they were almost black. Through the haze of her pain, the girl watched, confused. He sprinkled the salt on the floor surrounding her mattress whispering, ‘Luna Llena,’ full moon, repeatedly in Spanish. Next, he took the broom and began sweeping the salt toward the girl. Some flew and landed on the bed. He then took the flowers, ripping the blossoms from their stems and crushed the petals in his fist. He sprinkled them onto her mattress, on and around her, continuously chanting one of the incantations in another language that had born fear into the girl each time she had heard it. His eyes seemed an impossible dark color that she could not decipher in comparison to the golden-yellow they had been the day she had met him. She expected that this was how he might help her with the pain, although she had been hoping he would have given her something of substance.
Then the pain gripped her entire body like a vice. It was followed by an equally dizzying pressure. The sensations were so intense that nothing and no one else existed until a shrill baby’s cry followed, moments later. When she opened her eyes, the small baby was lying on the bed and Isobel was vigorously wiping it down. The girl trembled violently, involuntarily. Her breaths came in short gasps, but she managed to smile through her tears. Her chest heaved with relief. Her baby was here.
Chamuco had stopped chanting and was standing at Isobel’s back, leaning forward over the small frame of the midwife. His eyes danced over the infant in a covetous way that instantly alarmed the girl. His lips curled back over his gleaming teeth – teeth that didn’t look right suddenly – in a smile so venomous she felt her eyes go wide. Before she could say or do anything, another pain overtook her body. It was identical to the other but this time lasted longer. Soon she was gasping for breath as the same intense pressure came and something else slowly, with painful cruelty, exited her body. Within moments, there was a second cry. The girl didn’t understand what was happening until she looked down to her trembling feet and saw another baby lying next to the first. In awe, she looked at Isobel who seemed exaggeratedly intent on the babies. She appeared unalarmed and busied herself, cleaning the babies and swaddling them. Chamuco’s expression was as confused and bewildered as the girl felt.
Twins? Did I just give birth to twins?
The idea was enough to send her over the edge of exhaustion. She flopped back on her pillow, let her eyes close and the darkness surrounded her.
When the girl woke, the room was brighter. Several candles were burning. The black stove flickered away in the far corner and Isobel was back at the table she had been at the night the girl had arrived. Chamuco was nowhere in sight but as the girl looked to her bedside, there – one in the intended woven basket and the second in a cushioned bundle of blankets – were her two babies. Despite being weak and sore, she moved to get out of bed. She reached down to touch the face of the baby nestled in the blankets. Its cheek was warm and unbelievably soft. It opened its eyes at her touch and she smiled. Beautiful dark eyes with the natural blue ring of newborn infancy sparkled back at her. The baby yawned contentedly and closed its eyes again. She lifted the infant from where it was swaddled and the sensation of the tiny weight in her arms warmed her heart. She cuddled the baby to her cheek and turned to lay it behind her on her bed. She then moved to the other baby whose eyes were already open, and she gasped. One hand flew involuntarily to her mouth. This baby’s eyes had no blue ring. This baby’s eyes were pupil-less black orbs.
“Isobel!” The girl scrambled closer to her baby to get a better look. Her pelvis and legs ached intensely but she couldn’t help herself. Isobel looked up. Her eyes, as they met the young girl’s, were sad. “It’s eyes!” the girl cried, oblivious to Isobel’s clear discontentment. She rushed to her side and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Its eyes are completely black! Is it blind? What’s wrong with its eyes?”
Isobel did not answer. A cold draft entered the room despite the wood burning in the stove and the lit candles. The flames wavered with the force of the breeze, flickered but remained lit. Wide eyed with fear and concern, the girl gathered her nightshirt around her body and turned as Chamuco strode silently to the window above the woven basket and pulled the shade down. Holding the small loop in place, he looked down at the baby in question.
“There is nothing wrong with your baby.” His raspy voice came out in a hiss and the wretched look in his eyes upon the first baby’s birth flooded the girl’s memory. She rushed to the second baby, instinctively reaching for it. When she lifted the infant from the basket, she saw that Chamuco was right. As she looked into the baby’s eyes, they were the same dark brown ringed with blue as its sibling’s. She swallowed, feeling panic rise in her throat. She knew what she had seen. She wasn’t crazy.
She glanced back at Isobel who watched her with insurmountable fear in her eyes. The girl spun and saw Chamuco reaching for the baby in her arms.
“What are you doing?” She recoiled instinctively.
“Taking what is rightfully mine.” His intense eyes nearly glowed with malice. His voice hissed through his lips like the tongue of a snake.
In one deft movement, the girl hadn’t expected him capable of; he had spun the infant out of her arms and had simultaneously shoved her to the floor where she fell like a pile of broken branches. The jolt of impact, in addition to her postpartum pain, crippled her and she lay on the floor, unable to move.
Chamuco laid the infant next to its sibling on the bed and walked purposefully to the window where the bronzed statue of the cobra sat. He took the glowing sphere from its mouth, strode back to where the infants lay, and placed it gently on one infant’s forehead. The soft yellow glow turned pitch black.
“Revive,” he spoke in a hushed Spanish command and the cobra from the window blinked its yellow slit eyes. It let out a long, menacing hiss before it turned and slithered with bone chilling sluggishness down the wall toward the girl. “Matala,” he whispered in Spanish. Kill her. He watched with sadistic pleasure as the snake circled slowly around the girl, a predator encroaching carefully on its already wounded prey, and then it struck. Her eyes went wide as she lay on the floor. She convulsed quietly. Blood trickled from her mouth and from the place at her heart where the snake had attacked. Chamuco took great pleasure in his next words, “Terminelo.” Finish it. The snake hissed again in obedience and head first, entered the wound at the girl’s heart. Blood flowed freely as its tail disappeared inside her chest and moments later the snake reappeared, covered in thick purple blood, exiting her mouth.
Isobel hadn’t watched. She knew what Chamuco had intended to do. She had tried to persuade him not to. She had even threatened him, but he had returned the threat with not only her own life but the lives of her children. She cried silent tears as she gazed at the wooden boards of the cabin wall. The girl had been innocent. She hadn’t deserved this, but that was why he had chosen her for his evil plan. His curse had seemed to work, unlike the hundreds of other failed attempts of many centuries before. One of the baby’s had been born with a mark. No one had guessed there would be twins. The second baby was not born the same. Isobel had been instructed while the girl slept that she would get rid of the ‘unaffected’ baby. She had refused this order as well, with the same result. She feared that if she did not obey him, the deaths of her children would be far more torturous and severe than the death she had just witnessed.
“You will take the useless one and kill her.” He spoke calmly as though he were giving orders to dispose of some moldy bread. “I will know if you don’t, just as before. This is the last opportunity I give you to do right by me.”
He had placed the marked twin back in her woven basket and lifted the unaffected twin in his hands as though she were a parasite. Her chin shivered from the cold and she began to cry, gasping newborn wails. He carried her away from his body, not cradled in his arms like the other, to Isobel.
“Take her and be done with it. You are no longer needed here.” Isobel took the infant in her arms, sobbing quiet, tearless sobs; for the girl who lay dead on the floor, and for these babies and their unknown destinies.
“How am I supposed to,” her voice trailed off as her eyes met the eyes of the infant in her arms. So small. So frail. So innocent.
“You will do whatever it takes to get the job done, woman!” His said vehemently. He stood at the head of the woven basket.
“What will you do with,” Again he didn’t let her finish. Taking a step toward her, his eyes branded themselves into her mind.
“That is none of your concern. Now tell me, are you capable?” A slow menacing grin spread across his face revealing his brilliant teeth. “I will do it myself. It will be easier and I won’t have to worry that you’ll fail me, again.”
“No!” Isobel shoved herself from her chair with such force that it fell backwards. It clattered noisily into the wall behind her. The baby in her arms began to cry louder. “I won’t fail you,” she whispered desperately.
Chamuco’s eyes bore into hers, as though he knew her intentions contradicted her words. Fear coursed through her like a lightning bolt. Her eyes darted from Chamuco’s penetrating gaze to the baby in her arms, to the baby lying in the woven basket. Grief and fear choked her as she looked back at Chamuco. She had only felt as vulnerable and as helpless one time before. Only, that time it had been her own child’s life she had fought for.
Now, even though every cell of her being screamed for her to try to save both babies, she inched slowly and cautiously toward the front door. It was only as she reached the bottom of the porch steps that her slow pace turned into long, quick strides. Her breathing came fast, through hysterical sobs as those strides turned into a sprint. The night was dark, as dark as the night Chamuco had brought the girl back to the cabin. The sounds of the wild forest echoed around her, but she paid no mind. She knew her way. She’d been through here many times before. The full moon shown above in only glimpses through the endless canopy of trees. Anguish engulfed her. The baby cried. A hawk let out a warning call that it had found its prey and was about to strike. Rocks flew up behind Isobel’s heels, clipping her ankles. She didn’t feel the sting. The mud wetted her calves. She didn’t notice. She didn’t care. She continued to run.
She only slowed her manic pace when she reached the most populated village, a good distance from the evil she had left behind in the forest. It was heavy with nightlife and tourists crowding the streets; loud, drunk, partying tourists who flooded every hole in the wall making it difficult for her to maneuver through the city quickly. It took time, patience and when she burst through the solid oak doors of the orphanage, the startled expression on the keeper’s face told her she looked horrific.
“I’m sorry but…” the keeper began.
Isobel cut off whatever the woman had been about to say.
“Twins,” she spoke quickly, moving toward the keeper. Her arms were outstretched offering the infant to the woman. “Born in the forest. He’ll kill her if he finds her.”
The keeper’s eyes grew wide with shock and she opened her mouth to speak, but Isobel only shook her head vigorously. Isobel quickly handed the baby to her. She was unable to vocalize a single other word and with one last glance into the baby’s brown eyes, fled out the orphanage doors into the night.
No one heard her screams of agony that night as she watched her children die, and then as she, herself, was tortured and killed.
The christening ritual was held beneath the same full moon the girl had been born under. It shined its white glow down upon her through the canopy of trees basking her tiny body in milky light. There were no stars in the velvet obscurity; just the blanket of shadows and the thick beam of moonlight. She lay naked, her skin bone white, on a bed of black silk surrounded by fire. It flickered toward her, dangerously close. The full moon reflected in her simple gaze interrupted only by the orange light in the ebony depths of her irises. Her tiny fists lay balled upon her chest and her legs lay relaxed, bowed in front of her. Her breaths were even, her tiny abdomen rising and falling.
As the batons of fire sizzled, the low dramatic hum of a one-man chant filled the air. As the mantra became more intense, louder, almost deranged, the mark – a pale brown serpent coiled around her left arm – became raised and throbbed as her blood pulsed through it. The head of the snake detached completely from her skin, its hood flaring out from its neck. Its black tongue flickered in and out of its mouth tasting the air. Its body writhed on her skin as though it too wanted to be free and it opened its cottony pink mouth sinking its razor sharp fangs into the soft pale flesh of her hand. It didn’t recoil after it struck either; instead, maintaining its grasp on her it began to feed.
The baby girl’s black eyes remained open, unblinking but her lower lip quivered as the cobra drained her of her mortality. Then as its black venom entered her system, the blue-green veins just below her porcelain skin slowly turned gray and began to stand out from her suddenly tense body. They roped themselves in bulging knots around her arms, legs, torso and neck. The infinitely black eyes opened wider, this time registering pain, and the baby’s shrill cry echoed through the forest.
17 Years Earlier in Damascus, Syria
I bolted upright in bed, breathing heavily. Two visions had interrupted my otherwise dreamless sleep and left me with a knot in the pit of my stomach. The first had simply been a pair of wide, innocent, brown eyes. Not Rose’s eyes, which often plagued my sleep. No, these eyes belonged to a stranger and yet I felt like they should have been familiar.
Outside, the streets of Damascus were quiet for once, but in my head, I could hear the screams of the people in my second vision. In it, I had been somewhere else. All around me the air smelled acrid. I felt fear, not my own – fear was something I experienced less frequently than I dreamt – but the fear of the dying and those waiting for death. Their screams echoed in my head. My chest ached with grief, though I didn’t know for whom I grieved. This was not the normal pain of knowing there were people I couldn’t save, it went deeper. It was personal.
Groaning, I buried my face in my hands. I saw enough death during my waking hours and now it insisted on invading my sleep as well. The familiar depression that came with being what I am began to drape itself around me, when suddenly the eyes from my first vision interrupted my misery. All at once, I was calm and the grief began to ebb away. Staring out at the night sky through the colored glass window, I puzzled over those eyes. Confusion was not something I was used to feeling either, and I did not care for it. I had never felt that sense of calm before, so why now? To whom did the eyes belong?
Then I experienced an epiphany of sorts. Of course. There was no other explanation. She had finally been born. I leaned back and let it soak in. Finally, after centuries of waiting, she was here. Another vision graced me as I marveled at this simple fact. Raven black hair, pale skin, chocolate brown eyes, and a cry so akin to the despair that had haunted me for so long it made my chest ache. All the long, empty years of my life ceased to matter. The one person that would light up my darkness had arrived. My other half.
Now all I had to do was find her.
PREFACE
I never thought that death would come so quickly. It wasn’t at all like I had thought. There was no flashback of images into my life’s memory bank. There was no white light. There was little more than the heavy sensation of my body repressing something that begged to be set free. My soul? My spirit? Whatever it was it felt trapped within me and I was tired of holding it captive.
I had always imagined that my life, long before death, might have had a purpose. Regardless of the fact that I could never even begin to figure out what that was; aside from the desperate need to be close to the one who was slowly killing me. Destiny had a cruel sense of humor. I had always imagined that there would have been more: More laughter. More love. More time – time – I hadn’t had enough time. I would be dead at seventeen. Would people see it as a tragedy? A stereotype? A rightful end to the girl who must have driven herself to the brink of insanity? Would anyone even notice at all? And in the end, did it really matter?
The answer to that was no.
Nothing mattered. Nothing other than the blue eyes that stared down at me, shimmering, and each second that ticked by bringing me closer and closer to never seeing those eyes again. I needed more time. How could I exist, in any sense of the word, without those eyes?
As a child I had often dreamt about animals, lambs specifically. Beautiful, white, baby creatures that were fragile and innocent and vulnerable. Maybe it was because my dad called me his little lamb. Then later, as I grew older, he called me his tiger. I never dreamt about tigers. Tigers were big and strong and resilient. I was none of those. How silly of my dad to have called me his tiger. A lamb could never be a tiger. A lamb would always be a lamb. I was born a lamb. I would die a lamb.
“Brinn, can you hear me?” The whisper that belonged to my blue-eyed angel was like a song even though it sounded far away.
I felt the corners of my mouth pull into a smile as those blue eyes blurred in my vision.
I nodded, using every ounce of my waning strength.
“I love you Seth,” I whispered and then my world stopped turning.
Chapter 1
Los Angeles, California
Los Angeles International airport was busy. No, that was an understatement. It was swarming. Tourists and travelers of every ethnicity and purpose moved along hurriedly, armpit to armpit toward their individual destinations. Some rudely cut others off in their haste. Bumping backpacks from shoulders, suitcases out of hands and in some cases even knocking an innocent person completely off their feet. Generally, the assailant did not even bother to glance back in apology, provoking some low mumbled or loudly flung, colorful comments. Others stayed carefully at a distance, moving slower than the rest but unscathed by the throng of rushing people. It seemed everyone wore some form of communication device on their person or luggage and were oblivious to everything else. Yes, busy was an understatement. LAX was never just busy.
I stood in the short line for the metal detectors with my carryon bag placed in front of me on my Converse clad feet. My tickets were damp against my moist palm as I inched forward every couple of minutes. My mother stood at my right side fiddling with the strap of her purse nervously while my father, who stood to my left, checked my flight‘s departure time on his iPhone.
“Are you sure, and I mean absolutely, one hundred percent positive that this is what you want to do?” My mother’s eyes searched my face, looking for traces of doubt, hesitation – or pain. “You can change your mind. There is still time.”
“No mom, I want to do this. I have to do this.” I inched forward again and took a deep breath as I handed my ticket and ID to the security guard. “I’ll be fine. I promise!”
I hugged both my parents tightly around their necks, murmuring my goodbyes. I was anxious to get to my gate and on the airplane that would take me to my new life. After passing through the detectors, I took the time to wave enthusiastically and blow countless air kisses to my parents even as my feet carried me toward my terminal. I could see my mom waving frantically in return from behind the glass that separated the travelers from their families and friends. I felt a slight pang of guilt; my poor mom.
What was she going to do without me?
I had been her whole life for the last seventeen years and now here I was just skipping out on her when she thought I needed her the most. I took a breath. She was a grown woman. She would find things to occupy her time. My dad on the other hand seemed preoccupied with something else on his phone and I smirked; Typical dad. I continued waving for my mom’s benefit until she was no longer in sight and finally let my arm fall down to my side. I inhaled deeply, excitement slowly filling me. This was it. This was the beginning of something new. This was when Brinn Kiernan’s life would change. A means to an end and thus a new beginning. My life could finally begin.
Battle Ground, Washington
Stepping onto Strong Academy’s high school campus in Battle Ground, Washington was not as life changing as I had expected. I had traveled a thousand miles to attend the same school as my estranged identical twin – who had no idea I existed – and had expected more than the building that resembled a massive Leggo set flanked by cow pastures. I had expected to feel different, to have some divine enlightenment. Instead, I felt ridiculous and out of place standing on the sidewalk huddled beneath my umbrella. My suitcase teetered precariously against my leg as I stared at the cookie cutter buildings, wondering where I needed to go. Other students milled around me. Some carried umbrellas and some endured the soft rain that fell relentlessly. A few cast shadowed glances in my direction.
Yes, I’m new! Get over it! I wanted to scream in frustration and flicked water from the school pamphlet.
Intently focused on cursing the rain I was startled when a female student talking on her cell phone walked by me, bumping my shoulder. My heart skipped a beat as my suitcase thudded onto the wet sidewalk.
“Excuse you,” she sneered from under her hooded raincoat, looking me up and down, and then resumed her phone conversation. “Oh, some stupid girl just ran into me.”
I watched her strut away, my hands gripping the handle of my umbrella so tightly that my knuckles turned white. I closed my eyes and inhaled. I couldn’t let one arrogant girl ruin my day. As I stooped to rescue my fallen suitcase I heard a voice nearby ask,
“Is that Olivia?”
Instinctively I turned toward the voice and immediately the two girls who had been watching me jerked their gazes away, staring conspicuously at each other, smiling and whispering.
“She looks like Olivia,” I heard someone else say as they passed me.
“But it’s not. Look, her hair and skin are completely different,” another responded.
They were definitely talking about me. The realization made me self-conscious. Of course, they were talking about me. How strange would it be to go to school with someone and then a nearly identical person just shows up from out of nowhere? I squeezed my eyes shut momentarily and then began to walk. This was going to be an adjustment. In California, things were different. People were different. Schools were different. In California, I could hide in or behind a group of people and no one would know I was there. I was a proverbial fly on the wall. No one cared about me because I was no one. I went where I pleased, did as I pleased and no one noticed. Here, in only the short time since I had arrived, I could already tell it wasn’t going to be the same.
“You look lost,” I heard a lyrical female voice say near my left shoulder and turned to see who had spoken.
The girl was my height, wearing a black knee-length raincoat. I could see from under her hood, though, that her eyes were strangely lavender, her skin a flush of caramel and her hair a shroud of blond curls around her face. My own eyes widened at the sight of her. She wasn’t just pretty or even just beautiful. There was something unique and hypnotizing about her that I couldn’t figure out.
“Did you need help finding something?”
I realized quickly that I had been staring, struck silent by the complexity of her features.
“I’m looking for the dorms.” I looked down at the piece of pink paper that provided my dorm room assignment.
“Well,” She turned so that she was standing next to me and pointed at the identical shoebox building that paralleled the school. “Those are the girl’s dorms. Issaquah Commons.” She turned back to me and extended her hand. “I’m Regan by the way.”
Once again, I couldn’t form a rational thought when our eyes met. It suddenly bothered me that I couldn’t figure out what was so unique about her face. I realized seconds later that her hand was hanging between us and instantly reached out to shake it. I opened my mouth to introduce myself but instead, was struck silent once again. The heat that seared through my body was familiar.
In the span of only moments, but what felt like an eternity, I was taken back to California and the night when my symptoms began. The unpleasant hot flashes and the mildly more pleasant cold flashes, the tingling sensations – as though my extremities had all fallen asleep – and the dreams; dreams without images, just sensations. Bottomless dreams of pain, and misery. Others of euphoria and still others of horror. On occasion I would dream of water – the only dream that wasn‘t stuck in obscurity; cool, pale-blue water that darkened and lightened with my mood. These dreams of water were my only reprieve in the mystery that was the onslaught of my symptoms. In these dreams, especially when the water was its palest blue, I found nothing but the purest of peace.
Now, with my hand in Regan’s, the warmth that pulsed through my body felt like one of my hot flashes, but it radiated directly from her hand.
“. . . You are?” she was saying and immediately I was thrust back into the present.
“Brinnalyn – Brinn,” I pulled my hand out of hers. Slowly the hot flash subsided.
Probably just a coincidence, I justified to myself.
“Nice to meet you Brinn.”
She turned and walked away before I could respond.
I had never been socially awkward – until now. Then again I had never been particularly social at all with my peers in California. My friends were really more acquaintances than anything. People who I saw in school or said hi to when I saw them in public, but not anyone I knew well or particularly liked.
Would I like my sister? I hoped so. After all, she was the reason for my change of schools. In addition to wishing fervently for her acceptance, I also hoped that she held the key to the strange symptoms I had been plagued with for the last several months. Being adopted was tricky when it came to genetic and hereditary illnesses. Until my adopted parents found my identical twin, no one was sure that I even had any living blood relatives. One of the more competent specialists, who I had been seeing, suggested that my symptoms could be the result of something genetic. He was greatly disgruntled to find that I had no medical history for my biological family, but insisted that the cure to whatever I had would probably be found there. So, the search for my sister began – and ended here, in the small town of Battle Ground, Washington.
Thoughts of my sister and then the girl named Regan with the weird purple eyes and the even more bizarre set of features flooded my mind as I trudged through the rain toward the dorms. She had been looking at me so intently. She had asked if I needed help getting to where I needed to go, had introduced herself and then disappeared.
My foot was suddenly ice cold, ripping me from my thoughts, and I realized I had stepped in a massive puddle up to my ankle.
“Agh!” I pulled at my pant leg, which was now soaked to mid-calf, and tried to shake some of the water from inside my shoe. “I hate rain,” I grumbled as I stepped inside Issaquah Commons.
There was a small huddle of girls around a desk where a friendly looking woman with short brown hair sat. At the side of the desk was a sign that indicated that I needed to sign in with her. I stepped up to the huddle of girls. I hadn’t expected them to take notice of me, but it seemed they sensed my presence and immediately turned to see who I was. Several faces went ashen. One girl’s face twisted into a look of disgust while a few others looked completely confused.
“How can I help you, dear?” The woman sitting behind the desk smiled and waved me closer. I saw, as I approached, that her nametag read Mrs. Kolt.
“I’m supposed to sign in here.” I carefully avoided the faces of the girls who watched with curiosity.
“Of course.” Mrs. Kolt’s eyebrows curved into each other and a small wrinkle formed between them. “Are you related to Olivia Felicitas?” The sound of my sister’s name sent a jag of adrenaline through me.
A collective breath seemed to be held by the crowd of girls waiting for my answer.
“Yeah, I’m her sister,” The silence hung heavily in the air. I thought I could hear my heart pounding thunderously inside my chest.
Finally, Mrs. Kolt chuckled nervously.
“Well, what’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Brinnalyn Kiernan.”
“Ah, yes. Here you are. Do you have your pink slip?” I placed the pink dorm assignment on the desk. She placed it within a tin of various pink index cards, closed the lid and smiled up at me. “You are in dorm room A4 which is upstairs and down the hall, third door on your right.”
“Thanks.”
I turned and keeping my eyes on my shoes, moved away from the group of girls. I could feel their eyes on my back as I left and hoped that every time I met someone new, that not everyone’s reaction would be the same. I heard a faint explosion of excited whispers when they could no longer see me.
The dorm room was easy enough to find and when I reached to turn the handle I realized I could hear soft music coming from behind the door. Great, I already had a roommate. Would she react to me in the same way others had? I sighed deeply and turned the handle. Walking into room A4 was like walking into a separate universe. My sense of smell and sight were assaulted at once. Several burning sticks of incense sat on the wooden dresser, the matching bedside table, and atop an antiquated computer screen. They scented the air with an aroma of cinnamon and pepper. It made my eyes water. The walls were papered in bright, colorful images of imaginary creatures ranging from vampires to werewolves and others that I didn‘t recognize; including a strangely morphed image of a half-man, half-bird lit in flames. Then, as I looked up, I was surprised by yet another human sized poster of a half dressed vampire taped to the ceiling.
“Hot, isn’t he?” The voice startled me and sent my heart tripping over itself. My eyes shot to the one of the two beds in the room where a girl with spiky auburn hair sat cross-legged.
“What?” I asked confused.
“The vampire.” The girl flicked her gaze in the direction of the poster on the ceiling and quickly back to me.
“Oh yeah. Sure.” I pulled my suitcase over the threshold, dragged it to the bed opposite my roommate’s, and plopped down onto the naked mattress.