It is rarely comfortable when seeing ourselves through the eyes of someone else. It is why we take great pains, sometimes subconsciously, to avoid doing so. We don’t invite people in, keep them at arm’s length. Facades are carefully crafted and curated to present precisely what we want others to see, as opposed to who we truly are.
That’s the difference between a House and a Home.
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I was about to be trapped with this eight-year-old terror in my personal space. I knew the moment she stepped through the door that she’d be taking everything in and would have the place ripped apart and put back together in the fashion that she thought best suited… punctuated by cryptic queries and poignant observations. Resigned, I opened the door and flipped the lights on, inviting her in.
The terror child stood in the doorway, glanced at the front room, and upon stepping foot across the threshold, looked to me. “You have got to be kidding me. You live in an Ikea. Are you gay?”
The door closed behind me perhaps a little harder than it ought to have, and I dropped my keys and badge back in the drawer and bumped it closed in irritation before I composed my thoughts enough to answer. “Actually, it’s Martha Stewart, and no, not that it is any of your business, I am not.” I didn’t need to tell her that I had handed the magazine over to an interior designer and said for her to pick something suitable. I’d found I’d liked the monochrome simplicity, but now that she’d said it, it did rather look like I’d bought out an Ikea line. Damn. Now I’d have to call my decorator and have her redecorate.
She drifted over to the sofa and perched herself on it, looking to me expectantly. I watched her warily for a moment, and then shook my head. "If you want, there are bottles of water in the refrigerator, and I can make us some tea." She stared at me with her huge green eyes, and I walked into the living room and sat on the chair next to the sofa.
The big question was what the hell I was going to do with Vanessa. I had entirely too much on my schedule to be able to easily accommodate an eight-year-old girl, and yet, she’d entrusted herself to me. I wasn’t the kind of man to walk out on anyone, so… “Right. So… I suppose the next thing I ought to ask you is what your father told you to do after calling me.”
“He said you’d know what to do.”
Oh, hell. I knew this wouldn’t be easy. “You’re welcome to stay here, but just because you’re here doesn’t mean you won’t be going to school.” I watched her face fall. “You’ll be going to school and doing your class work just like normal. There’s nothing different there. Have you any after school programs? Any clubs or sports that I should know about?” If she was a Girl Scout, I’d buy a hat for the express purpose of eating it.
Her lips quirked in something that almost resembled a smirk and shook her head. “No. I go to class, and I go home.”
I had this strange suspicion that she was hiding something, and I tilted my head and looked at her. “Let me guess, the Girl Scouts didn’t want you and your grandfather is afraid you’ll take over.” For three-quarters of a second, her face betrayed her, and I started to chuckle. “And now that I’ve got the way of you, you can stop being scared. I’m not in the habit of eating young girls, no matter how feisty they are.”
She stared at me for a long time, those green eyes wide, and I swear I could see the cogs and wheels spinning in her head. I knew that there was no chance she was only eight, knew that she was entirely capable of holding her own, but that appearances had her trapped in the public opinion of helpless and in need of protection. “All right, tell me, Vanessa. How old are you, truly?”
I may as well have threatened her with pain and death. Abject terror flickered through her eyes before she looked away towards my fireplace. I sighed, and reached out with my magic, allowing the fire to catch and build, even though it wasn’t particularly cold out. “Look, I understand. Really, I do. It’s a blessing and a curse to look younger than you are; I’m over a hundred and fifty, but most people think I’m skirting twenty. So yeah, I get it.”
That green gaze was back on me, and I felt that heavy silence that meant she wanted to break with a confession, wanted to share a secret but ultimately, she didn’t. “Where am I supposed to sleep?” I’d lost her, lost the chance to connect with the person hiding in the eight-year-old shell, and I knew it.
“The bedroom is upstairs on the left.” My bedroom. The other room was empty. “The sheets are clean; my housekeeper came this morning. Do you… should I… I’m not good at this.” I floundered for a moment and then cleared my throat. “There’s a bathroom attached… do you need anything else? A book or a nightlight?” I let the fire bank and die, the warmth from the fireplace fading into the night.
She rose from the sofa and collected her bag from where she’d left it by the door. “I think I can put myself to bed just fine.” Now that sounded like the bruised ego of a teenager. “Good night, Mister Shestin. Thank you for your help.” Oh yes, she was definitely a teenager.
I nodded to her, watching her walk up the stairs and move to the left. The door upstairs closed, though I didn’t hear the lock. She could have turned it quietly, and I’d have missed it. It wasn’t necessary, as I had no intentions of going anywhere near the upstairs until absolutely needed. Eventually I would need clothing and a shower, but I’d call a car to take her to school before I went about my own morning.
First, however, I needed to get through the night.
I was glad that I had asked Kelly to email over copies of the files that pertained to the kidnapping case that I was consulting. A laptop screen wasn't the best for reviewing documents, but it beat trying to read them on my phone by a long shot. The trouble was, beyond what I already knew about our kidnapper, there wasn't anything else there. I needed to be out and hunting down this guy, but instead, I had Vanessa to consider.
That reminded me to send an email to Ravenswing, and I briefly detailed how I had found the house, and that Vanessa was safe with me. I added a comment about contacting her ASAP so that she'd know he was alive and sent it through the digital ether. I had no idea if he'd get it anytime soon, but I did my duty as a.... Oh, let's just not go there, shall we?
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I looked at the clock and found it wasn't as late as I had hoped it was: just barely past one in the morning. I had a long while to go, so I slipped out to the back yard and indulged in a cigarette, resting my arms against the railing and watching the leaves rustle in the trees. Trees that were moving because something was there. Something that wasn't a neighbor but might have been a college student if I lived closer to campus. Suspicious, I put out the cigarette and moved quietly towards the source of the movement.
I'm sure to an outside viewer the scene must have been comical. There I was, dressed head to toe in black, hunting something that had made my trees shake, poking through branches in search of an intruder or some non-mundane being that might have been Hell-bent on harming the girl in my bedroom. To my left, something moved, and I spun, fire flaming up in my hand to illuminate the figure of my erstwhile brother, who was staring at me as if I were the world's greatest idiot. "Christ, Xelander! What the hell?!”
The ghost of a smile died before it got to his lips. “You never were one to think things through, and your magic aptly reflects that fickle, manic nature. And for all that you are, for all the madness that seems to surround your life, there is one thing that I can be certain about: You are not, and never have been a killer.” And now is when I mention that when Xelander is wrong, he’s colossally wrong, right?
I turned away, staring at a nearby shadow, opening my mouth to give voice to the number that haunted my soul, but it came out as a hoarse whisper that faded before I could speak it fully. Oh yes, I knew how many had died by my hand. “You wanted the truth, Xelander, and I gave it to you. If you can’t believe it, or you can’t come to terms with that, then I can’t do much to help you. But you asked, and I answered.”
“What must be done to free you from this, Teimhean? Surely there is a way that you can reclaim your soul,” He’s also an optimist, which is a trait that some can find endearing, but I find needlessly exhausting. “Tell me what it is, and I will do everything in my power to help you achieve it.” Oh, brother, you just don’t get it. I deliberately mumbled, trying to avoid the answer that he was after. It hadn’t worked before, but I had to try.
He moved and caught my arm, forcing me to turn and look at him, and I mustered every ounce of anger I could and tore myself away from him. “It’s you, Xelander. I’d have to kill you to be free of the contract, and that’s out. I’m not doing that. Not after what I’ve gone through to keep you alive.”
This silence was an entirely different one from the silence that had fallen in my dining room. I had thought that silence was deep, but this one cut straight through me like a hot knife. He stared, stunned, and it was all I could do to maintain the level of anger rushing through me without resorting to my fire magic. I thought it would falter, thought my resolve would vanish like vapor, and I regretted those words, but I knew they were for the best.
“Look, this is my life. This is who and what I am now. Contrary to popular belief, I have come to terms with this aspect of my life, and I don't need anyone to try and save me from it. Now go home. Go back to your apartment, go to sleep. Wake up in the morning and go to work. Save lives, heal people what need it, and leave my life alone. I don't need saving.”
That storm-blue gaze stayed on mine, and when he spoke, his voice was so low that I almost didn't hear him. "Contrary to your belief, you do need saving, Teimhean. You can't keep doing this; your soul is dying."
"My soul is already dead. Go home, Xelander." I turned away from him, but his hand caught my arm again. I knew if I tried to fight him, it would only end badly, so I let him turn me, let him look me in the eyes, and I didn’t try to hide my emotions from him. All the anger, all the pain, every vow I’d ever made to do what was necessary to make certain he survived… I threw it all into my gaze and wished like Hell that I was a thoughtmage and could make him see it.
He released me and stepped backwards, shock flashing across his face. I knew then that I was right to push him away, out of my world and back where it was safe, so I summoned my courage and stepped forwards, moving into his personal space. The effort to scare him out of my life lowered my voice and edged it with ragged emotion. “Go. Home.”
This time, when I turned around, he didn’t stop me.
At four in the morning, I was seated in the living room, my book in hand, nursing the remnants of a glass of brandy. It’s never a good hour, no matter which side of the clock you’ve found it from, and the soft sound on my doorstep sent a jolt of adrenaline through me. A moment later had two solid knocks on the door and I realized who it was by that simple sound. Ravenswing only ever knocked twice, two perfectly controlled impacts of knuckle against wood. I rose, opened the door, and looked at him for a moment before pointing up the stairs. “She’s asleep upstairs.” I wouldn’t ask what happened, but he didn’t look any different from his usual appearance.
He nodded once and moved through the door, past me to take the stairs up to my bedroom. I tried not to have a panic attack as he walked into the room without knocking, but then I heard the soft sleepy voice of a little girl, and an almost equally soft reply. From Ravenswing. Well, the bastard knew how to be kind after all, go figure. I knew better than to mention it, though.
There was only one set of footfalls on the stairs several minutes later, and I turned from my contemplation of having another glass of brandy to find that she was curled in his arms, sleepy head against his shoulder, one hand tucked between them and the other limp at her side. If I hadn’t known who he was under that façade of humanity, I’d perhaps have taken him for a normal father.
He nodded to me, and I found myself nodding back, a move eerily reminiscent of our old Gentlemen’s Agreements of old. For her sake, and only for her sake, a truce of sorts would be held. I knew that as long as she trusted me, as long as I had her approval… I was safe from his hand. Her presence bound him, turned him into a creature I didn’t understand, but would not question. I was, at least, smarter than that.
The door closed behind them as I considered this new knowledge, and I poured myself that brandy, memory flashing against my brain. The weight of a child in my arms, a warm, half clinging presence. The sleepy slow breaths puffed against my shoulder, flickering eyelashes. I knew that weight from long ago, and I hadn’t been prepared for my mind to bring the emotions rushing back over me, sparking dampness under my eyelids.
Memory was my pain and penance, but brandy was in part the salve that kept me sane. My magic warmed the alcohol, and I drank it in a heated rush, setting the glass on the counter and trying to turn my thoughts away from the past. It was harder than it should have been, but I’d manage it if it took another drink. Or three.
It took, instead, a knocking at my front door, and I glanced at the clock. It was almost five in the morning, if I stretched the seconds by a few more. Running my hand through my hair, I attempted to look less like I had spent the night perched on various chairs downstairs and opened the door to look out and see what chaos was throwing at me now.
A young man stood at the door, tall and slender, wearing a black t-shirt with a faded logo and text on over a pair of impossibly tight black jeans. Black hair hung in his face, mostly obscuring a brilliant blue gaze, but the elfin tips of his ears were unmistakable. He looked like a refugee from some urban fantasy novel where elves were trying to blend in by looking as grunge eighties as they possibly could.
“Hey. Can I come in?” His voice was soft, an echo of a sound all too familiar to my ears, Irish accent rich and deep with greens not reflected in his appearance, but there all the same. I nodded and stepped out of the way, silently allowing the young elfin figure in and closing the door behind him.
He walked across to the brandy and poured himself a glass. I didn’t stop him, even though he didn’t look old enough to kick the drink back like he did. Instead, I folded my arms and looked at him thoughtfully; waiting for him to decide to explain his unannounced visit, though perhaps I should have expected him. Memory didn’t often wash over me without good reason, and the young man holding the empty brandy glass was, after all, my son Tristan.