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The
tsi:ge:O watched the limousine bounce
back up the road. A smoky thread of mist followed. It crept close, waiting for
the chance to attack. A strand flowed around Benny's ankle, testing the pull
on the limp body.
Take
the boy, drag him to the ‘Stone. Feed on the essence of his soul. A warning
seeped through it.
It
sensed Anna was home and withdrew to await another time.
Wounds
suffered at Blackman Street Bar pulled and felt like they were being acquired
all over again. He eased the now silent Uohali-Night Sun over the broken cobbles
of the driveway, easing passed his mother's old wreck. Pausing at the door, he
listened intently for any sign of life within the house.
He
stepped into the gloom of the porch, a light breeze whispered through the
screening and Benny winced.
“What
. . . ?” He lifted his foot and stared at the floor.
Oh,
man. He was in for it, but good. Mom must really be POed if she was smashing
stuff.
Benny
shoved a path through it for his bike.
A
mental image of Carl came to mind. Benny winced.
The
door was just one thing more Carl meant to fix. Then the baby came, all blue . .
. no life within. And the big man snapped, stalking down to Leda's, and had
been there ever since.
With
a sad breath, he pushed the Night Sun through the door and onto the red rock
flagstone of the porch.
The
place smelled great from two massive white pines standing sentinel before the
porch. The sun was just now peering over the horizon through the apple trees
behind the house. Built by the Valley's coven leader a hundred year before
Grandfather Greylov came to America, it was house of Death.
The
Sacred Trees were old, mossy and wind twisted. They were the proud remnants of
what had been a wall of trees encircling an ancient burial mound where the house
and orchard now stood.
House
of Death.
Benny
peered up through the screening. How many times had he hidden in their swaying
tops? So high above the ground, hiding from old man Grey. Too many times.
Man,
but he was in for it. Mom was gonna make all the crap that had happened to him
last night look like nada when she got a hold of his butt.
His
left wrist came up. He stared at it. For an instant his eyes narrowed and went
blank. Where was his watch? Benny let his hand drop and he shrugged. A cheap-o
five buck wonder.
“Ist,
du'e. Can't be helped, must be endured, yo.” It could be anywhere. Probably
lost in the fight, or somewhere between the bar and here. De
nada.
Benny
kicked at a chunk of the screen door. The rotted wood disintegrated under the
steel toe of his engineer boot. He shrugged again, more intent on backing the
Night Sun to her spot on the porch than a mere possession.
In
the back of his mind he heard his Grampa Waya, Mom's Dad, grumble,
‘Possessions possess you, kid.'
“Yeah,
yeah,” Benny grumbled back. As much as he loved the old man, Benny sometimes
had a problem remembering all the fun they had had together. It was a royal
bitch, being haunted by your own grampa. A second conscience, so to speak. A
mean one.
Benny
stilled.
The
rank smell of human blood pinched his guts.
He
shook it off.
Blood.
Hot and scalding. Delicious. Running
down the face and shoulders of a small boy. An old man's death rattle. A limp,
heavy weight crushing him, his own cries for Grampa Waya to awake up.
Old
man Greylov . . . a knife in his hands . . . the accidental killing of Benny's
father on the ‘Stone in place of Benny. Ben senior, dragged from the grave by
powers of the asgina Bu:u, Owl.
Benny
shoved the memories away. He had told the cops, but as a victim of the State's
reformatory, he was just another punk. So it was the word of a known criminal
against that of an upstanding citizen.
Like
with the DA, Angie's old man.
Benny
pulled the bike to its place along the low stone wall that contained the porch.
He stepped on the stand, and heaved back. A flare of less than pleasant feelings
stopped him. With a grimace he tried again. Wanting to go back and terrify more
deer, the bike resisted.
Geezis,
but once wasn't enough? A twisting pain made Benny cry out in silence. That
jerk doe nearly sent them over the edge of the cliff, fer cryin' out loud, yo.
Benny
scowled. He stared at the bike and almost shook his head. Going nutty, man. Too
many kicks to the head last night. He kept a steady pull, stubbornly refusing to
give in to the weakening of his legs.
With
a slight nudge from Two Swords the Night Sun eased back and settled in her
place.
Free
me . . . Ride the wind . . . Please, Grey-Wolf Rider.
With
a slight shake of his head, Benny grinned. First the doe and now the bike. Man,
but where was a shrink when you needed one?
All
in hell, Benny fervently hoped.
A
crooked, soft grin on his face, he patted the battered gas tank. Cracked ribs
twisted. Benny stooped, gasp and clutched his side. He sagged to his knees,
fingers barely able to hang onto the old bike until the black spots shrank and
slowly faded. One hand grasp the heavy fabric of a tarp older than he was, and
Benny carefully drew it up, covering the Night Sun.
A
man's ride comes before he does. Benny had that engraved on his heart.
“G'
night,” he muttered, giving the motorcycle one final, lingering pat. A hoarse
laugh whispered from his mouth.
Weird,
the bike seemed to be talking to him tonight. Just like when he was a kid and
Mom would give him rides on it. Weird.
Mom
claimed it really was alive. Just not like people or trees. To Mom it was the
Black Charger. Ben named it that. Mom loved Dad, and she loved his bike. Both
his dads were road warriors, and Benny was proud of that.
Benny
nodded. Man, but it would be great to have a dad . . . Ben was dead, Carl gone
to the dogs.
“Or
at least one mean bitch.” He shook his head. Friggin Leda. “The vain,
crawling pig.”
He
sagged against the stone of the wall, scarcely feeling the bite of the chill.
What a cruddy way to live. Like, he was caught between a rock and a hard place.
Or maybe the ‘Stone and hard-case Cindy.
If
he stayed and lived here in the valley, Leda and the Owl would get him. If he
split, the cops would nail him for parole violation, jail him, and Project would
nab his butt.
He
snorted. A handful of bloody snot shot out to join the mess on his tee shirt.
Better to face Leda and the ‘Stone, than chains and slavery with the Project.
Oh well, everybody got to have a hobby, man. Yo . . . .
His
eyes crinkled in a lazy grin. Mom and Leda. Some day they would have a showdown.
His money was on Mom. She could be meaner than Leda when she wanted to be.
The
morning sun was a red ball, rising above the forest. Benny respectfully turned,
whispered, “Good morning, Aga:Veil.” He added without thinking a few mumbled
phrases to the Sacred Ones who resided beyond the Veil.
Benny
snorted and cocked an eye in self-mockery.
Was
there a god?
He
didn't want to believe in a God that let so much pain happen. But who's
fault was it? Where did all the world's problems come from?
Benny
stared hard to the north-east. Tall hemlocks blocked his view, but in his mind
he could see the Witch Stone, stained black with past sacrifices.
Something,
Benny wasn't certain what, flitted in the south-east corner of the porch. He
turned sharply. Ignoring the pain, Benny caught it under a piercing, cold gaze.
Just
to the south of the small white cottage a row of apple trees shivered, but no
wind moved through the deep, forested Valley.
Growing
bold, it slipped out of dark shadows cast by the rising sun, sat up and defied
Benny to do anything to it.
Suddenly
Benny laughed. Mom's gray tiger cat. The tabby bumped his leg, demanded he pet
her.
“Ok,
OK.” He chuckled and obediently reached down. “Ghostly apparition.” He
glared in mock anger.
Black
spots loomed and grew. Benny staggered and nearly fell.
Easing
himself up, Benny swayed, his stomach wobbling. Queasy, he waited until the
spots faded.
Man,
what a fight. Three, if you didn't count that pig, Angie, against him. It took
three powerful men, spitefully grinding him into the coal dirt and rubble
parking lot of the bar to do this to
him.
Snorting
softly at the blood that stiffened his hair and skin, at the black coal dirt
embedded in that, the tabby bumped his leg.
He
must look a mess. God knows he felt like it.
Afraid
another attack would make him pass out, he stepped carefully away from the cat.
She was scrawny and undersized . . . kind of like him. A wry look came over his
face. Maybe that's why Mom adopted her.
Hungry,
she followed Benny.
In
the back of his mind he caught a glimpse of her needs. Benny scowled and
gingerly rubbed his head, hoping he wasn't suffering a concussion. Weird. He
suddenly had this craving for milk warm and right from the cow and raw eggs.
A
vision of a rat, bloody and well mangled, came to him.
Benny
gagged.
He
glared at the cat. She gave him a look of studied indifference. If Anna didn't
feed her, she would just have to go out and dig up the flower beds again.
Benny
stumbled back. He shook his head and rubbed his face.
“I
got to get some sleep.” She looked at him and he bared his teeth at the cat.
She cocked her head at him and smiled, only a touch superior.
Surveying
the three half-circle steps that led to the front door, he winced. Mom slept
just inside the door on the couch.
“Maybe
I better go ‘round the back door.” He scowled and shook his head. No, there
were four steps in the back. Mom or no Mom, he didn't think he could sneak in
anyway, not with two wobbling legs. Not up four steps.
What
a night.
Yo,
if only his lips weren't swollen to the size and texture of a pound of
hamburger he'd whistle.
Man,
what a fight. He had been doing better than all right until that Angie bim
clawed him across the eyes. Those three Jersey jerks would be hurting way longer
than he would. Yo, what a night.
That
using bitch not withstanding, of course. Except for Angie trying to manipulate
him with blackmail, then dumping him like he was dirt under her over-manicured
finger nails, it had been great. Benny flexed his fists and tried to smile. The
split and battered lips denied him. His already swollen eyes crinkled into merry
blue slits.
All
those years of living in shame. All of it came out last night and three creeps
suffered for it. He felt great. Like a real man.
What
is a man but a savage? He is a coil of spring steel under a thin veneer of
civilization. If he is a man.
Arrogant
in the certainty of his new-found freedom, Benny clenched his teeth and drew
back his lips.
Way
fine night.
The
door slammed open and he gaped at his mother.
“Oh
my God,” Anna gasp. “Benny? What happened to you? You're all bloody.”
The
deep pleasure he wore evaporated, and he stood before his mother, waiting for
the axe to fall.
The
rage Anna had lived with since returning from Freeland the night before rose and
died. She helped Benny up the stairs and into the living room/kitchen. Anna sat
Benny at the kitchen table and rushed to snatch a clean towel and soak it in
cold water from the pump.
“Yo,
kid?”
Disbelieving
his ears, Benny turned and grinned. Then the happiness soured and he flushed a
sullen red.
“Carl.”
He
tried to call up the hate, Benny wanted to scorn Carl for the hell he had put
Anna through.
“Who
the freek did this to you?” Carl rumbled a snarl. He hitched up the towel not
too securely draped around lean hips. His eyes darkened, the whites shot with
lines of red. Cocking his head, he silently commanded Benny to tell him who had
dared to strike the stepson of Carl Ivanovitch.
Sullen,
Benny said, “Why? You don't live here anymore.”
He
started to turn away from Carl. Abruptly he was snatched off the bench. Feet
dangling inches off the floor, he stared into Carl's blue eyes and bared
teeth.
“Better
keep a respectful tone, man,” Benny was softly warned. “I know I was being
jerk. I . . . we,” he was careful to
stress, and lowered Benny back to his seat, “got our reasons.” Carl released
Benny and muttered a savage growl over the state of his stepson's face.
“Guess
you gave as good as you got.” He rumbled a proud chuckle and lay a broad, work
callused hand on Benny's shoulder.
“Carl.”
Anna shoved the big man out of her way and slapped a bowl of icy well water on
the solid wood surface of the table.
Moistening
his lips, Benny studied a large dark jar Anna thumped down on the table.
“Uh
. . . is that pine salve?”
Anna
gave him a thin smile. She twisted open the lid and the pungent odor of white
pine sap and herbs wafted into the kitchen.
All
smiles and innocence, Benny waved it away.
“Nah.
I'm OK, Mom. You don't have to mess with that stuff.” He shoved up from
the bench and Carl ungently pushed him back down.
“Hey,
lay off.”
Carl
gave Benny a paternal benevolent look. He patted Benny on the shoulder, then
clamped down while Anna applied the stinging salve to Benny's wounds.
“Grow
up,” the amiable giant said at Benny's jerks and hisses as the salve burned
into the raw wounds, “Or I'll use that crap on your mouth.”
“Can't
I just go to bed?”
Anna's
eyes snapped sparks at Benny.
“You
just hold on until I'm finished, brat. And maybe, maybe, I'll let you keep what's left of your freekin head.”
She
glared until Benny's gaze dropped to her hands.
“I
want to know where you were. What gave you the idea you could take the Night Sun
out after dark, and on only a learner's permit? Geezis, Benny, what if your
parole officer found out?” She glanced at Carl. He grimaced and squatted on
the other side of Benny.
Benny
mumbled at her hands. Carl swatted him on the head.
“Speak
up.”
“I
was down in Wilkes-Barre. Ok?”
“Oh
God.” Anna felt her legs give out and sat on the bench. “Why? Benny you know
what would happen if-”
“I
know, I know. The friggin reward. Four million, ain't it?” Benny sagged. He
shook his head, crying out, “Mom, I'm sorry, but I got a life to live. Y'
know? I c-can't hack this. Go to school. Come home. Go to Uncle Charlie's.
Come home. Go to school.” He smiled without humor. “Mom . . . I know I'm
pretty safe here, but I'm starting to hate this place.”
Choking
back the raw emotions, Benny lay his head on his knees and tried not to cry.
Only wimps cried, not men.
“Benny?”
Anna sighed and she stroked the silent, heaving back.
“I
love you, kid.”
Uncaring
about the blood and filth on Benny's ragged clothing, Anna pulled him up to
lay his head on her shoulder.
Rocking
him in a slow ease of motion, she whispered nonsensical words and nursery rhymes
and tried to draw his pain into herself. How she had missed seeing him grow up,
of simply being a mother.
The
years in prison haunted her.
Was
it worth it?
The
choice of seeing her then six-year-old son dead, sacrificed to a demon god for
an old man's insane perversions, or killing Grey herself to prevent that
murder, was without complication. To Anna, children come far ahead of adults.
Guardian
Two Swords stood at Benny back, his eyes white suns of flame. Heart-a'-Fire
swung gently in his hand, trilling, hungry for war.
Motes
of dust drifted through him. Off in the distance, in a hospital called Fairview,
he could hear shrieks of laughter coming from Marushka, Benny's
Grandmother Greylov. Her cell in the insane asylum was pretty, and the
padding heavy. The vast Grey fortune kept her in relative comfort.
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