A Keeper's Truth (19 page)

“Is
she . . .?”

“I’m so
sorry.”

The tears
flow, fast and hot. I can’t believe this.

“Poor
Maxi. My baby girl, Abby,” I whisper. I taste salt on my lips.

“I knew
you wouldn’t want her to see this.”

“No.
Absolutely not.” Bryce backs away, giving me room to breathe. “What kind of
person would do this?” I mutter, moving toward Maxi, to hold her.

Bryce
stops me again, running a nervous hand through his hair like Thomas does.

“It
could’ve been kids, restless teenagers out to cause trouble.”

His eyes
say something altogether different.

“But you
don’t think so.”

“Might
have been random, but no, I don’t think it was kids.”

I study
his face, my confusion escalating. “I don’t understand.”

Bryce sucks
in a mouthful of air, his cheeks bulging like a chipmunk stuffed with nuts. The
air finally escapes in a forced whistle.

“You keep
running out on me,” he says.

My stomach
gathers into a tight ball and breathing becomes laborious. My body is preparing
for an aftershock.

“I
don’t—”

“You are
not ready for this, but you keep walking out on me and danger is close, so I
have no choice.” He rubs day-old stubble. “I can’t help you, can’t explain what
you need to know, when you don’t trust me.”

“Danger?
What danger? Should I be worried about the person or people who broke into my
house? Will they come back?” I’m panicking now. “Is Abby safe?”

“Abby is
fine.” Bryce nods but looks away.

“Then
what, what is it?”

“I think
this break in has something to do with the lost soul you saw at the coffee
shop. The man who made you think vampire.”

I shiver.
“I don’t even believe what I saw was—”

“Yes, you
do. I know you do. I know you feel it.”

“What
makes you think this,” I scan the room, “was done by that same man, lost soul,
whatever? And why? What would he want with me?”

“I think
you piqued his interest at the café. I think he noticed your reaction and
sought you out. I bet he’s anxious to know what you really saw in him.”

“Why would
he care what I—”

“I think
the woman you saw, the old soul with him, was Sonia
MacKinnen
.”

I freeze,
every muscle in my body trying to summon the energy to deny truth to his
statement. But I can’t. Bile inches up my chest and the room spins, throwing
equilibrium to the wind. I drop to the floor with a thud.

“Oh my
God.”

“New
Year’s Eve I was troubled,” says Bryce, stepping close. “I was stressed because
the police came to speak with me. Again. They had questions about Sonia’s death
they thought I could answer. They showed me photos of her injuries: severe
malnutrition and dehydration, broken bones, burns, and bite marks. I couldn’t
identify Sonia but I recognized the cause of death.”

I know
exactly how Sonia died, without the graphics. I know it like I was there,
beside her, feeling her pain.

“Lost
souls have various issues, scars from multiple pasts that manifest in many
ways. But the lost soul you described, the man with aquatic-like tattoos, they
thrive by seducing, controlling, and slowly stealing a person’s free will. It
starts innocently, the victim blinded by lust. Soon they lose themselves in
pleasure, no longer eating, sleeping. The stronger the victim’s will, the
longer the game lasts, until the victim becomes catatonic and the lost soul
becomes bored, restless, and loses control.”

“He. Killed.
Her.” I say between sobs.

Bryce
looks at me, anguished.

I spring
upright. “I could have saved her. At the café. Maybe I could’ve—”

“No.
Listen to me. You saw his soul, a memory, obviously recent, but in the past.
Tess, there is nothing you could have done.”

I should
be relieved but I’m not. He killed her!

“I know
you’re scared. And I know this is a lot for you. But there are things I must
tell you, things you need to understand.”

“He was
here, in my home.” I scramble to standing. “He touched our things. He killed
Maxi!”

Bryce
reaches out for me but I back away.

“Tess, try
to stay calm. I swear we’ll figure this out, we’ll find him. Thomas is
looking—”

“I don’t
want Thomas to find this man. He killed Sonia. He could hurt Thomas. Oh my God,
what if we’d been home when he came here? Abby could’ve been killed!”

Bryce
steps close to embrace me but I push him away.

“What if
he comes back?”

“Listen,
Tess, I can better explain what we’re dealing with. But you need to know what
you are, what you see. I can tell you but you won’t believe me, so I have to
show you. Tess,” he says, waving a hand past my eyes, “please, pay attention.”

“Pay
attention? To what? How?” I feel dazed, drugged, like something foreign floats
within my brain, something that won’t allow me to think logically.

Bryce
moves closer to the couch. “Watch me.” With one hand he picks up the entire
three-seat sofa as if weightless. He flips it like a penny then sets it down,
upright, without so much as a sound.

“What the
hell was that?” I shout. Every strange thing I’ve seen, all my suspicions about
Bryce, jump to the forefront. “How did you do that? Are you a magician? Was
that real or an illusion? What else can you do?”

Bryce
shifts his weight and looks to the ceiling. The lights flicker before going out.

“I did
that,” he says, matter-of-factly. “I need you to focus on me and only me. Now
look. Really look at me.”

Only
moonlight pours over the mess and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to
the dark. I try to focus but it’s hard when the guy before me just lifted my
sofa with one hand. Questions claw the backs of my teeth, dying to get out, and
for a fleeting moment I wonder if I’ve missed something. But I blink and my
vision shifts, Bryce blurring.

Something
squawks where Bryce stood and I jump. My heart pounds as my brain registers
what it’s seeing.

Standing
in front of me is a bird, a large bird. A falcon, or some sort of eagle. Its
feathers are dense, glossy, layered in various shades of black and gray.
Massive feet rise and fall, nails tapping the floor in an anxious dance. I
shiver and it squawks again. Instinct has me freaking, but I calm when I catch
a glimpse of silver spark in the bird’s eyes, an inhuman but tranquil
illumination that looks strange yet familiar.

“It can’t
possibly be . . .” I lean forward to get a better look at those
silver eyes, the thumping in my skull unbearably loud. The bird spreads its
wings, the span covering a massive distance, and finding the breeze it flaps
its wings and takes off, disappearing into the dark.

“Bryce,
did you see that?”

When I
look back, Bryce is standing stock still. He’s in the very spot he was before,
where the bird stood. He looks worried, maybe frightened. Frightened of me.

“What did
you see?” he says.

I’m in
shock. “A bird. An eagle, I think.”

“An eagle?
Really?”

“Was it
real? Shit, Bryce, the thing had your eyes!”

Bryce
starts to pace, hands gripping the back of his neck. The slow, nervous gait
looks alien on him. He doesn’t try to convince me that what I saw is a figment
of my imagination. He doesn’t deny the fact that he stood before me as
something other than a man.

“Tess, you
saw my soul.”

“No! Are
you kidding me? How is that even possible? You’re a bird?”

Lucidity
jumps ship and the room sways at an unnatural angle, forcing me to grab hold of
a chair.

“Relax,
please, try to stay calm,” whispers Bryce, crouching before me. “I am not a
bird. What you saw was a very important experience from a distant time, another
life, when my soul could absorb energy to change into another living form, any
animal, any living creature.” His eyes flicker. “It is an ancient talent seldom
necessary in this century. There was a time we needed to work in what you’d
call the wild, and the ability to shape shift served a purpose. But what is
really important, is that you can see it.”

“We? We
who? A purpose? What purpose? Why the hell would you need to change into an
animal? How? If you can do this stuff, why do you hide from—”

“I do not
hide,” Bryce says, all signs of stress vanishing in an instant. He stands tall.
“I am not ashamed of who I am.” He shakes his head. “You’re missing the point.
Only the oldest of souls—specifically seers, creators—can see into
someone’s soul, to the good and evil there, to the experiences that have left
permanent marks.”

“A seer,
what the hell is that? Are you a seer? Are you saying I chose to see you as a
bird—your soul as a bird? That makes no sense!”

He laughs
and it sounds unusual given the weight of our conversation. I stare at him
dumbfounded.

“I am not
a seer, you are, and you don’t make a conscious choice to see. This is who you
are. This is who you’ve always been. Only now your soul is stronger. In times
of great duress your soul awakens, becomes aware. Some describe this as the
opening of one’s psychic eye. It is the connection between your body and soul,
a timeless fusion meant to help you through extraordinary circumstances, if you
are willing to listen.”

An
abundance of information, too large for me to process, aches like a cancerous
lump in my head. Confusion becomes tangible, pounding me internally. Stray
tears cascade down my cheek as the absurdity of it all hits me like a brick.

“Shit.
I’ve become my mother. I really am crazy.” I hit the step quick and hard.

Bryce
closes the distance between us, pulling me into his arms.

“You are
not crazy.” I fall limp in his embrace, a deflated shell. “You only see what is
already there, what is real. It is a gift to see one’s soul,” he says,
unleashing a brief chuckle. “You are not crazy.”

He swipes
at my tears.

Eye to eye
I lose myself in his brilliance. He is beautiful, calming, almost entrancing,
but not normal. I’d seen it from the start. I refused to accept what I was
seeing. But it is real. Very real.

“I’m not
crazy,” I say, as if it becomes true when said out loud.

“No. You
are amazing, strong, and I—” he pauses, changing course. “But you’re not
crazy.”

I’m
immersed in his eyes like they are fathomless pools of water and I am floating,
watching the light show from within. I touch his face and his breath catches,
his chin relaxing into my hand.

“What are
you?”

“First and
foremost, I am a man.”

“Are you
the same as that man in the cafe?”

“No. I am
an old soul with unique talents, but I am not lost.”

“What does
that mean, to be lost?”

Bryce
peers into my eyes.

“I will
never lie or keep secrets from you. Ever. But I need you to trust that what I
tell you is the truth.”

“I trust
you.”

“Then know
in time, when you are ready, I will teach you everything you need to know.”

“Teach me.
Teach me what? To do what you do? Why? How much time?”

“Our truth,
history, purpose,” he pauses, glancing at the front door. “Everything.”

The
doorbell chimes, making me jump. Someone bangs on the door.

“Police
here!”

“How do
they—”

“I called
them when you were seeing Abby off.”

“These
things you can do. What if people find out, will you be in danger or trouble?”

A smirk
inches the right side of his lip. “There is no governing body to control us, we
make choices and deal with the consequences.”

“So there
are no rules?”

“I said
there is no law, no governing body to control us. We are guided by our
conscience. That doesn’t mean existing rules don’t have merit. Once the police
have completed their investigation, I will help you put everything in place, so
you and Abby will feel comfortable.”

I scan the
room, the mess bringing me back to the here and now.

“Mrs.
Morgan, are you okay? We need to come inside.”

“I’ll be
right there,” I call out to the officers.

Bryce
takes my hands, encasing them. He kisses my fingertips one at a time.

“I promise
to tell you everything.”

Everything.
Now there is a loaded word.

T
he police
spend most of the evening inspecting the crime scene and asking questions I
can’t answer. I can’t mention the man in the café. I have no idea who he is and
no valid reason to explain why he’d do me harm. What could I possibly say? I
saw some guy’s soul molesting Sonia? I’m not about to tell the cops anything
that would result in a straitjacket and Abby motherless, and although I’m sure
Bryce can fend for himself, I don’t want him in any more trouble than he
already is. Clearly Bryce’s involvement is of concern to the officers since two
are assigned his interrogators and even after a thorough line of questioning
remain his shadow most of the night.

It’s after
midnight before I get Bryce in a room alone, and when I do, I find it hard to
speak. I’m stressed, somewhat nauseous, and my nerves jump like cats on hot
coals. I want to know more about the lost soul who broke into my house, if
Bryce thinks he’ll return, and how I protect Abby if he does? I want to know
how Bryce even knows this stuff. Only these aren’t questions I can ask in a
house crawling with police officers, and it’s driving me batty. Well, battier.
I can see people’s souls, a murderer has ransacked my house because I witnessed
something I shouldn’t, and the man I’ve come to admire is . . .
something extraordinary. I suppose I’ve hit rock bottom.

“You keep
referring to souls, old souls, lost souls,” I whisper to Bryce. “Explain.”

We’re so
close I can smell the lemon laundry detergent on his clothes. We’re collecting
cookbooks from the kitchen floor, skimming pages to steal a moment without an
audience.

“Every
living thing has a soul, or spirit, or conscience,” says Bryce. “The name is
insignificant. It’s an enigma of energy that gives life to a body, like a
battery. Our soul is part of our being, part of what makes us human. Our soul
resides in our brain, guiding us through each lifetime, learning, and
contributing. It’s our connection to nature, to the elements, our plug to the
network of life.”

I attempt
to absorb such a fantastical concept, but it’s a bit out of my realm of belief.
I try really hard and for a moment think I sense my soul, feel it inside me,
but the moment passes. I twitch with that creepy-crawly feeling you get when
talking about lice or spiders.

“What
makes a soul an old soul?”

“Each time
a soul’s physical self—body, you could say—reaches expiry, it moves
to a new one. You might liken it to reincarnation, I guess. Old souls are
exactly that, old. They’ve experienced many, many lifetimes. Every one of these
lives has a purpose, a goal, something to learn, to contribute. Some old souls
are responsible for creation. Some focus on protection or the acquisition of
knowledge. And a few,” he stops to grin, “are here to teach.”

I think
back on all the times I’ve been called an old soul, an ancient one. Those
people weren’t nuts after all.

“If I’m an
old soul, how many lives have I lived? What is my purpose? You say I’m a seer,
what does that—”

Bryce
shushes me, turning to look over his shoulder. An investigator steps into the
room and drops his coat on the kitchen counter. He loosens the collar of his
shirt and unbuttons his sleeves. The window has been boarded, and I’ve blasted
the heat so he’s hot.

I inch
closer to Bryce so I can whisper. “How does a soul get lost?”

“They
aren’t lost in the literal sense. Lost souls are old souls who have lost their
purpose. They have trouble learning from past experience and therefore live
immorally. It’s a vicious cycle resulting in millennia of heartache, loss, and
death, in one form or another. They’ve lost their way on the path to spiritual
enlightenment.”

I frown.
“And we’re back to religion.”

The
investigator fiddles with the door handle to my back patio then squats to pick
through a mound of pottery and soil. The fern I’ve nurtured for years is barely
distinguishable, mashed into the floor tile.

“Spiritual
enlightenment and religion are not the same,” whispers Bryce. “Developing one’s
soul and purpose is done from within, a power summoned internally in the quest
to experience life and be a better person.”

“How does
a person learn from a past they can’t remember?”

“They
feel
it. Like a computer, a soul stores past experiences, and lessons learned in
previous lives make a person who they are. Memories are erased when the body
dies and the soul starts a new life, but some things are permanently engrained
in a soul’s hard drive. Imagine a child born afraid of dogs or water. Not
because he’s been hurt or traumatized in this lifetime, but because his soul
has learned something in a previous life to make him afraid. Your genetic
make-up decides if your eyes will be green or blue and how tall you’ll grow to
be. Your soul contributes to the person you become.”

“So the
child is predestined to live in fear of the dog next door?”

Bryce
shrugs. “Until he chooses to conquer his fear.”

“Now we’re
back to choice.”

“Always.”

Bryce
touches my arm, glancing at his shadows. They’ve come into the kitchen lugging
kits with strange looking supplies. One starts taking photos while the other
fidgets in the corner, organizing paperwork on a clipboard. I don’t have time
to contemplate what Bryce’s touch does to me. His cell rings and he stands,
turning away to talk while another officer passes through the kitchen carrying
a roll of plastic bags, stopping to recruit brawn for bagging Maxi. The cops
debate what a broken neck implies and my heart sinks.

I know
what a broken neck means to me. It explains why Bryce wouldn’t let me hold
Maxi. It says Maxi died quick, thank God. And it reminds me I’m about to have
one devastated little girl to console, with no clue how to explain Maxi’s
absence.

“Don’t
worry, we’ll think of something,” says Bryce, covering the mic on his cell to
speak to me.

I push
Bryce into a corner of the living room. He’s still on the phone, listening to
someone rant by the sounds of it. I think its Thomas.

“You read
my mind,” I hiss.

He shrugs.
“Sort of, I’ll explain later.” He places a hand over his heart and grins at me.

And that’s
what it takes to push me over the edge. That and three men rolling poor Maxi in
plastic. The air becomes thin, making it difficult to breath. I lean against
the wall before sliding to the floor, dropping my head between my knees while I
cry uncontrollably.

“Hey, hey
now,” says Bryce, lowering to sit beside me. He pulls me into his arms and
holds me tight. “Don’t worry, you’ll get through this. You’re stronger than you
realize. You and Abby will be fine. I’ll make sure of it.”

The
officers leave the room with Maxi in tow, and I bury my face in Bryce’s shirt.
When I finally come up for air his shirt is wet and I’m a mess. Bryce wipes the
tears from my chin.

“Was that
Thomas on the phone? Is he okay?”

Bryce
nods, grimacing. “He wants to be here, with you, but I convinced him to stay
away. Since I’m under the microscope with the authorities and Thomas isn’t on
their radar, he has a better chance of learning more about this lost soul. We
don’t even know why he was here, in Carlisle. His kind usually stay close to
well populated coastal regions.”

“His kind?
I thought you said lost souls are just people?”

“Ah, so
you have been listening.”

I shoot
daggers with my eyes, but Bryce just smiles.

“Some of
the most powerful old souls, ones most connected to ancient ways, became lost
after the destruction of their homeland, Atlantis.”

If I
wasn’t already on the floor . . .

“Atlantis?
Are you serious?”

“Yes,
Atlantis was an ancient civilization—”

“I know
what it was. You’re saying it was a real place? Not just a legend? This is
insane!”

Bryce
sighs. I think he regrets bringing it up.

“Tess,
myths are passed through generations, stories originating from real life
circumstances and lessons elders wish to impress upon their young.
Atlanteans
, for example, had been thriving for millennia
when disaster struck, killing every man, woman, and child, and destroying
everything they felt connected to. Those who were not crushed or burned were
swept away by waves the size of entire cities, leaving survivors to scramble
for higher ground, to find refuge wherever they could. This is a story of
devastation at its worst. One that will never be forgotten.”

“How . . .
how do you know this? Were you there? No. That would’ve
been . . . Was my soul there? Oh my God, there were survivors?”

“A few,”
says Bryce, obviously upset. “A limited number of people were able to hold on
to small pieces of land that didn’t sink. They refused to surrender their
riches to nature’s cruelty, and defiant, continued to dwell on Atlantis,
adapting to a largely aquatic life. But nature has its way and Atlantis was
slowly devoured by the sea, piece by piece, until all that was left was a
fading relic of the once glorious city.” He sighs. “The souls remaining lived
on boats and man-made islands. They became bitter and indignant, determined to
take the life of every sailor who dared enter their domain. If they couldn’t
control the sea, no one would.”

“Hence
the—”

“Mermaid
legends. These lost souls have spent thousands of years struggling to shake the
morally corrupt decisions their souls made after the destruction of their
homeland. Very few still live in the depths. Some have found their way to a
life of serenity, learning from their mistakes. Most have resurfaced to wreak
havoc on land, taking from others what they believe was taken from them, free
will.”

I connect
the dots. “Vampires.”

“Um hmm,
the origin of vampire folklore.”

The sheer
thought of Atlantis being a real place that was swallowed by the sea makes me
quiver. What those people must have gone through, how terrified they must have
been. To witness the entire world go up in flames, to watch everything and
everyone you love incinerated, torn apart, or drowned. No modern-day movie
could ever accurately depict this kind of horror and devastation. No amount of
time would ever be enough for your soul to recover.

“Some
people think it was for the best, that the fall of Atlantis was inevitable.
Over the years
Atlanteans
turned away from the
spiritual principles that guided their ancestors, and instead applied their
skills to creating wealth. Ambition turned into greed. An obsession with
material riches created a fear of loss resulting in the need for security, so
they raised fleets and armies.
Atlanteans
ruled for
eighteen centuries, but had their land remained above water they would have,
eventually, self-destructed. Some think their end was nature’s way of
correcting a genetic flaw. Like karmic payback.”

“But you
don’t,” I say.

“Nothing
living ever deserves to be torn from their soul, robbed of a lifetime.”

Yes, what
a price to pay, to lose everything.

“Is there
anything left of Atlantis now?”

Bryce
stares out the window, to the stars. “Seventy-one percent of Earth’s surface is
covered in ocean. More than half is over three thousand meters deep. Under four
percent of our underwater world has been explored by modern man. We know more
about Mars. Even if there is a part of Atlantis remaining, if there’s proof of
man’s history, the technology to reach it doesn’t exist.”

Bryce
stays within
a few feet of me the entire night, coddling my
nerves with his controlled demeanor and the odd gentle touch. Eventually his
shadows leave, making the atmosphere slightly more tolerable, and as the
remaining officers complete their investigation, Bryce and I are given approval
to clean. We right smaller pieces of unbroken furniture, sweep glass and
pottery, and discard food, even stuff untouched in the fridge. The vast
majority is put into garbage bags or boxes labeled for the insurance company,
and the broken Christmas ornaments I can’t bear to part with are packed for
future consideration. The place looks pretty bare and for a split second I
think Meyer will freak when he sees our home like this. Then I remember he’s
gone and won’t see a thing. Only Abby and I have to start over.

By
daybreak the last of the men in uniform have left and Bryce and I have the
house somewhat organized. I’m so tired I can hardly stand upright and anxiety
has gone to bed. I’ve been awake almost twenty-four hours, the longest, most
shocking twenty-four hours of my life. I’ve got questions and concerns by the
dozen, only they’re loosely formed concepts I can’t grasp at the moment.

I turn a
corner in time to see Bryce lift my credenza three feet off the floor and pull
the curtain out from under it. Somewhere, buried deep, I know I should be blown
away. But I’m not. It’s like I’ve been electrocuted to the point of numbness.

“How do
you do that, exactly?” I grip the doorframe for support. “It took four delivery
guys to get that thing in here.”