Authors: Merrie Destefano
Feast (6 page)
Maddie:
Moonbeams fell through the kitchen window like a sheath of silver arrows. All the dinner dishes had been washed and put away, and it was now that quiet time in the evening when my imagination stirred and came to life. This was when stories used to leap onto my page from the crevices and shadows. Sometimes the characters themselves bloomed full and large from the corners of the room, sometimes outlined in white light, sometimes transparent as ghosts.
But that hadn’t happened in a long time. I hadn’t even been able to come up with a decent story idea since the divorce.
Until tonight.
The door to Tucker’s room hung open and a pool of light washed across the floor. I hesitated in his doorway, sketchbook in one hand. Part of me felt like a faceless silhouette, an outline of who I used to be, a pencil sketch waiting for someone to ink me in, make me real again.
Just then my son glanced up and his smile said something else. It erased all of my jagged edges.
“I had a feeling you weren’t asleep yet,” I said. “Whatcha reading?” I entered his room, walked past the dog curled on the floor.
Tucker yawned, looked down at the paperback folded on his lap, almost as if he had forgotten what book it was. But it was always the same book. For the past two years. Over and over.
The Hobbit
. He lived in a hole in the ground. I wished I could find one.
“What’s Frodo doing now?” I asked, sitting beside him on the bed.
“Bilbo,” he corrected me. Another grin came out of hiding.
“Your favorite character, huh.”
He nodded. “And Samwise Gamgee.”
As soon as he heard his name, the dog stood up and pushed his way in between us, then laid his head on the bed. He stared up at Tucker. Waiting.
My son leaned down and kissed Samwise on the nose, then whispered, “Good boy.”
The dog’s tail thumped, beating the air. Tucker’s grin widened, revealing a space where one of his front teeth was missing. I brushed the honey blond hair back from his forehead and kissed the spot in the center of his brow, the spot that belonged to me.
My kiss on his brow. My seal of protection. Against all the monsters who looked like his father or one of my best friends.
“Can I see?” He pointed to my sketchbook.
“You promise not to get scared?” I asked in a teasing tone. I flipped the spiral book open to the page I had been working on for the past hour. Tucker’s eyes widened as he stared at the splash panel sketch.
“Is there more?”
“Here.” I handed him the sketchpad. He was always my best critic. If this new character had potential, he would see it.
“Wow.” The word was so quiet I almost didn’t hear it. With a fingertip he followed the storyboard, from panel to panel, reading the notes in the margins. This version was too rough for dialogue, the character wasn’t fully developed yet. I still had to figure out his goal, obstacle, conflict, arc, etc.
But apparently, right now, the character alone was enough.
Tucker got to the last page of pencil drawings and flipped it over, as if disappointed when there weren’t more. He frowned. Looked up at me.
“Is this your next story?” he asked.
I nodded, still not sure, waiting to hear what he thought.
“This guy’s wicked! He’s better than Batman or Wolverine or Hellboy.”
I grinned.
“How soon are you gonna be done with it? This is better than your last one—”
I was laughing now. Better than my last graphic novel that won an Eisner Award and was currently in production over at Universal Pictures.
“You seriously need to let me read this. Will this one have words?” he asked, referring to a series I did two years ago with no dialogue—just sound effects and a small amount of narration. That one was being considered as a mini-series on HBO. I was hoping they could get somebody like Zachary Quinto for the lead.
“Yeah, it’ll have words.” I watched as Tucker flipped back through the pages. He studied each of them and then finally ended on the beginning splash panel.
A dramatic woodland scene covered the page, thick stands of ponderosa pine, a knot of hedge nettle and thimbleberry and mossy shadows, and there between the trees—half running, half flying—was a dark, dangerous creature, sweat glistening on leathery wings, eyes watching from the tangled wilderness.
Every time I looked at it, my heart raced and I remembered that thing back in the woods, the familiar look in its eyes. I felt the way the air had shimmered and how the sky darkened, almost as if time had stood still just long enough for it to escape. One hand had stretched out toward me, palm open.
Something had sparkled in the air.
I had to go back. Tomorrow. I had to see if it was still there, somewhere.
Tucker yawned again, settled back against his pillow. I took his paperback book, set it on the nightstand, then turned the light to a lower setting. He had nightmares if I turned off all the lights.
Fortunately, tonight both he and the dog were asleep before I even left the room.
Sketchbook in hand.
Maddie:
Weariness rolled over me. Without meaning to, my head slipped back and rested on the sofa cushion. I stared at my sketchbook for a moment—at that splash-panel creature—until the picture faded, until the pencil lines began to move and change. Everything changed. I tried to keep my eyes open, but everything started to fade.
I fell asleep, the transition between the two worlds simple. The real world intertwined with that of my imagination, and a surreal landscape suddenly unfolded around me.
I was in my car, staring out the window, trying to focus on the undulating switchbacks, vistas that alternated between primeval forest and rocky cliff. We were heading up into the mountains for a long deserved vacation. Tucker was asleep in the backseat, PlayStation clutched possessively in one hand.
Don’t fall asleep. Not now.
But in the end, I knew it didn’t matter whether I stayed awake or not. I fell prey to the faltering light that sifted through the branches, allowed myself to be lulled into slumber, let the dream wash over me, a serenade of beauty. Just like I had allowed myself to fall in love.
Wake up.
I glanced across the car, saw a surreal landscape sweeping past, purple trees, green sky. The colors were wrong, but they often are in dreams. My younger sister was driving, much too fast, but then it wasn’t my sister after all. The face was blank, all features erased except for a pair of silver eyes.
You were in love,
my sister asked. I nodded,
we were all in love once, a long time ago
. I held a box of photos in my lap, black-and-white pictures of my life. The images melted, turned garish and gritty, like cheap tabloids sold on street corners.
The dog is barking. Something must be wrong.
The box of pictures spilled onto my lap, fell across the floor, took root and blossomed, became a garden of images: a picture of that corner office where I had been able to see the sticky glitter of Hollywood; a photo of that delirious holiday we had spent in Cancun; a snapshot of Tucker’s last birthday, back before my world had exploded in tabloid headlines.
GET UP!
A picture of a man who smiled too easily at all the wrong people, most of them women.
My eyes flickered open.
Wake up, wake up, wake up!
I had a crick in my neck and my mouth hung open, slack.
But I wasn’t awake. I couldn’t be.
Because a shadowy monster blurred across the living room and the dog was barking, growling, snapping. Samwise was pushing Tucker’s bedroom door open, he was pummeling across wood floors, legs spinning, mouth open, teeth bared, running toward that dark hole in the universe, that leathery thing that was sucking all the light out of the room.
I sat up and swallowed, blinked away one nightmare for another.
“Sam?” It was the only word I could get out, my mouth filled with the glue of sleep.
Growling. Snarling. Leaping through the air toward the Beast.
Wings spread wide, darker than night, a shadowy creature filled the room like a great, monstrous crow, blacker than black and heavier than a nightmare. It pressed me down and I couldn’t move, couldn’t even feel my heart beating anymore. The dog was frozen in the air, leaping in a broad vengeful arc, jaws open and ready to rip that nightwing beast to shreds. He had a piece of it in his mouth, dark blood spraying.
A woman was screaming.
And then suddenly there were two of them. Wings spread, blanketing the room in a black-ink hell and whispering cold.
Chapter 18
The Edge of Twilight
Ash:
We sat poised on the edge of twilight, eating—this houseful of monsters who barely tolerated one another. Plates passed from hand to hand, moving around the circle like the shadow on a sundial. Driscoll glanced at me from time to time, a glimmer of fear in his gaze. I merely nodded, a king in my court granting reluctant permission to my subject’s each and every move. The two of us were connected in a silent, secret way, the ancient curse shackling us with invisible chains.
Driscoll always preferred to see me dressed in human skin.
So, of course, I rarely appeared to him that way.
Tonight we all sat in full Darkling attire, revealing ourselves as the beasts we truly were. We dined on baked apples and sugared rose petals and pastries with thick raspberry icing. We drank blackberry wine and munched on champagne grapes and fresh strawberries. Through it all, I was the only one at the table allowed to use both knife and fork. Even Driscoll had to gnaw on his chicken and potatoes with bare hands.
It isn’t truly a curse unless you find some way to drive them mad, inch by inch, moment by moment. And madness always was the goal. I could have lived anywhere, like my wild brothers and sisters, those without homes or humans of their own, those who prowled the edges of Ticonderoga Falls like scavengers. But from the beginning, I chose to be civilized.
I took one family, and just one, to haunt. Forever.
The Driscolls of Ticonderoga Falls.
So right now, I pretended to pay attention to the pointless chatter about the Hunt. It looked like I was listening, I was sure of it.
Because in truth, I was.
I was listening to the Legend as it whispered overhead and throughout the village. Somewhere, someone was telling the tale about my fall from grace, leaning over a back fence or pausing on a street corner, one neighbor was reminding another about what had happened right here, nearly a hundred years past. And as the words were spoken it was like they had ripped off yet another pound of flesh. Sparks glimmered and I held a hand against my old wound, covering it anew with a fresh Veil.
Just then I heard something else. I tilted my head.
Yes, there, a silver crackle, the sound made when a Darkling unfurls his wings, when he folds reality.
But the pitch was off.
I glanced around the table again. My daughter, Elspeth, had slipped away a few moments earlier, said her shoulders ached from the journey, had even shown me the bruised flesh where wing met bone on her back. But bruises can be faked.
I stood, inadvertently kicking my chair to the floor, an act that silenced all their conversation. Driscoll cowered as I swept past, the others merely stared at me with a curious expression. In a heartbeat, I was on the porch, head lifted, smelling dark sky, searching for my daughter’s scent.
My human flesh dissolved, blew away on the chill autumn wind. Wings spread, I hovered in the air, listening, searching.
“What is it?” Sage appeared on the porch behind me.
“Hush!” I ordered.
That was when I heard it. A scream. Coming from Madeline’s cottage.
Elspeth. Screaming.
I cast a Veil, strong and bright, one that would slow everything and everyone down. It froze a corner of Ticonderoga Falls like insects in bits of amber. Like my people, my powers come from human dreams. Anything they can dream, I can do.
Then I soared over field and forest, following the scream that wouldn’t end. In an instant I stood before an open window and saw Elspeth inside. A dog soared through the air toward her, teeth bared. The creature already had my daughter’s arm clamped in its jaws.
Foolish child!
I flew into the room and grabbed the dog, then pulled it away from Elspeth. “Sleep,” I whisper-sang in its ear, a song meant to calm a faithful beast that tried to protect someone it loved. I gently closed its jaws, wincing when I saw my daughter’s blood in its mouth, tried to wipe it away with my hand. Then I placed the animal on the floor, carefully, in a position that would look natural.
When I lifted my head I realized that she was watching me.
Maddie was awake.
All she would see was a blur. Still, she shouldn’t be seeing even this much. I glanced down at a sketchbook on her lap.
She had been drawing a picture of a Darkling in the forest.
Me
.
But I couldn’t stop to act on it. Life and limb, they were what mattered.
Harm no human, no beast, during harvest
. Rules had to be followed, or the harvest would turn bitter and foul in the mouth. Would bring famine. Pestilence. Plague.
I spun around, faced my child, grown now and lovely as the moon herself. Disobedient and foolish and bleeding—she was too much like her father. Because of her human blood, she too had been captured by my Veil. I ripped off my shirt, wrapped it around her wound and folded reality so that we could both fit through the open window.
Then I flew away, with Elspeth in my arms.
Chapter 19
Shimmering and Silver
Maddie:
One moment I crouched on the sofa, unable to move. My dog hung frozen in the air, biting a black-winged beast that filled the room. Then there were two beasts and an unbearable cold frosted my skin. For a brief flash of time, I recognized an unmistakable odor. But it didn’t make sense.
It was the forest, a fresh mash of green leaves and moss, sunlight and wind. The fragrance filled the room, made time stand still.
Then, suddenly I could move again. I blinked and let the wet fragrance of the wood fill my lungs. The darkness and the wings that had blocked out the light were gone now. Samwise was no longer growling.
In an instant, nothing was the same as before.
Now the dog was sleeping on the floor beside me, curled up, tail tucked to his nose.
The window hung open, shimmering and silver, as if a great heat had just passed through the room. But all was still. I stood on shaky legs. Then I walked through the house to make sure no intruder was inside, made sure Tucker was safe and asleep. I tested and closed and locked every window and door.
And then finally, I stopped and knelt beside Samwise, so deeply asleep that I couldn’t rouse him, even when I called his name. That was when I saw it—the only proof that what had just happened hadn’t been my imagination.
A few flecks of blood colored the dog’s muzzle.