Perennial (22 page)

The car disappears into the blackness of the night.

A sudden chill overcomes me as I walk up the driveway. I’m exhausted and need all the rest I can get before tomorrow’s grand finale in Oval City.

I dream about Mom for the first time in months.

It’s a dream, nothing more. There’s no brilliant white light, no cottony mist, and no sudden crisp clearing. Unlike my dreams with William, this one possesses no deep notion of reality. That disappoints me at first, but when I finally see my mother, I want the dream to last forever.

I’m wearing a comfortable white summer dress and walking barefoot in an endless field of knee-high green grass. The cloudless sky seems too low and surrounds me like a dome. Despite the warm sun, dry grass, and blue sky, I smell rain. I also smell spring flowers—a mix of lilacs and tulips—although there isn’t a blossom in sight.

Mom is fifty feet away. She’s wearing an identical white cotton dress, Mom waving and smiling, her long, dark hair blowing softly in the pleasant breeze. I smile and wave as I get closer, but I have that strange feeling where you know it’s a dream and won’t last long, so I quicken my pace to reach her as fast as possible.

But I can’t reach her. Mom remains the same distance away from me no matter how fast I walk. She doesn’t seem to know this, just keeps waving and smiling as if everything is wonderful and I’ll be in her arms any second. I break into a sprint, but the same thing happens. I can’t gain any ground on her.

I stop, cup my hands around my mouth, and shout, “I can’t get any closer, Mom.”

She doesn’t say anything, just continues smiling and waving in robotic fashion.

“Mom? Can you hear me, Mom?”

She still doesn’t respond, so I lower my hands and place them on my hips, looking around this beautiful field of green and wondering what the point of this dream is. Is it telling me I’m not ready to see her? Am I literally chasing a dream? Or is this simply a preview of how and where we’ll make contact after I take care of business in Oval City tomorrow?

I wipe sweat from my brow and continue my fruitless sprint through the tall grass. The sky seems even lower now and ready to collapse around me like an oversized swimming-pool liner. I’m breathing hard, lungs laboring as I struggle to keep the dream alive, tears streaming down my face as I watch Mom smile and wave.

Wait. I’m getting closer.
She’s
getting closer.

Mom
sees
me. Her expression has changed. She lowers her hand and tilts her head slightly, squinting as if unsure of who I am.

“Mom!” I smile wide and pump my arms faster, my thighs burning from the intensity of the run. “It’s me, Mom! It’s Alix!”

I’m thirty feet away when she recognizes me, Mom putting her hands over her mouth and shaking her head in what must be a combination of shock and disbelief. She crouches and drops her hands to her knees, a huge smile on her face as she opens her arms wide, Mom ready to embrace me just as she did countless times when I was a little girl.

I slow down when I’m ten feet away and finally hear her beautiful voice.

“Oh, Alix,” she says, standing and keeping her arms out wide. “I’m so happy you’re here. I miss you so much, honey.”

She’s crying, which makes me bawl even harder. I reach for her, ready to hug her and tell her how beautiful she looks and how much I’ve missed her.

And that’s when the sky turns purple and the air grows sickly hot.

There’s no warning. It just happens. A thick and nasty heat chokes me, like an invisible strangler. Everything around me turns an eerie shade of purple I know too well.

Perennial. Perennial is all around me.

Perennial is far more than a drug. I realize that now. Perennial is a demonic virus hell-bent on destroying everything I love. Perennial is a plague that has shaken the foundations of all the principles I’ve held to be true. Perennial has changed me forever and forged my destiny, but how do you handle a destiny you’re not sure you want?

I can’t touch Mom. There’s some sort of invisible barrier between us, and the emotional trauma it causes me is worse than any physical torture I can imagine. Mom presses her hands against the barrier. She looks terrified. Tears continue to stream down her face. I press my hands against the invisible seal, praying to God to remove it so that I can feel my dead mother’s skin.

But God doesn’t answer my prayer. Instead, purple raindrops pelt my skin, each one hot enough to leave a red mark the size of a penny. It’s as if a swarm of angry purple hornets is attacking me. It’s happening to Mom too. She’s in agony, Mom unsuccessfully trying to swat the raindrops away. Screaming from the pain, I gaze skyward and watch in horror as menacing purple clouds twist and spin in the sky, the searing purple rain becoming a downpour of what now looks like an endless, pounding shower of dark paint.

My mother begins melting before my eyes, shrinking away into a shapeless glob of waxy purple material. She’s no longer screaming, just staring blankly at me as her physical form deteriorates into a bubbling pool of dark liquid that drains into the now-purple grass. I’m suddenly numb to the pain of the missile-like droplets that continue to bombard me, but I emit my loudest scream yet as Mom’s eyes flood with purple and close before disappearing into the poisoned earth.

The sky remains purple, but the rain finally stops. The heat is still stifling, but the invisible barrier disappears. I launch myself forward and dive into the stained grass Mom just sank into, crying like a little girl as I bury my face into the earth in a failed attempt to somehow raise her from the dead. I squeeze my eyes shut and repeatedly punch the ground, screaming at the thought of never seeing my mother again.

Dizziness quickly overwhelms me and forces me into silence. I sneeze from something inside my nose. Then my lips and skin go strangely numb. Sitting up, I open my eyes and press my palms into the ground for balance.

My skin. Oh God. No. My arms and legs have turned purple and look like a giant, gruesome bruise. The same ugly shade of purple has smothered my white dress as well. The white is no longer visible.

That’s when I notice dark dust hovering everywhere, like fog.

I can barely see three feet in front of me, but for some reason I can’t quite figure out, I open my mouth and breathe in the dust. I try to fight the smile slowly crossing my face, but the smile wins. My eyes feel heavy. A tingling sensation replaces the numbness and shoots through my entire body. Deep inside I know I’m supposed to refuse all of this, but I can’t. It’s the drug. Every droplet of stinging purple rain was a type of needle injecting me with Perennial, and the dust isn’t dust at all. It’s powder, the same addictive powder somebody placed inside my Explorer, and the same powder I promised I would never try.

Purple poison is racing through my cells, and a part of me doesn’t care. I feel Perennial’s power quickly conquering me, and despite all the horrors of the past few days, a guiltless joy spreads inside of me. I feel the drug encouraging me to do whatever it takes to get more of it. Lie. Cheat. Steal. Kill.

It doesn’t matter. The overwhelming addictive quality of Perennial tears away my values and sense of morality. The high makes
any
action seem favorable as long as it results in more Perennial. No matter how dark and diabolical my thoughts turn, they don’t feel disturbing or wrong in any way. My dead mother just melted into nothingness before my eyes, yet all I can think about is inhaling more powder. I feel like a happy, drug-addicted zombie, lifeless but thrilled at the thought of such a powerful drug controlling me.

That’s because Perennial is more than a drug, I remind myself. Perennial is a drug that
possesses
you. Vagabond’s theory is correct, I realize. Face and the Army of Fire control something the world has never seen the likes of, a drug that crushes even the strongest will. Perennial makes its victims think and do awful things that further the agenda of a growing group of organized demons committed to possessing the entire human population and using it as a weapon to defeat the Army of Light.

Despite my drug-induced haze, one terrifying realization allows me to resist the overwhelming temptation to inhale every speck of powder floating around me. The government woman said Fire was winning and that Perennial was only one hurdle of many, but the thought of a drug like this spreading worldwide and stealing the souls of people I love—people like
William
—is so sickening that I refuse to give in and let it happen. Despite a reluctance to accept my paranormal destiny, I finally commit to it once I actually experience the gripping power of Perennial.

I am Light. I will fight Fire for as long as necessary. If I was born to see the past and the future, I need to be the greatest two-way psychic the world has ever known. If I’m destined to destroy demons and their accompanying evil beasts, I might as well be the best damn demon slayer Vagabond’s ever seen. If I’m on Earth to fall in love with a beautiful ghost and solve his murder, then I need to solve it and cherish every second I have left with William. As for the promised reunion with Mom, I’ll have to force myself not to think about it until I actually earn it.

Wait. Maybe that’s the message of the dream—that I can’t see Mom until I embrace my true calling and commit to keeping the world safe from evil. Perhaps the invisible barrier between Mom and me represented my unwillingness to dedicate myself to the tasks that await me.

Yes. That’s it. I can
feel
it. I’m still in the dream, but I’m stronger now and more energetic. It’s as if somebody just plunged a needle into my heart and injected me with some sort of Perennial antidote. The powerful high of the drug disappears almost instantly. I scramble to my feet, screaming and cursing at the purple sky and experiencing a rage unlike any I’ve ever felt before. I feel inhuman, like a rabid wild animal ready to attack anything that threatens its existence.

The drug-laced dusty fog slowly fades, and the violent purple sky morphs to clear black. My dress is white again, my skin color back to normal. The air temperature cools. Darkness surrounds me. I breathe crisp, clean, and refreshing air deep into my lungs, feeling safe in the blackness and figuring I’m close to awakening in the comfort of my own bedroom.

But that’s when something that feels like hot breath hits the back of my neck and prickles my skin. I turn quickly, reaching behind me for Blade, but then I remember what I’m wearing—a summer dress—and realize that Blade didn’t make it into this dream.

I can’t see him, but I know he’s in front of me. I hear him breathing. Well, wheezing is more like it. It’s awful—slow inhales and exhales through what sounds like a throat full of thick phlegm. He smells like spoiled garbage on a blisteringly hot summer day.

I can read his thoughts. He knows this and finds it funny, but what the leader demon known as Face doesn’t find funny is that I’m the first person to ever break the hold of his precious Perennial. This worries him. This is why he crossed over into my dream. I’m an official threat to him now. The demon that murdered William Weed and most likely filled poor Marc Watkins with bullet holes has come to scout me.

No. Wait. I was wrong. Although Face knows I can read his thoughts, that’s not what he finds funny. What he finds funny is that I don’t have Blade with me. He’s laughing at how easy I’ve made this for him.

My legs suddenly feel like rubber. Terror wipes away the rising confidence I had just moments ago.

Face is here to kill me in my dream.

That’s my last thought as the same two powerful hands that killed William Weed two years ago grab hold of my neck and proceed to choke the life out of me.

Friday, September 7

I’m jarred awake from my own hands pressing hard on my throat. I’m choking myself. My eyes bulge from the pain, and for a terrifying few moments I don’t have control over my body. It’s as if some unseen force is working me, like a puppet master controlling a marionette.

Face. He was there in the dream, but real. I’d fought off the Perennial high, and that angered him, but then he began laughing because he realized how easy it was going to be to kill me. And that’s what he’s doing right now. Killing me with my own hands. Suicide. He’s making it seem like a suicide, just as he did in this same bedroom with William two years ago. He’ll choke me to death and then somehow make it seem like I killed myself. Maybe he’ll appear in my room after I’m dead and place one of those creepy suicide bags on my head. Then he’ll use Dad’s emergency gun on me in a way that makes it look like I shot myself to end the prolonged agony of suffocating to death.

I’m close to blacking out, but a loud slamming sound from downstairs shakes my bedroom and somehow allows me to regain control of my arms. It’s as if the noise frightened off the invisible Face. Weird. Why would a slamming door scare off a powerful demon?

I roll out of bed and fall onto my hands and knees, coughing violently for several seconds before massaging my aching throat. I sit on my floor, slide on my glasses, and look around the room. It’s 5:30 a.m. Friday morning. It’s my day to destroy Oval City, and maybe—just maybe—see Mom again.

It’s also my last day with William. I want him here now. My bed is much warmer with him in it. Although he’s nowhere in sight, I feel him all over and deep inside me. I sense he’ll escort me to Oval City earlier than expected, and I have absolutely no complaints about that.

Dad. I never heard him come home last night. Despite the horrific ending to my dream about Mom, that’s how deeply I slept. Even with yesterday’s demonic battles barely behind me, I feel refreshed this morning and full of energy, all of my senses operating at a level I’ve never experienced before. It’s as if Vagabond or somebody from Light covertly slipped me some ultimate awareness drug while I slept.

I hear Dad downstairs talking to somebody on his phone and making sounds in the kitchen. I smell his fancy coffee beans wafting through the house, an aromatic blend of chocolate, subtle spices, and light floral notes that seems more intense than usual.

Dad was the one who slammed the door moments ago, I realize, inadvertently scaring off Face in the process. He has no idea I ditched school yesterday. Somehow I know this. Other knowledge spins through my mind, things I shouldn’t know but do, like the fact that Face is now waiting patiently for me in Oval City and has some dangerous surprises planned.

Dad’s voice is muffled but louder now. He’s arguing with somebody. This is nothing unusual. I’ve heard him irate on the phone many times, but if this conversation has anything to do with his Perennial investigation, I need to learn as much as possible.

I open the bedroom door silently and tiptoe out of my room, hearing Dad’s garbled shouting as I approach the stairs. He’s clearly pissed at whomever he’s speaking with, but all I catch are a few choice F-bombs and work-related obscenities I’ve heard countless times. It sounds like he’s in full undercover mode and speaking with one of his street contacts, but I can’t be sure, due to the poor acoustics. All I can think is that it must not be that important, because if it were, he’d finish the conversation in his office.

He ends the call with another loud F-bomb just as I’m passing through the living room and approaching the kitchen. I take a deep breath and tell myself to act as if this is just another school day.

“Sounds like you’re having a great morning,” I say as I enter the kitchen and sit at my usual spot at the table. He’s facing the fridge and whispers something I can’t hear. Then he shoves his phone into the front pocket of his jeans.

“You didn’t happen to buy me more kimchi, did you?” I say.

“What?” he says, turning toward me. He looks exhausted.

“Nothing.” I raise my eyebrows. “It’s an attempt at a joke.” I squint for a better look at him. “God, when was the last time you slept?”

“Let’s just say I’m overdue.” He sips coffee from a white mug, closing his eyes as he does so. The steam rising from the cup fogs his face and makes him look almost ghostlike behind his long, scraggly beard.

“What’s wrong?”

He opens his eyes. “I’ll give you one guess.”

“The Watkins case?”

Dad nods and sets his mug on the counter, exhaling deeply and leaning his elbows on the granite. I’ve never seen him this tired.

“Alix, I have some news.”

“About Mr. Watkins?” I wonder if he might actually tell me about Marc Watkins being the creator of Perennial.

“Sort of. Yes,” he says, forcing a smile. “What the Watkins murder has shown me is that I can’t do this job anymore. I can’t stop thinking about his wife and kids and all the suffering they’re going through. I’ve always been able to block things like that out and focus on catching the bad people, but for some reason I can’t do it anymore.” He pauses. “Alix, I’m retiring from law enforcement. I let my bosses know today. It’ll take a few weeks before it’s official, but I’m done with this, honey.”

“Dad!” I smile and stand. Then I kick my chair out of the way, run to him, and give him the longest and strongest hug I’ve given him in a long time. He hugs me back and tells me how much he loves me and how he knows this is the right decision.

“It’s totally the right decision,” I say, ending the hug. “Think about all the work you can do on this house. And think about all the things we can do together, like go to Eastern Market. I’m so happy for you!” I pause. “And you know something? I bet Mom’s happy too, especially knowing that beard will come off. You do plan on shaving it, right?” I scrunch my nose. “No offense, but you’re starting to look like one of those guys on the Boston Red Sox.”

“Really?” He runs a hand through the unkempt growth. “I was going for more of a Civil War Confederate soldier type of look.”

“Whatever.” As I head back to the table, I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. “It’s gross, okay? I suggest getting rid of it as soon as possible.”

“Whatever you say.” He laughs and finishes his coffee in one extended gulp.

I sit down and covertly check the text as soon as Dad turns his back to get something from the fridge.

It’s a message from William:

ALIX, I LOVE U. WHATEVER HAPPENS TODAY I LOVE U AND ALWAYS WILL. ☺

“Who’s that?” Dad says.

I flinch and look up to see him watching me from behind the counter.

“William,” I say without thinking.

“William? You told me about Lewis, but who’s William?”

“Oh,” I say, flustered and feeling my heart knock against my ribs. “Um…it’s nothing. William is Lewis’s middle name. That’s all. People close to him call him William.”

“So you’re close to him?” Dad raises his eyebrows. “It’s the fourth day of school and you’re saying you’re close to him.”

“I like him,” I say, pocketing my phone. “I already told you that. So would you if you ever met him.”

“You say it like I never will.”

That’s because you won’t, Dad.
He’s history at midnight.

“Really?” I say. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sure you’ll meet him soon.”

He studies me for a few moments. Then he says, “I need your opinion. Do you think I should stay on until the Watkins case is solved, or should I walk away as soon as possible?”

“I just want you to be happy,” I say, knowing that if I do my job today, I’ll solve the Watkins case myself by midnight. “But from what you’ve said, it sounds like walking away now will make you happier.”

“What if I regret it?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Maybe open up a detective agency or something?”

“Funny,” he says, scratching his beard. “I’ve actually thought about that.”

“I guess great minds really do think alike.”

He laughs but quickly falls silent when his annoying ringtone blares through the kitchen. He stares at his phone. Any sense of peace or happiness instantly drains from his face.

“I’m sorry,” he says, rushing past me. “It’s private. Have a good day at school, okay?”

“Are we still on for Eastern Market and a visit to Mom tomorrow?”

“I hope so.”

My phone vibrates again. Another text from William:

MEET ME IN BEACONSFIELD LOT AT 7 – BUT NO SCHOOL 4 U 2DAY

I close my eyes and smile. Then I grab a protein bar from the pantry and rush back upstairs before Dad can ask me any more questions about my Dream Guy.