Veiled (15 page)

But there is no normal. And I think she knows this. Though she believes I’m fucking nuts, she also knows this is it. She cares about me but not enough to go the extra mile. Not enough to just let me be the way I am. She won’t be there if I let this go any further.

I have a choice but it’s really like no choice. Get help, or pretend to get help and admit that it’s all in my head, and keep my friend. Or stay true to course. Live out my truth, no apologies.

And lose her.

“I’m not going to the doctors, Amy, because there’s nothing wrong with me. Nothing they can cure. It is what it is and I am what I am and yes, I’m majorly fucked and totally fucked up. But I’m not crazy. It’s not in my head. It’s all very real, too real, and it happens to be something I’m going to have to deal with for the rest of my life. I wish it wasn’t this way. But we don’t get to choose who we are.”

She watches me for a few moments, the hostility on her brow melting away, becoming something close to sorrow, before she closes her eyes. When she opens them, her expression is blank. Closed off. I know that expression too well. It’s how I should be feeling, trying to protect myself from the hurt.

But it’s too late. I’m hurting.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” she says after what feels like eternity. “You always get a choice as to who you are.” She looks behind her at the concert. “Look, I’m not sure I quite feel up to this anymore. I’d offer you a ride home but . . . I need time to think.”

Ouch. I try not to grimace. It’s not exactly easy to get home from here using public transit, which means I’ll have to call my dad, but I wouldn’t have ridden back with her anyway.

And at that, she turns and goes, not even bothering to find someone else to take her concert ticket.

I’m dumbfounded, standing there and watching her as she weaves through the crowd, until she’s across the street and around the block, until she disappears and I’m not sure how long I’ve been frozen in a sea of people.

It’s only when some drunk dude bumps into my shoulder, spinning me around and offering a harsh “Sorry” as he tries to catch up with his friends, that I’m spurred into moving.

I glance at my ticket and briefly think about going into the concert, being swallowed up by the music and the crowd, maybe grabbing a joint off of someone.

I don’t have it in me.

I turn away and stagger off toward the riverfront walk and start walking aimlessly along it, heading south, not really sure what to do next.

I’m numb. Angry. Terrified.

Sad.

So fucking sad.

I guess I always knew deep down that Amy wouldn’t believe me. That she would reach for the most logical explanation, even though she knew that to not believe was to hurt me. I knew and that’s why I had kept it to myself.

It’s Jay’s fault
, I think bitterly as the dull thuds of the concert and chatter of the crowd slips behind me. I have no choice but to blame it on him. The whole thing was the fucking ginger’s idea. He probably saw this coming himself, I mean how could he not, he’s most likely psychic. Most likely sees that I’m going fight demons through sardonic wit and end up friendless and alone. Future Ada will have blood on her hands after a hard day of fighting the dead and eat Lean Cuisine meals with her cat.

I smile bitterly at the thought, doing what I can to keep the sorrow at bay, that cutting sensation around my gut that tells me things will never be the same after this.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The storm is now billowing through east Portland.

In a few minutes it will pass over the river and hit me, and the music festival, head on. It’s like I’m conjuring it up myself, the elements matching my mood, instead of being a typical late summer thunderstorm.

I didn’t bring a jacket or an umbrella and I have no idea where I’m going. I’m wandering, aimless, just trying to understand what’s happened, wanting to come to terms with my friendship with Amy but still feeling things too clearly. If I let myself dwell on it too much, I’ll fall into another downward spiral and this time I’m not sure if I have the strength to crawl out all on my own.

I’ve turned down a street past a row of food trucks, near the university where my father teaches when the sky goes dark, slowly, like someone pulling a dimmer switch. The air grows heavier. I can feel the weight on my skin, producing a sheen of sweat, the hairs on my arms standing with electricity. Yet a shiver slowly makes its way down my spine, icy fingers feeling along each bump of my vertebrae.

A drop of rain falls on the bridge of my nose and I look around for shelter, knowing it’s going to come down hard any minute. There’s a coffee shop up the next block but I’ve only made it a few feet before the deluge happens. The sky opens up and dumps rain on me like an overturned bucket.

I shriek and start running, as does everyone else on the street, laughing as they go. I know I won’t make it to the coffee shop without drowning so I quickly duck into the shelter of a parking garage.

It’s fairly empty which is odd, considering how hard it was for us to find parking for the concert (the thought of Amy sends another worrying jab into my heart) but at least it’s dry. I look down at my clothes, assessing the damage. I’m partially soaked, mainly my hair and shoulders. I should be glad I didn’t wear the white sundress like I was going to earlier since it would have gone totally see through, and opted for a black tank and shorts instead, but I can’t seem to muster the emotion of being glad about anything.

I stand by the entrance, just under the concrete roof, occasionally glancing up at the sky to see if there’s a break coming, but if anything the clouds seem to grow larger, lower, pressing down on me. Rain streams down from the upper levels of the parkade, splashing noisily into an ever-widening puddle a few feet away.

I think I’m alone. I checked when I ran in here, a quick survey over the empty stalls and the few cars parked here and there. It’s one of those garages that don’t have an attendant, you pay via a ticket from the machine.

But the skin on the back of my neck begins to tighten, like the electricity from the storm but not quite, and the most subtle but unnerving sensation begins to build from the inside out. It’s like I have hundreds of ants crawling all over me but they’re not crawling over my skin—they’re crawling
underneath
my skin.

I shudder, trying to get the sensation to leave, shaking out my arms and legs when I hear a harsh, wet breath from behind me.

I gasp and whirl around, expecting to see a monster. In fact, I think I do, just for a second, red eyes and black matted fur, a creature waiting in the dark depths.

But it steps forward out of the shadows and I realize it’s a nun, which should put my galloping heart to rest but doesn’t.

“Keeping dry?” she asks me in a quiet voice as she stops beside me, her grey habit perfectly ironed. Her eyes study me, not the rain, but there’s no harm in them, just what looks like kind-hearted curiosity. Only I have a strange feeling that it’s
supposed
to look like that, that her true face is buried underneath.

I have to blink a few times to get the feeling to go away and even the ants under my skin seem to hush.

“I didn’t bring an umbrella,” I say meekly, looking away from her inquisitive gaze.

“The forecast called for sunshine,” she says brightly. “Even I didn’t see this one coming. But sometimes God likes to mix things up.”

I nod, feeling that heaviness in my heart again over Amy. “He sure does.”

“Do you believe in God?” she asks me.

Oh here we go. The problem with so many of the Christians who come knocking at your door is that even when you tell them you do believe in God (if you do), they don’t think it’s good enough. It’s not enough to just believe, they want you to believe the same way that they believe.

Still, I muster up a smile because one must never be rude to a nun and say, “I do.”

She smiles broadly though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes, like she knows the reaction she’s supposed to give yet doesn’t feel it.

The ants crawling under my skin start to prickle again.

“Good,” she says, looking back to the street. “It’s impossible to not believe in God when you see all the good in the world.” She almost seems to laugh over those last words. “He must have blessed you more than others. You’re very pretty.”

I frown slightly, pretty sure that prettiness and vanity aren’t exactly things to be congratulated on in a religious sense. I don’t say anything to that, just give her a polite smile. Conversations with strangers have never been my strong point, let alone nuns.

“Does something ail you?” she asks me just as I’m looking across the road, my eyes attracted by a tall shape lurking behind a dumpster, a shape that moves with a familiarity that makes me even more uneasy. Is it just a homeless person sifting through the trash, or is it something else? The sky seems to darken by the second, the rain becoming thicker so that looking across the street is like staring through darkened gauze. The drumming sound of the rain turns hypnotic.

The nun’s cold fingers rest on my arm. I jump, a yelp mercifully muffled in my throat.

“Are you well?” she asks again, seeming genuinely concerned.

I glance across the street to where the dark form is, only now it’s standing in front of the dumpster. It could be a man dressed in black, it could be a demon. With the rain it’s impossible to tell. I can’t even tell if it’s facing me or not, even though I swear I can feel its gaze.

“I’m well,” I say softly, afraid to take my eyes off of it. “I’m good. I’m just . . .”

“I understand,” the nun says, removing her fingers. It’s only then I realize that my arm was going numb from cold while she was touching me, the heat and feeling coming back with a fury. As soon as this weather clears, I’m heading straight home, making a pot of tea and getting into bed. This is what I get for trying to go outside and be social. I lose my best friend, get caught in a thunderstorm, and have to deal with a nosy nun, not to mention the weirdness across the street.

“Sometimes it’s easy to turn inward. Toward the darkness,” she muses, her voice chipper. “Sometimes the darkness is our friend.”

I keep my eyes on the figure—still not moving—even though I want to look at the nun and see just where she’s going with this.

“Do you believe in the Devil?” she asks sharply.

Somehow I’m not surprised she asked that.

I might be staring at him right now
, I think to myself. I clear my throat. “I do.”

“Have you felt him?” her words take on a hiss, reminding me of a snake or something crawling out from a swamp.

I finally look at her, expecting the worst. But she’s grinning at me. Her teeth are all missing, just black and blue gums, something I hadn’t noticed before. In fact she looks like she’s aged even more, her skin yellow and papery thin, the lines on her face like greying canyons.

“Felt who?”

She looks away to the road and if she sees the dark figure standing there, she doesn’t let on. “The rain will stop soon. You will be on your merry way. Tell me how the darkness sings to you. Do you have God’s grace to ignore the siren song? Or are you like so many others, wanting more, demanding fairness in their tiny little lives?”

Okay, now I’m really getting uneasy, wondering if heading out into the downpour, near the shadowy figure, is a better bet than my present company. I sigh and start scratching at my arms, the creepy crawling in my skin feeling intensifying.

“I’m not . . . sure what you’re talking about,” I say, stumbling over my words, my tongue feeling foreign.

“Never you mind,” she says, bright again, like all is well with the world. “I know how weak humanity is, how they crawl on their knees, begging for salvation, for escape and hope. But God never responds to them. So they turn to the one who does. Why else do you think the world is turning into vile shit?”

Now I’m shocked. I stare at her with wide eyes, trying to come up with something in response, maybe along the lines of “I wasn’t aware you were allowed to swear,” but my tongue still doesn’t want to obey.

She eyes my arm where I’m scratching. “You have them don’t you? The sensation of ants crawling under your skin.”

I still. Attempt to swallow and can’t.
How do you know that?
I try to ask but the words don’t come.

“Because,” she says, taking a step closer to me. A whiff of something musty and sour, like the earth and rotten fruit, comes flowing over me. “That’s what it feels like when he is near.”

It gets worse, suddenly, sharply. I shake out my arms again, my nails now drawing blood, wishing I could rip off my skin and shed them all out.

“When who is near?” Somehow the words come out of my mouth, my tongue finally working again. Every part of me trembles. “God?”

Her eyes widen. She now has cataracts, milky, yet I know she sees me more clearly than ever. “No, not God,” she hisses. “Never God.” She crooks a bony finger toward the hazy figure on the other side of the road. “
Him
.”

My blood runs cold. My eyes dart between her and the shadow, still standing across the street.

“There is no escape, only surrender,” the woman says, her voice unnaturally low, like it’s coming from another place. Then she drops her arm and starts scratching at her neck. “I have the feeling too.” Scratch, scratch. I watch, horrified, mesmerized. “Beautifully unbearable.”

The figure across the street begins to move through the rain, and even though the deluge isn’t letting up, the closer he comes, the less clear he is. And that’s when I know he can’t be human.

It is who—what—the nun was talking about.

It is
him
.

I back up, slowly at first as the figure approaches, just twenty feet away, my feet stumbling over themselves though I don’t fall down.

The nun stands there staring at me through white eyes, scratching hard at her windpipe, drawing blood that flecks down onto her white collar.

“I-I think someone is following me,” I stammer to her as I keep backing up, thinking that because she’s a nun, she’ll be able to protect me if it’s a demon. If it’s not a demon and just a man, then having her with me might make him think twice. Because whatever the thing is coming across the rain-screened street, I know he means me harm. More than that, he’s smiling. I can’t see it, can’t see him clearly even now, but I can feel the smile all the same.

One that says killing me will be fun.

“I think that person is after me,” I tell her, eyes darting to the approaching shadow, “Please. Help.”

The nun doesn’t even look to the figure (who is just ten feet away now, almost to the garage entrance!) just keeps her eyes on me, shiny white orbs. She keeps scratching. “Like ants underneath the skin,” she murmurs, her lips appearing to move too fast for what she’s saying. Her tongue comes out briefly and waggles in the air, like a snake trying to smell. Her lips smack together wetly, spit flying.

And then the first ant appears.

It crawls out from under her nose, heading over to her cheek.

Yet another follows.

Then one from her lips, heading down over her chin.

I can’t even comprehend what I’m seeing and the air is filling with a sickening hum, like a frequency that no human should ever be subjected to, and the bad thing is coming. I just watch, my eyes glued to her face as yet another ant slowly emerges.

Then her check splits open, a long, jagged-edged gash the color of rusty blood, and hundreds of ants come pouring out of her at once, covering her face like a black moving mask.

I scream. I scream at her, I scream at the shadowy figure who is now in the garage with us. I scream for help. I scream for Jay.

Then I turn and run, though the last thing I see as I do so, such a quick flash, is a long, slick tail protruding out the back of the nun’s dress.

I run faster.

I head straight down the middle of the lane, into the darker depths of the garage, knowing how stupid I’m being but I don’t have much of a choice. I can’t run toward them, there’s no attendant in this lot, the only thing I can hope for is to run for the roof and hope I see someone, whether it be a shopper going back to their car or a security officer.

I don’t even know if it’s following me, if
they’re
following me, I can only feel the ragged breaths in my chest, my boots slapping on the concrete, echoing coldly.