Читать книгу Shatter the Darkness - Ingrid Seymour - Страница 12

I stand in the middle of the street, eyes shut. The silence is overwhelming, unnatural, so unlike all the memories I have of this place. Evenings like this one used to be noisy with kids chasing balls or riding their bikes, neighbors playing their stereos too loudly, and noisy mufflers announcing the passage of the tough kids from down the street.

Now, there’s just the wind rustling the trees and crickets chirping louder than they ever have, two sounds that will never make me think of home.

Turning right, I face my house and open my eyes. At the sight of it, a hook embeds itself in my heart and tugs so fiercely that my knees tremble. Xave’s house is at my back, and I fear that laying eyes on it might hit me with an emotional blow that will knock me to the ground. I don’t look. Not yet, at least.

There are bad memories in my old house too. Last time I was here, Luke was inside, waiting for me. I had come home, reeling from Xave’s death, still believing I could count on my family. Instead, dear Luke tore my already-broken world into smaller pieces, stealing my mother in the worst imaginable way. An Eklyptor. They turned her into an Eklyptor. Bastards!

And even though some time later DNA evidence proved that Luke and Karen were nothing to me, that day, I lost my family and was left utterly alone and confused.

I lace my fingers behind my neck and squeeze my head between my arms, wishing I could evict those ugly memories and leave only the good ones. Karen brought me home from the hospital, thinking I was hers. She used to smile and feel proud of me. I was safe under this roof. I was happy, at least until Dad died when I was five.

Dad.

He’s a big reason I risked coming here. Traveling alone through the streets of Seattle is risky even for a Symbiot who can pass as an Eklyptor. Running into a member of a different faction—Hailstone in my case—would be a death sentence. They blame Whitehouse for the death of their leader, Zara Hailstone. I wonder what they would do if they knew it was an Igniter who shot her point blank.

I take one slow step at a time until I reach the white-painted door I remember so well. I’m aware of just how heavy it will feel when I push it open and how much force I’d need to slam it shut. God knows I did that enough.

I think of the narrow table in the foyer and the shoebox I placed on top of it. I wasn’t strong enough to open it then. But today, I’m ready to see the things Xave left at The Tank, things Oso gathered for me because the kind man thought I’d like to have them. I swallow and fight back the tears brought on by their memories.

My hand shakes as it moves toward the door knob. The key is in my pocket, but I’m certain Luke and Karen didn’t bother to lock last time they were here. A sinkhole could devour my home, and they wouldn’t bat an eye.

The metal is cold in my hand as the knob gives without opposition, just as I thought it would. Slowly and reluctantly, I turn it all the way, fearing what I may find inside. Human squatters? Eklyptor beasts? A ransacked mess? My heart picks up its pace.

As the door swings open one inch at a time, my right hand moves automatically to the gun at my hip. I hold my breath. Trapped air burns my lungs and throat as I wait. A gloomy interior reveals itself in stages. The house seems totally empty. I step inside. A musty smell greets me, making me feel I’ve walked into a foreign place, not the only home I’ve ever known.

My first instinct is to close the door behind me, but I don’t. An old habit makes me flip the switch on the wall, and when the lights don’t come on, I’m not surprised. Eklyptors control the power plants, and make sure only the necessary ones run. Only enough electricity is generated and delivered to downtown Seattle and its southern suburbs, where the bulk of Eklyptor factions are concentrated.

Without removing my eyes from the dark depths of the house, I switch my backpack to the front, take out a flashlight and click it on. As the empty hall reveals itself, I exhale in relief. My heart quiets a bit, enough to let the thought of that shoebox jump to the forefront. I swing the beam of light to the foyer table to find nothing but a decorative set of candles and a thick layer of dust.

A stab of sharp pain goes through the middle of my chest.

Where is it? Where is Xave’s box?!

I shake my head, trying to recall. Did I put it somewhere else? Maybe it’s in the kitchen or my bedroom. I wasn’t thinking straight that day. Yeah, that must be it. I’m not remembering correctly.

I take two more steps forward and shine my light into the living room to my left. The sofas and bookshelves cast elongated shadows on the floor and the wall. Everything looks undisturbed, just the way it did the last time I was here. I press forward, but not without casting a quick glance over my shoulder. Past the front door, the evening melts into a deeper darkness.

On the right, the master bedroom door is closed. I have no desired to open it—none whatsoever, but I have to check every room if I want to keep my heart from hammering its way out of my chest. I push the door open and peer inside. After a quick inspection, I walk in and check the closet. For added peace of mind, I even check under the bed. Only dust.

Of its own accord, my hand points the flashlight to the night table. I inch closer toward the circular beam of light that spotlights a picture frame. I pick up the photo. My index finger caresses the side of the metal frame as my eyes drink the familiar image: a snapshot of Karen, Dad and me at the beach.

“Dad,” I say in a shaky murmur. There’s a broad smile on his face and his brown eyes sparkle as if he holds the secret to happiness. I stand in the middle, wearing a pink bathing suit, my smile so much like his. Karen looks happy, too, but out of place—more than ever before. Her wind-blown, light hair and blue eyes don’t belong. She never felt like my mother because she wasn’t. I wonder if she knew. I’m sure she felt it, but did she know?

Overtaken by a desire to set things right, I set the flashlight on the night table, hastily take the picture out of the frame, and rip Karen out. A tear rolls down my cheek. I wipe it off on my shoulder and try not to think about what Dad would say. Karen was the woman he loved and chose to marry. How can I blame her for being so much less without Dad? His loss was a blow that would have ruined better women. She was supposed to grow old beside him. Without his love, she grew bitter instead.

I let the torn piece flutter to the floor and slide the other into my jacket pocket. Having a picture of Dad gives me a strange sense of calm, like I could pull it out at any time and say: “See, that’s my Dad,” and people would reply “Oh, gosh, you look just like him.” It feels like insurance to my dogged resolve to call Brian Scott Guerrero my father, even when my origin has become a big question mark and I sometimes doubt I’m his daughter.

With a jerk, I press a hand to my breast pocket and affirm, “You are my father.”

Being no DNA match to a mother who never loved me and a brother who was nothing but fake doesn’t mean I’m no match to Dad. This whole situation is so convoluted anything is possible. Besides, if I was capable of seeing Karen and Luke as family when they gave me little reason to love them, I can definitely claim Dad. He at least cared for me the way only a real father can.

Hand pressed to my chest, I leave Karen’s room and shut the door behind me. If I ever get to live here again, I will gut this bedroom and leave no trace of her behind.

Pushing those thoughts aside, I move further down the hall. Next, on the left, is the kitchen. The flashlight shakes in my hand, casting a trembling light onto a fallen chair. Images of my fight with Luke and Karen flash before my eyes.

We want to help you, take away the pain. Give us a chance.

My teeth grind. What do they want with me? What is this “grand plan” Hailstone has? And how does it involve me? The questions whirl inside my head, even though I don’t want to know the answers.

The sweet smell of decay registers faintly. Dirty dishes in the sink? Spoiled food inside the fridge? Dead mouse? I don’t really want to know. Methodically and without stepping into the kitchen, I shine my light onto the table, the counters, the floor, looking for the shoebox. Not here either.

At the end of the hall is my bedroom. Directly overhead is a small attic with a pull-down ladder and a padlock to keep it off limits. I look at the dangling cord, wondering what might be left up there, maybe things that used to belong to Dad and Karen didn’t get rid of. I put the attic in the back of mind for now and, instead, step toward my bedroom door.

The jamb is splintered. Luke chased me in here and kicked in the door as I escaped through the window. I barely made it out with my laptop, a few hundred dollars in cash, and Dad’s copy of a Neruda book of poems. I blink the frantic memory away and sweep my bedroom with a quick arch of the flashlight. It’s empty. The hammering of my heart slows to a subdued drumming I can live with.

Again, I search for Xave’s shoebox, on the desk, the bed, the floor. It isn’t here.

Damn!

Luke must have taken it. It’s the only explanation. He probably threw it away out of spite. My spirit withers. I don’t even know what was in the box, surely nothing important, but they were Xave’s things.

For a long moment, I sit at the edge of my bed, moving my light from one spot to another, regarding, in wonder, all the things that once seemed so important to me. A pair of scuffed Harley boots. A top of the line gamer keyboard. Several pairs of protective motorcycle gauntlets. Xave was with me when I bought half those things.

I press a fist to my mouth until the pain distracts me from it all. I can’t think of the past. Not if I want to be able to put one foot in front of the other every day—even if my only reason for doing so is vengeance. Maybe it’s a good thing the shoebox is gone. I’m not strong enough to think of all those I’ve lost without disintegrating to pieces.

Shaking myself, I stand. I’m not here to dwell in the past. I’m here for a very different reason. I came to search the attic, to find something, anything, that might have Dad’s DNA on it. It’s a long shot after all these years, but I need this answer.

I go back into the hall and stand under the trap door. After setting my open backpack on the floor, I take out my gun, aim carefully, and shoot the lock. It comes apart with a metallic ding and thuds to the floor.

Good aim, Marci. I’ve gotten better. Target practice with Lyra has helped.

After holstering my gun, I jump, snatch the dangling string and pull it down. The trap door opens with a squeal as the springs stretch. I tug on the ladder, let it unfold to the floor, then take the steps two at a time. I stop halfway in and shine the flashlight into the small space. It reveals nothing but inch-thick layers of dust and cobwebs.

My heart sinks until I spot a lonely cardboard box in a dark corner. Hope surging, I climb the rest of the way and step lightly in its direction. The plywood groans under my weight, but it holds.

I shine my light on the box. I crouch and wipe a hand over the dusty top to expose the handwritten label. A million dust motes fly into the air, in and out of the light beam. I squint and pull the edge of my collar up to my nose. As the dust settles, block words etched in Sharpie take form: BRIAN’S THINGS.

My throat tightens, and it isn’t only from the dust that has worked itself in there. “Brian’s Things”? This is what Dad’s life is reduced to? What Karen deemed appropriate for the few belongings he left behind? God, I hate her more than ever. I should have had this box. She should have given it to me.

I take a knee, thinking of Xave’s shoebox and how it parallels to this. The two men I’ve loved the most are gone, and all I have left of them are two cardboard boxes.

With a fingernail, I work at the corner of the tape that keeps the flaps together. It comes off easily, its adhesive quality obliterated by years of heat and cold exposure in this space. After a deep inhale, I open it and shine my light inside. At first glance, the plainness of the contents is underwhelming. Dust has seeped inside and covers what seems to be a stack of manila folders. They look like medical records and probably are. Dad always brought work home. He cared that much about his patients.

I dig past them and discover a few other things underneath. My spirits lift. I take the files out and set them aside. A smile stretches over my lips as I do a quick reconnaissance. This is more like it.

I’m itching to take it all out and inspect it right there and then, but I stop myself. I want to savor this. I want to take my time and look at everything under better lighting.

The feeling that I’ve regained something—I’m not sure what—swells in my heart. It’s stupid, I know, but I can’t help it. All I have from Dad is that book of poems, when I’ve always wished for so much more, something to connect me to him. And, now, this might be it.

Quickly, I stuff the medical folders back into the box and, with some difficulty, take it down the rickety ladder. I set it down next to my backpack, fold the ladder into place and push the trap close. The spring whines again. The door clanks shut.

I’m about to pick up my stuff when the sound of steps freezes me on the spot. My heart takes a leap and a surge of adrenaline bursts through my system like jets of fire.

Without thinking, I drop the flashlight and let my hand fly to my hip. My gun goes up as I turn to face the danger.