The Reaping

CHAPTER EIGHT





Standing at the back of the clearing, dressed entirely in black and nearly impossible to see, was the stranger from my dream. Again.

His eyes were on me, an angry expression on his face, much like the one he wore in my dream. He shook his dark head, one long piece that had escaped its bonds waving in front of his face. His disapproval was so poignant, it seemed to reach across the span of grass and water between us and thicken the air around me. I watched as he closed his eyes and tipped his face toward the sky. He stood that way for several seconds, unmoving.

I was captivated, unable to look away. Again, I felt as if something was pulling me toward him, like gravity. I steadied my stance, digging in with my feet and willing my legs not to move.

Something tapped the top of my head. I looked up into the crystal clear sky just as a drop of wetness splattered against my forehead. Then another. And another. With its midnight color and twinkling stars, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, yet I felt more rain drops sprinkling my face. Then, as if an invisible storm cloud hovered overhead, the heavens opened up and it began to pour.

Like a bucket of cold water, I realized at that moment that I had caused the fires. Somehow, some way, I had taken the few flames scattered around the clearing and I’d caused them to rage beyond control, to spread. And terrify. And destroy.

Out of control, a voice sounded in my head.

I closed my eyes against the rain and my disturbing thoughts. Purposely, like I’d done with so many other things of late, I pushed it out of my mind. I was suddenly overwhelmed, unable to cope.

My throat burned with unimaginable thirst. I opened my mouth to the rain, craving even the tiniest bit of moisture. The fat drops were like drops of honey to my parched tongue.

Finally I opened my eyes and lowered my chin to look back at the stranger. But he was gone. I searched the remaining crowd, now scrambling to get out of the deluge, until I found him. He was walking, slowly, toward the dwindling fire in the pit, his eyes fixed on me, hard and unwavering. My breath quickened.

Steadily, he made his way toward me, getting closer and closer, until he was at the water’s edge. He stopped several feet from where I stood and, without a word, held out his hand. Again, I felt the magnetism of him.

Trapped in his silvery stare, I moved forward, my feet propelling me of their own accord. I stopped, only inches from him.

“Who are you?”

“The person who’s saving you,” he growled, his voice a deep, velvety surprise. It resonated deep in my chest, tickling my senses and making them hum like a tuning fork.

“Fr-from what?”

“From you,” he responded cryptically.

So quickly it startled me, his hand struck out and he grabbed my wrist. His fingers were like steel bands clamped around my bones. Turning, he began to walk away from the water, pulling me along behind him. It never occurred to me to resist; I didn’t even want to.

We walked up around the fire pit, past the cabanas toward the back of the clearing where I’d first seen him. My heart thundered in my chest, my mind spinning wildly. Somewhere in the back of my head, I admitted that I was a little afraid. Though I didn’t really think he was there to hurt me, instinctively I knew he was dangerous—very dangerous. It rolled off him in thick black waves, waves that I perceived on some subconscious, primal level. I had no idea why he was there, what he wanted with me or why I kept dreaming about him, but I felt compelled to find out. And, too, I was still inexplicably drawn to him.

He led me past the edge of the clearing and into the woods. Surefooted, as if he could see the black path in front of him, he wove his way through trees, around stumps, and over debris, all the while maintaining his tight grip on my wrist.

My nerves jangled like an orchestra of cymbals. “I’m Carson. Carson Porter,” I said quickly, anxiously. I felt the need to fill the space between us with words. He didn’t even acknowledge that I’d spoken, but I continued anyway. “I think my parents thought I was going to be a boy. Of course, they named my sister Grey, so maybe not.” Still he made no comment, made no move to slow down or address me in any way. “My mother liked to read. Dad says she named me after Carson McCullers and my sister after Agnes Grey. Can you believe that? Why didn’t she just name me Judas or Depeche Mode, something really depressing?”

Finally we reached a dirt road and there, parked along the shoulder, was a shiny black motorcycle. Its glossy surface and heavy chrome accents gleamed in the moonlight. It looked perilous and powerful, sleek and muscular, like it was cut from the same cloth as its rider.

Letting go of me, he mounted the bike and, with a flick of his wrist, brought the engine throbbing to life. Once more, he held his hand out to me.

All the instructions about strangers my dad had given me over the years, all the horror stories and cautionary tales I’d heard, resounded in my head. I hesitated, but only for a second, before taking his hand and straddling the bike behind him. For better or worse, I was going to see where this led, consequences be damned.

“Hold on,” he commanded in his gruff voice as he kicked the bike’s stand out of the way.

He revved the engine and it roared its readiness, vibrating beneath me. A quiet thrill tickled my spine as I put my hands on his waist, my palms flat against his sides.

I could feel the muscles move and shift as he guided the bike onto the road. He felt warm and firm and somehow safe. Dangerously safe.

This entire night had been so far beyond anything I’d ever experienced the only thing I knew to do now was hold on tight and not look back. Never in my life had I made such a series of bad choices, this one quite possibly the worst, but I had to see where he was going, where he was taking me. I wanted to know.

Actually, it was more than I just wanted to know. I was desperate to know. I had to know. And not just where we were going. I was desperate to know him, too. I had to know him. I felt like I needed it, needed him, like I needed air. And even though I knew that was ridiculous, it felt true nonetheless.

As he accelerated, I leaned into his back. I wound my arms further around him, circling his waist and laying my palms against his hard stomach. I felt the muscles twitch beneath my fingertips. My own stomach muscles clinched in response. Every nerve in my body was tightly attuned to him, singularly focused on him.

After we’d left the dirt road and reached the smooth pavement, I rested my cheek against his back and closed my eyes. Beneath the various aromas carried on the wind, the subtle scent of his skin teased my nose. He smelled like midnight, dark and sexy.

I cleared my mind as we rode, concentrating on the feel of the wind in my hair, the man pressed against my chest and nothing else.

In what seemed like a few short minutes, we slowed and the engine whined as he downshifted to make a turn. Two turns later, he pulled to a stop and I opened my eyes. When I looked around, I was surprised to see that we were at Leah’s house, parked along the curb at the street.

He cut the engine and flipped the kickstand down with his heel. He turned his head to the side and waited, as if signaling me to get off, which I did. When I was standing beside the bike, he gently let it lean over onto the kickstand then dismounted as well.

He turned toward the driveway.

“What are you doing?”

“Going inside,” he said as he began his ascent of the driveway. “You coming?”

“Y-you can’t go inside!”

He stopped and turned to stare back at me. “Why not?”

“What do you mean ‘why not’? Because this isn’t my house, that’s why not. This is my friend’s house,” I explained, then, “Wait, how did you know where to bring me anyway?”

He had already turned back around and was walking to the front door. I felt panic rise inside me. What would the Kirbys do? What if they called the police? Would they arrest him? What if they found out about the fires? What if I got arrested? I’d be grounded until I turn twenty-five. Minimum.

Still too addled to think straight, I came to one comforting, solid conclusion: I had to run. I’d run home and try to sneak into the house and tell the biggest, fattest lie I could come up with in the morning.

I was turning to do just that when I saw the front door open. My heart leapt into my throat and I watched, paralyzed with fear, as the stranger came face to face with Bruce Kirby. Then, to my utter amazement, Mr. Kirby spoke something I couldn’t hear and stepped back to allow the stranger to go inside. I stood at the curb, mouth agape, wondering what in the world was going on.

When the stranger had passed, Mr. Kirby poked his head out and said, “Carson, come on inside. It’s freezing.”

Just then I realized that I was, in fact, incredibly cold. My wet clothes, partially dried by a frigid wind, weren’t helping either. I felt chilled to the bone.

I tried to smile, but it wobbled a bit. I braced myself for whatever bizarre thing might happen next and walked to the door.

Mr. Kirby let me in and I stood in the foyer, completely confused. I watched as the stranger, without a word to anyone, mounted the stairs.

I watched him until he was out of sight then turned my attention back to Mr. Kirby. He was watching me, almost expectantly. I don’t know what he anticipated, but when I said nothing, he clapped his hands together and announced, “Well, now that everyone’s home, I’m going to bed.” And with that, he turned toward the main-level master suite.

Flipping off lights as he went, Mr. Kirby turned back when he reached the bedroom door. He said, almost as an afterthought, “Leah’s upstairs, but make yourself at home. If you’re hungry, there’s leftovers in the fridge or, if you don’t want those, raid the pantry or the freezer. You’re welcome to whatever you want.” All things considered, he smiled in a rather benign way and closed the door behind him.

More confused than ever, I stood staring at Mr. Kirby’s closed bedroom door for several minutes before I moved to climb the stairs. At the top, the first door I passed was the guest room. It was closed, but a light shone from underneath. I considered knocking on it, but decided I’d pushed my luck far enough for the night. I’d have to get the basic information on the stranger from Leah.

At the end of the hall, there was more light, this coming from beneath Leah’s door. I knocked gently then pushed it open.

Leah was lying across her bed watching television. She was already in her pajamas, hair in a ponytail, all traces of the makeup she’d labored over earlier gone. She smiled at me, albeit tentatively, as I closed the door behind me.

“How was the rest of the party?”

I had no idea how to even answer that, so I decided to answer a question with a question, something that I personally hated; it frustrated me to no end.

I felt a frown pinch the skin between my eyebrows so I purposely tried to relax those muscles. “Where did you go?”

“I was ready to go almost as soon as we got there,” she said, her expression conveying what her words did not. She had not enjoyed herself and she did not consider that a good time. I felt very small in her sight, remembering very clearly how she’d found me when she arrived. For years I’d wanted to attend a party like that, be one of those people, travel in those kinds of crowds. I was utterly ashamed and wondered what she must think of me.

She continued, “We waited for a while for you to come back with Stephen, but then Derek got there. He said you knew him and that he’d make sure you and Stephen left before twelve so you could get back here on time.”

Derek!

A millisecond after hearing the name, pieces began to fall into place. I remembered the dinner conversation where Mr. Kirby had mentioned that Derek, the “family felon” was coming. I also remembered that Leah hadn’t been too pleased about it. Again, my curiosity rushed to the surface, but now was not the time to start digging into that so I let it go. For now.

“I didn’t realize that you two had ever met,” she said, suspicion clear in every line of her face.

“Well, I’ve only seen him a few times,” I replied, hoping the vague answer would satisfy her. And it was technically true. I left out the fact that, until I’d glimpsed him at the mall, I had only seen him in my dreams.

“Hmm” was her only response. Then, “So, how was the rest of the party?”

“It pretty much sucked,” I said candidly. “The fire pit sort of went wild and burned some grass and benches and then got on the curtains of a cabana,” I explained, sticking to the basics.

Leah’s eyes were as big as saucers. “Shut up!”

“I’m serious.”

“So what happened? Did anybody get hurt? Did the fire trucks come?”

“No, it started raining and put the whole thing out.”

If possible, her eyes got even bigger. “You can’t be serious.”

“It’s true.”

“Man,” she exclaimed. “Wouldn’t you know! Leave it to me to bail right before all the excitement,” she said regretfully.

“Be glad you did. It wasn’t worth staying for.”

She digested that for a few seconds before moving on to her next question, one I knew was coming. With a mischievous grin she asked, “So how’d it go with Stephen?”

I toyed with the idea of stretching the truth here and there, but I knew she’d either hear all about it at school or Ryan would tell her. So I decided I was better off telling her my side of the story, the real story.

And so I did. She was at turns shocked and irate, but always sympathetic to my plight. We stayed up talking for a while after that then watched some Letterman.

I was watching stupid pet tricks, my eyes prickling with fatigue, when it cut to commercial. I let my lids drop for just a second and then…

I was outside again, in the middle of the night, all alone.

I was walking through a field in the dark. Up ahead I could see a large structure looming against the horizon, backlit by the pale globe of the moon. It was a house, tall and narrow and deeply shadowed.

I moved toward it. Dead grass, black and crispy, crunched beneath my feet as I made my way through the field. Images floated in the inky shadows, people with dark eyes and pale skin. They drifted by, one by one, as I walked. To my right one particular face caught my eye and I stopped. It was a girl. And she looked familiar to me, but where had I seen her?

Needing a closer look, I took several steps toward her until her features became clear. She motioned with one slim hand, beckoning me to come forward, further into the shadows. Against my better judgment, I stepped closer still. My gasp was like a whisper in the darkness and the girl in the shadows smiled. I could see her clearly now and, but for the onyx of her eyes and the red of her hair, she looked just like me.

Fear rippled through me. I closed my eyes against her macabre face.

This isn’t real, this isn’t real, this isn’t real, I repeated in my head. When I opened my eyes again, she was gone, the shadows once again black and empty.

I resumed my walk toward the house. Gradually, the crunch of dead vegetation beneath my feet became a soggy squish. I looked down and saw that I was in water. I don’t know how I hadn’t seen it, but there was a small pond right in the middle of the field.

It wasn’t very big. In fact, I looked back from where I’d come and realized that I’d already crossed more than half of it.

I looked ahead. It didn’t appear to get much deeper, so I decided to just go on rather than go back and try to walk around it. I was already soaked after all.

I took another step forward, and another, then another. Each step became more difficult, like something was dragging at my feet. I looked down, but I couldn’t see anything past the glassy black surface of the water.

Or could I? Just then I saw a face rising from the depths.

I stumbled backward, my feet tangling beneath me, and I fell into the cold water. I turned to scramble back toward the shore when something about the face struck me, gave me pause.

Hesitantly, I turned back toward the house, toward the body, and took two tentative steps forward until I could see the body drifting lifelessly just beneath the surface.

The short hair floated in a dark halo around a face so white it appeared almost blue. The features, though bloated from time spent in the water, looked familiar. Then I really saw the face.

It was my father.

In a panic, I looked up, intending to run to the house for help, but I was already there. I was at the top of the steps, standing on the stoop.

I looked behind me, confused, and saw that there was no water, only the black field that I’d seen from the beginning.

I turned my attention back to the house. It was tall, taller than it had looked from a distance. When I looked up, I could barely make out the gable at the peak in the roof. And it was dark, much darker than just deeply shadowed; it was pitch black—the siding, the trim, the steps, the eaves. Even the door I was standing in front of was black. It, too, was tall, almost twice as tall as me, and slender, just wide enough for me to pass through.

I looked to the left and right of the door, hoping to peek inside a window, but there was nothing on either side of the door, just more black siding.

I looked up again. Above the front door was a row of seven doors that spanned the entire length of the house. Above that row was a single door and above that was another row of eight doors. At the top of the house, centered beneath the peak of the roof, was another single door.

I stared at the doors, thinking something looked off. Then I realized that only two of the doors had knobs. The front door had a silver knob, etched with some sort of intricate design, and the single door in the second row had a gold knob. Though I was puzzled, I didn’t dwell on it, supposing it didn’t matter since there were no stairs by which to access the doors anyway.

I walked around to one side of the house. From top to bottom, the entire side of the house was covered with doors, all without knobs. I continued on around the house. The back and the other side of the house looked the same—all doors, no knobs, no windows.

When once more I stood before the front door, I heard the creaking of old hinges. When I looked up, the third story single door stood open.

I blinked and I was inside. I stood in the center of a room, evidently the room where dozens of hallways converged. I turned in a circle and saw corridors spread out before me in every direction, like spokes of a wheel. Dozens of dark hallways lined with hundreds of dark doors. On each door was a different symbol of some sort, geometric in design.

All of a sudden, a deafening creak split the stillness and every single door opened simultaneously, just a crack. Fear lanced through me like a hot knife. The hair at my nape prickled at the danger I felt gushing down the hallways toward me. Something was waiting for me.

I woke with a start. I lay still for several minutes, staring quietly at the ceiling, relieved that I had only been having a dream. At least it was a different dream, I thought. Still, I was unable to shake the feeling that I was trapped—in the house, by the house.

I saw the first pale streaks of dawn peeking beneath the yellow curtains at Leah’s windows. Knowing that I wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep, I slid from between the sheets and crept out the door and down the steps. When my foot hit the bottom step, I inhaled deeply. The smell of coffee drenched the air. I closed my eyes to savor the scent. I loved coffee. Sweet like dessert or plain black, I loved it all. Dad didn’t let me indulge very often (said it would stunt my growth) so I enjoyed it at every possible opportunity when he wasn’t around.

Though my mouth watered at the prospect of a cup of the brew, I toyed with the idea of going back to bed; I didn’t want to disturb the Kirbys while they enjoyed the quiet of early morning.

I stood on the bottom step, one hand on the newel post, debating what to do, when Derek suddenly appeared at the bottom of the steps. He startled me and I couldn’t prevent the involuntary leap of my muscles





He just stood there, staring at me for several seconds before he finally moved. He extended his hand and I looked down into it. His long fingers were looped through the handles of two coffee cups. A shiver wiggled its way through me. I don’t know how he knew I was there.

Adding that to my ever-growing list of mysterious and/or bizarre occurrences, I merely nodded in gratitude and carefully took one of the proffered cups. When I did, Derek turned and, without a word, walked back the way he’d come. I hesitated only for an instant before I followed him.

He went through the kitchen to a small den that sat off the back of the house, almost like a sun room only with more comfortable furniture. Its pale yellow walls looked like warm gold in the rising sun and the puffy floral seat cushions seemed particularly inviting.

Derek sat in one of two extra wide, deep-seated chairs; I padded barefoot across the cool tile floor and slid into the other. He crossed his legs, resting the ankle of one leg on the knee of the other, then leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Evidently he had nothing to say. I, on the other hand, had a lot to say, mostly in the form of questions. So many, in fact, I didn’t know where to start.

So I went with simple. “Who are you?”

“Derek. Derek Hrolf,” he replied, not even opening his eyes. “Leah’s cousin.”

“I know that,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I mean who are you?”

After several seconds of silence, he finally answered. “Nobody,” he said enigmatically.

Obviously, this wasn’t going to be easy. “What were you doing at that party?’

“I told you—”

“I know what you said,” I interrupted abruptly. “But what does that mean?”

“You’re dangerous, reckless. Unpredictable. I knew if I didn’t stop you, someone would end up getting hurt.”

“I would never—“

“I didn’t say you’d do it on purpose.”

“Yeah, but I could never—“

“Yes, you could,” he interrupted, lifting his head and pinning me with his silvery stare.

Goosebumps spread down my back and arms. “How?”

“You know how.”

I didn’t want to get into all that I suspected. I’d much rather he just answered my questions directly. I decided to try a different tack. “But how did you know?”

His eyes narrowed as he looked at me. The mercury of his gaze seemed to ooze through my pores into my very soul, penetrating me in such a way that I almost felt violated. I had no idea what he was trying to see, what he hoped to see, but I felt like he saw too much.

“Answer me,” I snapped, my temper rising quickly to the surface.

“Shh,” he hissed.

“Then answer my question.”

Derek closed his eyes and leaned his head back again, looking relaxed and unengaged.

“I could feel it,” he finally supplied.

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“I mean I can feel it when you wield.”

“Wield what?”

“Fire,” he answered simply.

Though he confirmed what I had begun to suspect, it was still incredibly frightening to be asking the question, to say nothing of the anxious anticipation I felt for what the answer might be. “But h-how can I do that?”

With a shrug of his big shoulders, Derek said, “Because you’re cursed.”