Archive for November, 2011

JUSTIN’S GIRL: By Lori Titus

Wednesday, November 23rd, 2011

The Marradith Ryder Series: The Art of Shadows, Part 64

Lysette Vega had a sense that trouble was coming.

She had gotten three calls from her father, Justin Granthem, and had found excellent excuses to ignore them over the past month. But this time, when his name flashed across the screen of her phone, she felt that she had no choice to answer.

“Justin?” she asked softly. She knew he’d probably prefer to be called Dad or something, but they were nowhere near that close.

“Sweetheart,” he said carefully. She thought that he was testing the sound of the word, the way it felt in his mouth.

“Yes?”

“How are you?”

“I’m fine, but you sound nervous,” she said. Her voice sounded so much like his mother that it bothered him a little. Not just the tone, but the inflection as well.

“Maybe. A bit. Look, I know about the work that you do for Ramshead and Pollard. It’s mostly just tracking other Wolves, right?”

“Yes.”

“From your firm, are there any witches there that you’ve woked with personally? Someone who is talented and can keep things quiet. I need someone who knows a thing or two about demons.”

Lysette paused. That was an entirely different question than she was expecting.

“I do know one. She works side jobs, and will keep it quiet, because she does it off the radar, so to speak.  And just to warn you? I don’t really know exactly what that girl is. She’s not just a human witch. She’s… something else.”

“Who is she?”

“You’ve met her before. The girl that works in the front office. Natasha Taylor.”

***

“Your friend is …funny,” David said.

Marradith was standing at the door of the room that she now shared with Harley.  She was down the hall taking a shower, and the water running could be heard in the hallway.

“What do you want?” Marradith said quietly.  “She just got here, so I don’t think that she’ll want to jump up and go anywhere. You don’t have to drive us, you know.”

“I figured as much. But I know she had a lot of questions for you. Are you alright?”

“Yes, I am. If I were her I’d have asked the same things she did.” She blushed, realizing that he’d heard every detail. She had to keep reminding herself that his powers were on par with her own.

“It’s part of this life anyway, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is. Doesn’t make it easy to get used to, though.”

“There is one favor you can do for me.”

“What’s that?”

“Danny is with our cousin. I’m sure he’s there at the sheriff’s station with him. Can you go pick him up?”

“I’ll be happy to do that. You feel safe here while I’m going to be gone?”

“Yes, I do,” she smiled. “It’s only thirty minutes round trip, I’m sure.”

“Okay.  You have my cell if you need anything.”

Marradith watched from the window as his car pulled away.  She wanted to speak to Justin, and she was going to make sure that David had no way of hearing her when she did.

***

Justin’s line was busy, so she decided to text him instead:

Babe. Harley made it here safe. Wants to meet you though. Do you think you can come out for my birthday party?

His reply was quick:

Yes, I’ll make it out there on your birthday if nothing else. Trying to figure out some things from here.  Don’t worry about anything. Just try to have fun.

Marradith answered:

I will. Always less fun without you, Granthem.

She pressed “end” and shoved her phone into her pocket.

Marradith got up and almost walked straight into the man.

She didn’t understand how he could be standing there when she was alone only a moment before.  Without looking up at him, she punched the intruder squarely in the gut.

He fell to his knees, grunting in pain.

“Goddamn Dee Dee,” Scott Ryder said. “Are they feeding you steroids or something?”

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©2011 Lori Titus

Please stay updated on Lori’s latest debauchery on her website: http://loribeth215.wordpress.com/ or follow her on Twitter as Loribeth215.

NEXT TIME: By Damien Krsteski

Tuesday, November 22nd, 2011

Nurse Anne’s botoxed face creases into a contrived expression of worry but her tone remains bizarrely casual, “I’m sorry Mrs. Adrian, but as you can see for yourself, we’re unable to start therapy on the fetus.”

Caroline gets visibly agitated. “No,” she screeches in a panic-laden voice. “You must’ve made a mistake. I’ve looked these things up online and the margin of error turned out to be much higher than most people are aware of.” She stares right through the woman, incredulous.
 
“I assure you, Mrs. Adrian,” the nurse sounds bland, “no mistake has been made. I’m terribly sorry.” Her face stretches unnaturally into a sympathetic smile betraying her age.

“The common procedure after such results is…” She trails off.

Caroline nods, dumbstruck. She knows what the common procedure is.

“I’ll leave you alone now,” the nurse adds and strides out without further fuss.

Tears stream down Caroline’s cheeks. Her hands tremble, making her mindful of the results print-out that she still holds. She flings it across the room angrily just as the door slides open again, parting before Joseph.

His face appears burdened with sadness, eyes distant and unfamiliar. The two of them hug and hold each other for a few moments in silence. Little Geoffrey’s genetic results strike out of the blue, tearing a massive fault line between them. And they planned it all: the countryside baby-proofed house they saved up money for, neighborhood where the baby will grow, even the elementary school where he’ll tread into intellectual water for the first time. But now, because of wretched Seventy-seven syndrome Geoffrey will be unable to receive the crucial cognitive enhancement therapy at the fourth month of pregnancy. A whole future wrecked, the fault line breaks them further apart.

“The nurse said we should do as most people,” Caroline manages to say through the sobs.

“But we’re not most people, we could still…”

“I’m not raising an idiot, Jo!” she interrupts through gritted teeth, apparently more angry than grieved. Her thoughts stray to their family trees, calculating despite herself a way to place blame.

Muted by pain they remain for the better part of the afternoon in the room, each in a separate corner, avoiding eye contact at all cost.

Three days later, on a day of weather as rotten as the fetus in her womb, she walks in the hospital alone. Doctors usher her unceremoniously in a wide windowless chamber, ease her onto a yellow X-marked spot. She dons a white paper gown which covers her entire body except for a cut right before her belly.

Flash.

The first wave of radioactivity bursts throughout. She thinks of the poor boy. He is almost a person.

Flash. Another loud click and burst. Why did they name him? They shouldn’t have done that.

After the third flash comes and the doctor’s digitized voice says she’s free to move, a single morbid spasm of remorse rips through her brain. Her blood freezes, but she quickly shuffles the thought aside hoping it’s gone forever.

Next time, she thinks, caressing her belly. Next time I’ll make a good Geoffrey, a better Geoffrey. And I’ll be damned if I let someone spoil me again.

Caroline smiles inwardly and saunters off to the adjacent room for the flush-out.

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©2011 Damien Krsteski