Peter W. Dawes's Blog: The Man Behind the Curtain, page 2

The Shadow Fox Chronicles – Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Andy Lane

Of the things my mother had taught me before I left for college, her list of hangover remedies had proven to be the most useful. As I trudged from my room into the kitchen, the heel of one hand pressed into my forehead, I could justify the first two beers. I could even make an allowance for the third, because it was rude to join someone for drinks and not have one. It was the next two that had me questioning my judgment, internal accusations bordering on charges of masochism. The pounding of my head offset whatever gratitude I might have had for the rest of the night’s events, and any further assessment of my mental state would depend on the drummers in my brain setting down their sticks.

Grumbling under my breath, I pushed my robe closed with aggravation and padded around the kitchen island toward the cupboard. Pulling a coffee mug from the shelf, I offered prayers to both God and Keurig, prepping remedy one while grabbing a glass for remedy two. By the time I settled onto a stool, I had my friends water, caffeine, and ibuprofen accompanying me, with my laptop and glasses waiting for the first moment when I could channel coherent thought. I had the pain reliever in my stomach with half the glass of water before the screen flickered into life.

Only a few minutes later, the door to Scott’s bedroom opened. Melissa walked out, finishing whatever final measures would secure her hair atop her head again. She smiled pleasantly at me and nodded. “Andy,” she said, the glance spared in my direction fast enough that I hadn’t made it to the end of Mississippi before she directed her attention elsewhere. “You were out late last night.”

‘Well, Ma said now that I’m a grown up, I get to stay out until 11.’ My lips twitched while she reached up for one of the ceramic mugs. “Eh, I hadn’t checked in on Pete in a while,” I said, lifting the coffee cup to my mouth. “We’re always afraid he’ll get confused and dump tea into the Delaware if we leave him alone for too long.”

She chuckled softly, pulling out the depleted canister of coffee and inserting another one before pressing a button. The machine gurgled and steamed, producing liquid within seconds. “That might be an improvement from the norm. English Breakfast sludge.” She pivoted to line me back in her sights.

“Exactly what the Forefathers would’ve wanted in the cradle of Liberty. Definitely none of this Earl Grey nonsense.” Peering over my mug at her, I waggled my eyebrows before setting it back down. My glasses slid, requiring me to push them further up my nose again. “Speaking of rivers and patriotism, how’s life been on your side of the Potomac?”

“Busy, as usual.” The curl of her lips strained for half a moment, recovered quickly. She turned to face the coffee machine again. “Scott and I get to sit in on a case from opposite sides. That’s been surreal.”

“Ah, that’s why you’re in our neck of the woods.” Regardless of her ability to see me, I still tilted my head and arched an eyebrow at her. “What sort of a case?”

Melissa hummed. “Oh, big dog versus little dog for one of the major biomedical contracts in the area. Devlin acquired the rights to service the Jefferson Hospital System and Scott’s client didn’t like how the chips fell. They’re pursuing some sort of patent dispute with Devlin.”

I whistled. “The little dog went after the tail. Ballsy of it.”

“It’s silly with no end goal in sight. We offered them a very lucrative consolation and they took offense.”

“Well, it’s only their livelihood at stake here.”

“Now I know where he gets his idealism from.” Melissa sighed. I couldn’t tell if it was exaggerated or not. “Devlin is a good company on the cutting edge of the medical field. I’d like to think that would make their presence in a city a good thing.”

Both hands lifted in the air, my elbows bent, but arms still close to my torso. “Hey, don’t look at me to demonize them. There’s always good with the bad. I just also know how much weight that sort of argument carries with the companies they displace. Nobody wants to be yesterday’s pageant queen.”

“No. True.” As she plucked her now-filled coffee cup from the machine, she turned to face me again. “You would think we were Satan’s attorneys with some people, though.”

“Now, now, you are not Satan’s attorneys, Mel.” My smile broadened. “That would be redundant.”

“Go to hell and save me a seat, Andy.” She rolled her eyes and walked off with the cup in hand. I laughed, watching her leave and finally deciding to polish off my coffee. Once a piece of toast made its way into my stomach, my transgressions from the night before were all but a distant memory. I typed out the rest of my article’s first draft and considered something heavier to eat.

Melissa left before Scott finally emerged from his room. I had heard the last vestiges of their goodbyes through the door and frowned while ignoring them, grateful neither of the two had proven a penchant for morning sex. When my roommate and best friend emerged, he was clad in a fresh suit, with another on a hangar draped over his shoulder. The strap to his briefcase slackened to his elbow as he lowered the leather satchel to the ground.

“You were out late,” he said, draping his suit across the back of the couch.

“Jesus Christ, what are you guys synchronizing your dialogue now?” I asked. He walked into the kitchen and I waggled a finger at him. “If I see his or hers anything in your house when you two move in together, I’m staging an intervention.”

Scott laughed. “I didn’t realize saying anything about your night was a taboo subject.”

“Well it is, thank you.” Bringing my mug to my lips, I tried to pretend not to be surprised when I realized I had emptied it. Instead, I set it back down and cleared my throat. “Pete was playing matchmaker again.”

“Oh, God.” Scott repeated the actions Melissa and I had, working on procuring his own source of caffeine. “Who was it this time?”

“I’m trying to remember his name.” I lifted a hand, scratching at the back of my neck. “Think it was a J name? Jonathan or Jason or…” Stopping once it crashed through my addled brain, I snapped my fingers and pointed at Scott. “Justin. That’s right.”

Scott raised an eyebrow. “Do I know this Justin?”

“Not really. Apparently visiting from out of town, but…” I deliberately affected a lisp. “If I’m ever in Chelsea, I have his number.”

He snorted and fixed his gaze on the coffee maker for a few silent moments. While he was distracted, I took a deep breath. These conversations were only ever as awkward as I made them, yet I often found myself wondering what went through Scott’s mind during them. It had become one of those things where you think the rest of the world sees all your secrets painted on your face when they’re hidden deeper in than you realize. The look in his eyes bore the same old Scott – the same man I’d known since I was a pimple-faced eighteen-year-old – with the same amusement always present whenever we spoke.

I could have died in the way he smiled.

“You know, you can bring people home,” he said. “Hell, you can even date them a little. You have my blessing.”

“I don’t know,” I countered, brow furrowing. “I might need to have that in writing, counsel. ‘My best friend is welcome to safely sleep his way through the Gayborhood in his continued struggle toward something remotely resembling having a love life.’ Though, I have to say, your parents would be proud of your continued philanthropy.”

He sighed and leaned against the kitchen counter. “My parents can kiss my ass.”

“That’s always an option, too.” The tone of his voice caused my brow to smooth, a nervous smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “Did somebody get a phone call from his father yesterday or something?”

“No. Nothing like that.” The way he paused seemed to suggest that more explanation was forthcoming. Though, whatever actually came to mind never made it past his lips. He flashed a much quicker grin at me before allowing his expression to settle somewhere in the realm of convivial again. “Tired and grouchy. I should probably down this quick and get to the office.”

“Yeah, I heard about the lawsuit. Mellie looked pleased as punch at playing footsie with you under the table.”

Scott rolled his eyes. “Devlin is tearing through another city, not caring what it leaves behind.”

“And you get to stare your fiancée in the eyes and see her representing the evil empire. That can’t be fun.” I considered my empty coffee cup for an additional moment before finally standing and going through the motions of brewing another one. My finger hovered over the start button as I mused on words I never liked speaking out loud. “How’s that all going to keep working out for you guys, especially after you’re married?” I hit the start button and turned to face my friend.

It took a moment for him to respond. We made eye contact and he raised an eyebrow at me, blowing the steam from the top of his mug before taking another sip. “What do you mean?” he asked.

I shrugged. “It just seems like that would be a strain, always being on opposite sides of a case. Great for the sexual tension, but not so stellar for the dinner conversations. Especially because Mellie gives no quarter when it comes to her career.”

“I wouldn’t expect her to do otherwise.”

“Neither would I, but you’re a braver soul than I am.”

“I guess.” He took a deep breath and rested his weight that much further against the counter. His gaze settled down, studying the contents of his cup, until he peered back up at me and smiled. “I’ve always appreciated the way you care, Andy. I hope you know that.”

The corner of my mouth curled upward. “I’m hearing a, ‘But mind your own damn business,’ in there somewhere,” I said.

“No,” he responded, shaking his head. Reaching behind him, he set the cup down and freed both hands to scrub at his face. His fingers found their way into the perfectly-coiffed sea of auburn atop his head before his arms lowered to his sides again. “I’ll be glad when this whole mess is over, that’s for damn sure. And I hope she moves onto politics sooner, as opposed to later.”

“For sure.” My smile turned polite. I lifted a hand and patted his back twice before withdrawing. “Alright. Enough of that, then. You go on ahead to the office and own the big guys. Show them who’s boss.”

Scott laughed and shook his head at me. “There’s a lot of things standing between us and that sort of outcome. I’ll be grateful for a small bit of ‘sticking it to the man’ before Devlin steamrolls all over this area.” Still, airing the confession and hearing my encouragement – no matter how half-hearted it might have been – seemed to give him all the prompting he needed to pick up the coffee and imbibe a few healthy swallows of its contents. He reached over and reciprocated my pat by issuing it on my shoulder. “I’ll be home for dinner. Maybe we can relax a little and play some video games.”

“An Xbox date. Be still my heart.” My grin broadened into something a little more genuine while we exchanged a quick look. Whatever he saw in my eyes assured him enough to chuckle back, before he turned and left the kitchen. I heard him pick up his dry cleaning and secure his briefcase onto his shoulder before the jangle of his keys echoed through the condo. When the door pulled shut behind him, I was well and truly alone.

“Blech,” I said to the empty house. Shaking my head, I plucked my coffee from the machine and walked it back over to the island, settling myself atop the stool again. The clock at the corner of my laptop screen informed me I had another five hours before I’d have to email my article to the Internet content editor – a relic of the olden days named John Fitzpatrick. ‘Fitzy’, as we liked to call him, would have preferred being handed things on paper, but had long since learned the adage ‘adapt or die’.

“Maybe I’ll pop into the office,” I said, not sure who I was informing by saying this, but settled in the decision just the same. The blinking cursor in the Word document taunted me, but rather than be intimidated by it, I finished the first draft, took a shower, and started into a revision. Lunch arrived by the time I was finished and had been consumed with one hour to spare before my deadline. Just long enough for me to walk to the subway and take it up to the Inquirer headquarters.

The walk might have been short, and the day much milder than the one which had preceded it, but it still provided enough time for reflection. The bustle of daytime pedestrian traffic up Walnut Street bore the standard fare of businessmen and socialites, but I had gotten used to it by now. The poor kid who relocated from West Virginia had made his way into a tenth floor condominium overlooking Rittenhouse Square.

No, it was Scott’s life, I reminded myself. Not mine.

I struggled the entire rest of the walk for how much gratitude to offer my best friend for this. It had given me him and made me a lot less lonely and desperate than I might have been otherwise. It had also forced me to watch the world he’d been born into tear him limb from limb, however. He had tailored his future both to buck against it and be one with it, and nothing exemplified that more than Melissa Thompson. They had known each other as children. I was told this after-the-fact, when the first date finished and became a second and third, and saw how they might have been fast friends before one or the other had been shipped off to this prep school or that. Enough years had been wedged into the spaces in-between, though, to make all the difference in the world.

I had been there when the two became reacquainted as adults.

***

Scott Reilly had been born and raised in Chestnut Hill, and when he first told me this, I hadn’t yet figured out what that meant. Research told me it was a neighborhood in Philadelphia, and my expert skills with Google uncovered all sorts of fun facts about it, but nothing prepared me for the experience of traveling there to meet Scott’s family. The area itself made me think of television shows with ritzy hipsters I’d normally expect in a place like Seattle, but the Reilly estate on the edge of town?

No, that was a culture shock all in its own.

We had met when I was a Freshman in college, barely out of the gates and trying to figure out what to do with myself now that I’d moved up to the big city. I’ll admit I had my delusions just like any other wide-eyed kid who’d grown up with three older siblings and a mother who held down two jobs to feed us all. When I packed up my car and made the trek from West Virginia to Philadelphia, I thought I’d left the worst of my problems behind me, in favor of entering the best part of my life. That sort of expectation alone is setting you up for disappointment, but what followed was beyond that on a karmic scale.

My paperwork had gotten botched by someone I assumed had started a bonfire in financial aid. I knew I’d be screwed in that department from the get-go, but the look on my face when they told me I was starting off my college life with a significant amount of debt just about made my stomach turn. What’s worse, when I finally swallowed down that batch of disappointment, they had a second course waiting for me.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Lane, we never received your dormitory request.”

I stared back at the lady – a woman who looked to be in her forties with no less than three cats in her house – and couldn’t process the words. The office in which I sat seemed to get smaller, constricting to swallow me whole. “I’m sorry, what?” I asked, as though hearing it again would cause it to make any more sense. Like I’d have some sudden epiphany that made it all better.

She frowned and tilted her head at me. “I said we never received your dormitory request,” she said. “Now, we can put you on a list, but it might take another few weeks for one to open up.”

“But I’m here now.” Coming in at five on the top ten most obvious observations I’ve ever made.

“I know you are, Mr. Lane. Unfortunately, our dormitories are all full right now. Are there temporary arrangements you can make until a room opens up?”

“What, like pledging a frat?” Honestly, I had no idea what that even met, but movies had taught me that’s what some people did in college. Swallowing back the large amount of nerves that seemed to have collected in the back of my throat, I sighed. “Yeah, sure. There’s options. I’ll figure something out.”

“If you give us a phone number where we can reach you, we’ll let you know when a room becomes available.” She rose to her feet. So, like that, our business was done with each other. “The neighborhood has a large number of off-campus apartments and rooms for rent that become available this time of year. Check around, I’m sure you’ll find something.”

“Yeah, I’ll make sure I do that,” I said. I stood on autopilot, following her lead and too stunned to do much else. She wore a pleasant smile like a coat, the sparkle in her eyes belonging to someone who had actually helped the student they spoke to, not kicked them out with nothing more than a vague suggestion of what they should do next. I trudged out into the hallway, past the host of other people I’d complained to before being seen by the lady escorting me out. They eyed me uncertainly, like they were expecting me to lose my temper and turn into the Incredible Hulk at any minute.

I could only imagine the relieved sighs that must have accompanied me disappearing from sight.

It isn’t that I had no basis to argue back to them. Words danced on the tip of my tongue, belonging to an older, wiser man with more of a backbone than I had at that moment. Things like the reminder that I’d come there from out-of-state, and didn’t know where people posted notices for these mythical rooms. Or finding someone who had the vaguest concept of what it meant to arrive somewhere with only a few bucks in your pocket, thinking such menial things such as room and board would be taken care of you when you arrived. Someone could claim it was my fault for not double-checking before I left home, but I didn’t know that I needed to. I was the first one in my family to go to college. I might have even told somebody that if words hadn’t been stopped up in my throat.

No, I was an adult now and that was the whole point of this, I told myself as I dug my hands into my pockets and trudged back to where I’d parked my car. I was supposed to be taking care of myself now, not thinking I could spit out a sob story good enough to have someone else clean up my mess. And no matter how much I kicked and screamed, a room wasn’t going to magically make itself available to me. Sighing, I squinted against the sun and adjusted my eyeglasses, pushing them further up my nose while trying to remember which road I’d turned down to find an available meter. As far as I was concerned, Temple University could already kiss my ass.

The first few days afterward weren’t the bleakest ones. A coffeeshop with free Wi-Fi gave me the chance to search the ads on Craigslist and I made enough phone calls to think I could still salvage something from the whole mess. What little I had saved over the summer came out of my bank account and formed the wing, hope, and prayer with which I set out to find somewhere I could tread water for a few weeks. I applied for jobs and slept in my car, managing to sneak into one of the dorms just long enough to take a shower in the middle of it all.

Most of the rooms in the nicer sections of town were out of my budget, however, and the median ones filled up like someone had announced a fire sale on the places. Each phone call brought with it another rejection and the one or two rooms for rent that bore tolerable price tags also came from neighborhoods which left me wondering how many nights the symphony of guns would lull me to sleep. I lived out of my suitcase and shaved in men’s bathrooms. My second attempt at showering almost resulted in me being caught and tossed out of the building. A week into the nightmare, I found myself sitting in a laundromat, eating a microwave burrito while watching my laundry tumble in the dryer in front of me. Seven days had passed, and the end didn’t seem anywhere in sight.

I could sell the new laptop my mother had saved up to buy me for school, I mused. Something about that seemed like such a slap in the face to the woman who’d been Mom and Dad to me all my life, though. I could sell my car, or call the places where I’d applied for work again, or camp outside the crazy cat lady’s office every day for the rest of the semester, but one was only a temporary solution, the other not helpful for the moment, and the last guaranteed to get me in worse trouble than I already was. Classes were starting in the morning, and I had been so busy wandering Philadelphia like a nomad that I had no idea how to navigate the campus yet. The burrito turned cold in my hand as I contemplated the state of my life, telling myself I didn’t have the time to cry. Even if I was sorely tempted.

When I woke up the next morning, I didn’t expect anything about my luck to change, and all signs pointed toward that being the case. My neck felt stiff from a week of sleeping in my car and my head hurt. My stomach gnawed at me and despite having fresh clothing, I still smelled like I’d been pulled from the bottom of someone’s dirty clothes pile. Holding a campus map open while glancing up and down from it, I tried to make sense of the buildings in front of me and engrossed myself in squinting at both it and my class schedule like I was reading the tea leaves of an uncertain future. It’s probably why I sideswiped him, and what made the collision so jarring for me.

Him. This guy who stood a few inches taller than me and looked like Patrick Bateman if Patrick Bateman had been a redhead. A tailored suit hung from his frame and the scent of an expensive combination of aftershave and cleansing products wafted after him as he spun to face me. His arm lifted, like he’d been trained in self-defense and had to form a split-second evaluation as to whether or not I posed a threat. I stepped backward and fumbled with the papers in my hands before being able to recognize what I’d done. “I’m sorry,” I said. “My face was buried in things and I wasn’t looking.”

The other guy blinked, processing my words. I wondered for a brief moment if English was his second language. He looked young enough to be a peer, but something about the way he held himself suggested a few years more, not just a different layer of social strata. “Oh,” he said. His posture relaxed; I was surprised at how much so. Oh, good, you’re a homo sapien just like me. “No, no, it’s okay.” He furrowed his brow. “Freshman?”

“Is it that obvious?” I offered a wan smile. “Probably is, between the map and the stupid look on my face.”

He cracked a smile. “We were all freshmen at some point.” Giving his suit jacket a subconscious adjustment, he stole a quick glance at his watch before looking back at me. “Where’re you headed? I might be able to help.”

“Hey, I’ll take all the help I can get.”

It might have been one of the more desperate things I could’ve said, but by that point, any dignity I might have had been scraped from the bottom of someone’s shoe on a patch of Philadelphia pavement. I couldn’t tell what about it resonated with Scott. Maybe the honesty, in a world where people usually bucked up and assured everyone else they were fine. Whatever it was about it, it got us to talking and me to eventually opening up about what had happened.

It turned out, Scott Reilly was in his last year of pre-law at the University of Pennsylvania. It also happened that he was scouting out law schools on the day we collided at Temple’s campus. And even though Scott eventually stuck with his alma mater and entered their law program, I had gained a benefactor and a best friend in the process. Nobody blamed me for being protective of him from that day forward, not that there were many to issue a complaint.

Not until Melissa Thompson became a part of our lives.

I had started my senior year of college, and Scott was finishing up his final year of law school on the night we were invited to his parents’ Christmas party. Over the years, I had hit a strange tenor with his parents, becoming something like the pet puppy Scott toted around and took care of like some act of charity. By that point, I had heard it all. From how good it was that Scott showed social awareness to other boasts of philanthropy his parents gave to their socialite friends whenever I was introduced. His father once suggested that “knowing someone in the media” might be helpful when Scott finally came to work for him at Delaware Valley Industries. That was the first time I had ever seen Scott storm off on his mother and father, apt to take his grievances somewhere out of their line of sight.

As such, when he suggested we should attend the Christmas party, I was already wary of our presence there. Each meeting with his parents involved had a fifty-fifty chance of garnering a reaction from Scott. This time, he was old enough to clutch a glass of eggnog throughout the course of the night and I could get away with having one of my own, even if my age had just finally ticked over to legally acceptable. I sipped my first cup while he worked down his second and as Beverly Reilly pulled me into a discussion about ethics in the media, I noticed him gravitate toward her from the corner of my eye.

Jealousy is an angry beast that doesn’t always have a good justification for existing. I fumbled one point in front of Philadelphia high society when I saw how much it wrinkled the corners of Scott’s eyes to hear the melodious laugh the blonde woman in front of him issued. The middle-aged, redheaded matriarch followed my gaze the second time it flicked over to them and brightened, joining a conspiracy to knock me onto my ass before I had a chance to recover. “Oh, good!” she exclaimed. “I was hoping the two of them would find each other.”

“The two of them?” I asked the question before I could stop myself. A bout of nerves brought the glass to my lips and forced me to drink down the rest of my eggnog. I somehow stopped myself from immediately going to refill it. “Do they know each other?”

“Oh, Mellie’s parents used to have us over to lunch all the time before Walter was elected to the House of Representatives. Now, they live mostly in Georgetown. Scott and Mellie were fast friends before she had to move away, we just haven’t had much chance to invite the Thompsons over since.” Beverly touched my shoulder, the gesture just deliberate enough to make me wonder if it was intentional. Gesturing with her other hand, she pointed her at the other ladies I had been talking to before the interruption. “Did you know Patricia Thompson was invited to chair the horticultural society in Georgetown?”

“No, I didn’t!” responded one of them. I offered them a polite smile, but was grateful when the conversation took off, permitting me both a place to stand and the refuge of other people without forcing me away from observation. The part of me not emotionally compromised couldn’t put his finger on what exactly made me dislike what I watched, but it was there just the same. A dark cloud looming over a moment when I should have been happy for the man I cared about so much.

I expected it to go away at some point while the two of them dated. During one of her visits, Melissa accompanied Scott to our condo and I had the chance to speak more candidly with her, but even then, it still persisted. The two of them both became closer and further away over the course of two years and my sixth sense kept telling me I had more to be concerned about than just becoming an antiquated fixture in the background of Scott Reilly’s life. No, Melissa Thompson never made me think she’d have any room or tolerance for our friendship after they were married, but neither did she begrudge the function I served in his life as it stood.

***

It remained an impossible debate even to that day, as I stepped out onto Vine Street and started north on Broad.

Philadelphia Inquirer’s headquarters might have loomed smaller than many of its surrounding buildings, but I had found it intimidating from the first day I walked up to it, a resume in my backpack and hope stitched onto my sleeve. Producing my press badge from my pocket, I flashed it at the security guards blocking me from the elevators, not missing a beat on my way up to the floor occupied by those of us who provided the web content for its site. The doors parted, and I immediately spotted the short Irishman to whom I reported from where I stood.

He looked up as though feeling the weight of my stare and motioned me over to where he sat.

The maze of desks and smattering of people who decided to work from the office provided the only obstacle course between me and John Fitzpatrick. He immediately looked back down at his computer, chewing on the end of a pencil he set down once I approached where he sat. “I swear, the fucking vampires have been out for nearly a year and they still make up fifty percent of this newspaper,” he said, not bothering to make eye contact with me.

Tempted as I was to point out that’s the only reason why I worked there, I decided against it. “It’s like celebrity press,” I said, sitting opposite from him. “We’ve got our own monster mash to talk about and, surprise, they’re sentient beings like us.”

“Still bloodsuckers. Don’t care if they’re cultured ones.” He turned the pencil around in his fingers and sighed, finally lifting the other hand and extending it out toward me. “Give me the piece on the vampire and the Symphony Orchestra.”

I raised an eyebrow and opened up my satchel, pulling out the print out I had made before leaving the house. “Cultured bloodsuckers, fresh for the press,” I said, passing it over. Fitzy grunted his approval – or lack thereof – and set it next to him, in a gesture I was tempted to take as dismissive. As though I should ask if there was any intention to publish it at all. Slowly, I started lifting to a stand, but stopped when he looked up at me.

“So, I’m stuck here and just got a text from my contact in the police department,” he said. The way he reclined back in his chair enabled him to size me up, like a coach eyeing one of his rookies while debating whether they could run out onto the field. “You want the darker side of the vampire shtick, or do you prefer this Saturday Evening Post bullshit?”

I furrowed my brow. “Shouldn’t Garret or Holmes be taking something like that?”

“Well, Garret and Holmes didn’t get their asses into the office today. You did.” He looked back down at his computer. “You don’t want it, kid, then that’s fine. I’ll send Garret an email and get him to the scene.”

“The scene of what?”

Fitzy paused and the silence that followed made my stomach twist. For a minute, I wondered if I should apologize, and yet figured that wouldn’t change his mind. The breath he took broke a silence so pervasive, I nearly jumped when he issued it. “Murder,” he said. “Up near Boathouse Row. A body washed up from the Schuylkill. Could be nothing, could be foul play, but I guess you won’t know that until you get over there, will you?”

His gaze shifted back to me. The arch of his eyebrow posed a dare and a surge of self-confidence raced through me, more than apt to answer that challenge. “Alright,” I said. “Give me the address and I’ll get right there.”

“Good.” A faint smile curled the corner of Fitzy’s mouth. He reached for a scrap of paper and extended it out toward me. “Just make sure to bring your iron stomach. That shit smells when it’s been floating in the water for too long.”

Story Beginning | Next Chapter Coming Tuesday, 8/9

Hand of Fate – Chapter Two

Chapter Two

If Julian didn’t know better, he would’ve begun to suspect his sister was avoiding him.

Birgit had retired by the time he wandered inside, claiming to their parents she was tired and not feeling well after the long journey home. Neither Hannelore, nor Mannfred, issued a complaint, and were in bed shortly after Julian inquired after Birgit. Julian sat alone in the kitchen, fetching a bowl of leftovers while still lost in thought for several hours. The middle of the night had come and went by the time his head finally hit the pillow.

The next day, Birgit remained close to the epicenter of family business before wandering alone into the city for several hours. She returned with shopping bags, but Julian noticed a tear in her winter coat which hadn’t been there earlier. Their mother interrupted with roast pork and demands for more quality time before Julian could ask his sister about it. Once again, Birgit retired early and left Julian alone, the last person in the Reichlin family awake.

The next evening went much the same way and the day following only changed in that the weather took a turn for the worse and kept Birgit indoors. Several times, Julian attempted to get her alone, more and more curious about what other ‘things’ she thought existed in the world, but she remained in the living room with the others. He managed to drag a game of cards and the promise that they’d speak later out of her. When everyone went to bed, however, Birgit kissed his cheek and said, “We’ll go to lunch tomorrow, Julian.”

He watched her dash for the bedroom, not missing a beat. The air which escaped his lips caused his shoulders to slump and for once, he considered going to bed early himself. Trudging to the room he shared with Klaus, he slipped inside and shut the door behind him, careful not to wake his sleeping brother. The first few buttons of his shirt were undone and one shoe kicked off when a noise coming from outside startled him.

Julian paused, raising an eyebrow. When he heard a twig snap, he sighed, slipping the shoe back on and walking to the window. He parted the curtain, expecting to see a rabbit or a neighborhood cat rifling around where it didn’t belong. What he saw, however, was his sister slipping from her bedroom window and sneaking across the front lawn.

“Birgit?” he said, remaining in place while his sister inched to the front gate and carefully opened it. When she slipped around to the other side, he threw closed the curtain and rebuttoned his shirt. Reaching for one of his lighter coats, he quickly put it on and paced to the window again, slipping it open and sneaking out the same way his sister had. Klaus came to the window as Julian’s feet hit the ground, the younger Reichlin shrugging at his older brother.

Julian raised a finger to his lips and winked when Klaus sighed and shut the window.

Spinning around, he turned to see Birgit had already disappeared from sight. He frowned, but walked to the gate the same way he’d seen her and slipped around to the other side as well. The pavement bore fresh footprints from the wet grass, which he followed to the end of the street and around the corner. Julian stopped when he peered down the adjoining street and caught sight of Birgit opening the door to a dark, compact car. She slid inside and started the car, but didn’t drive off immediately.

Julian furrowed his brow. At no point did he remember Birgit mentioning having a rental car; in fact, he vividly recalled her borrowing the keys to their father’s vehicle both times she ventured out. When the backing lights flashed in Birgit’s car, he stepped away from the street corner and turned for the house before he could stop himself. Julian sprinted for the driveway, dashing for where he’d parked his car and quickly settling into the driver’s seat. Without any care toward who he woke, he threw the car in reverse and peeled out of the Reichlin homestead.

Dodging traffic, he sped for where he’d seen Birgit parked. Her car was gone by then, but he caught up with her further up the street, with two cars between them all stopped at a red light. A light, misty rain began to fall and as Julian switched on the windshield wipers, the cars advanced forward. Birgit turned on her left blinker at the next stoplight and Julian did his best to follow without attracting attention toward him.

One kilometer turned into two, then three. The center of Stuttgart surrounded them within twenty minutes, the traffic pattern steady with evening revelers venturing out to their festivities for the night. Birgit pulled into a spot near an office building and glanced around the busy street as she emerged from inside her car. Julian remained in the road, circling the area and finding a place to park several meters behind Birgit’s rental. Killing the ignition, he settled in his seat, studying the front doors his sister had retreated inside.

“You’re being foolish,” he said, straining to see anything behind the few windows in the complex which remained lit. The exterior lacked any sort of distinguishing markings, boasting little more than the street address and a small placard he would have to walk up to the door to read. Sighing, Julian drummed his fingers on the steering wheel of the car. “You should just return home and ask her about this when you go out to lunch with her.”

Birgit emerged from within before he could act on the impulse to turn around, however. A man strolled beside her, holding an umbrella and walking with her to the rental car before stopping. He wore a pair of horn-rimmed glasses and his ebony hair had been slicked back to reveal a widow’s peak at the top of his forehead. He handed a brown envelope over to Birgit, holding the umbrella over her as she pulled out the envelope’s contents and read the first crisp, typed page in her hand.

Julian raised an eyebrow. His sister and the man exchanged a few words, Birgit getting visibly frustrated as she flipped through the remaining pages and shoved them back into the envelope. Horn-rimmed glasses man shrugged at her, pointing back to the office building and taking the envelope in hand as Birgit offered it back to him. At one point, her eyes nearly strayed to where Julian was parked, provoking him to slink down in his seat and seek refuge behind the wheel. Waiting a few beats, he slithered back to a mostly upright position, in time to see Birgit nod in surrender to the man and walk back to the driver’s side door. It shut and the motor started. Julian moved the shifter into reverse, but waited a few seconds after Birgit pulled out to join her on the street.

The traffic moved steadily past the sea of buildings, looping around onto a main thoroughfare which deposited them outside the central district of the city. They were still headed away from home, though, and Julian frowned as he tracked their progress through the metropolitan area. Over and over, the question of what his sister was doing played inside his mind, not sated at any point along their journey. Theories ran the gamut of espionage and criminal activity, but neither seemed like his sister. ‘It has been two years since she was last home,’ he told himself as they turned into a seedier-looking neighborhood and drove past a discotheque teeming with activity.

Birgit surprised him by pulling into a spot not much further away.

Taken at a loss by the sudden action, Julian was trapped in the midst of a moving sea of vehicles. He swore, turning on his blinker in an attempt to pull over, but traffic refused to yield until they passed the next major cross-street. In his rearview mirror, he saw Birgit slip into the busy club and nearly rear-ended a car in the process. A parking spot opened up, though, finally affording him the chance to pull over.

He sprung from the car before he could consider the action any further. Curiosity had the better of him and wouldn’t be sated by anything other than a full explanation. Still, Julian knew better than to charge into the establishment like a wild bull and expect anything less than being thrown back onto the street. Hands digging into his pockets, he nodded at a bouncer stationed outside the doors and walked inside when given permission, keeping his head down even when he entered the rowdy crowd. Music blared from a sound system, but even then a few conversations managed to crest the noise and reach the ears of the people surrounding it. Julian maneuvered closer to the bar, but didn’t signal the bartender when he approached the counter. Back to the polished wood, he used the chance to scan the area for any sign of his sister.

She wasn’t seated at the bar itself. A few high-top tables, though, hosted more intimate exchanges and there he saw his sister sit across from a broad-shouldered man wearing a rumpled suit. His eyes shifted quickly from the other patrons back to her and flashed intermittently between the two as though unable to remain still. Julian raised an eyebrow at the color of his pallor – a stark contrast against the color of his hair and the stubble on his chin. The man looked like he hadn’t seen the light of day in months.

Birgit kept her coat on, but draped her purse across the back of her chair. The man nodded when acknowledged and reached into his jacket for a pack of cigarettes, not missing a beat in plucking one out and lighting it. His eyes bore an intense look when they stopped scanning the crowd and his lips remained pursed as Birgit spoke. Julian sighed, wishing he could eavesdrop on the exchange without being caught, but what he could gather from looking on filled in a few of the gaps. The horn-rimmed glasses man was a familiar person for Birgit. This man, however, was a stranger. And whatever it was about the nature of the encounter made the man nervous, though not so nervous that he felt inclined to run. He listened intently to Birgit for the better part of five minutes without inserting a comment.

When she was finished, however, he shook his head and reached forward to snuff out his cigarette. Birgit stood when he stood, pursuing him as he walked for the main doors and strolled out of the establishment. Julian came to his feet and muscled through the crowd to exit the discotheque, emerging onto the street in time to see Birgit and her contact pause by the corner and continue talking. This time, he could finally make out their conversation. “Are you sure you want to do this in public?” the man asked. “I thought your people usually handled these matters more delicately.”

“We need your help,” Birgit said, sounding exasperated, “And I’d like to think we offered you a handsome sum for it.”

He scoffed. “You have no idea what a ‘handsome sum’ is to a person like me.”

“I know it should at least be worth your consideration?”

“Up against my life? No, it isn’t.” He turned on his heels to walk away. Birgit followed, which prompted Julian to as well. “You’re throwing money and protection at me like it means something when it doesn’t. The people you’re trying to expose know how to untangle even your spider web.”

“Scheiße…” Birgit struggled to keep up. Together, they twisted onto an adjoining road and broke away from the pedestrian traffic of the main street. Julian lingered by the corner of a building until the two had enough chance to put a healthy distance between him and them. When he proceeded forward, he lingered close to the building’s exterior, hoping not to attract their attention.

Still, he had missed the first few words of Birgit’s retort. They paused by the entrance to an alley and ducked down the first meter into it. “… Are lost without it,” she said, “And if we’re lost, Herr Schmidt, then this could have graver consequences than either of our lives.”

Julian stopped where the monolith did and pressed his back against the wall.

“Klar doch, Mädel.” Schmidt sighed. “I’m sure you think that, but I’ve lived through far worse and will continue to live regardless of if you will.”

“I was under the impression you believed in the natural order.”

The pause which followed bore a terse undertone to it. “Don’t pretend to know my philosophy and cast judgment on my self-preservation. If any of you stupid humans had any sense, you’d care more for your own.”

“That isn’t our luxury. We will pursue Jasper Ashcroft with or without your help.”

“Then consider yourselves without it.” A series of sounds followed which left Julian confused. Shoes scuffed as though one of them was walking away, but the steps were interrupted when another set joined them. Julian formed the mental image of Schmidt trying to add closure to his exit while being stopped by Birgit before he could retreat much further. What Julian could not picture, however, was the source of a hissing sound and the growl which preceded a high pitched squeak from his sister. A thud echoed down the alley and a panicked, “No!” bore Birgit’s voice with it.

He had stood still for long enough.

Julian swung around the corner, hand still touching the stone edifice which had been caressing his back only seconds beforehand. The scene he viewed bordered on the surreal, though, bringing a faint reminder of Birgit’s warning that there was more to this world than met the eye. Schmidt had his sister pinned against the wall, eyes flashing a form of annoyance which bordered on homicidal. The two teeth protruding from his upper jaw, however, made the strange man look horrific. Whatever else existed out there, the list suddenly included vampires.

Charging forward out of sheer bravado, Julian rushed to intersect and garnered a confused look from both Schmidt and Birgit. The vampire stumbled backward when Julian pulled him from his sister, the crease of his brow furrowing deeper when Julian turned to face him. Shorter than Julian, he was forced to tilt his head when the human man encroached upon him. “Who is this?” he asked.

Birgit switched to full German when she addressed her brother. “Julian, get the hell out of here right now before you get hurt.”

“Not without you. Nein,” Julian said, not following suit. When Schmidt retreated one step backward, Julian advanced forward. His gaze remained steady. “Leave my sister alone.”

Even though his posture remained defensive, there was something deliberate in the way the vampire held it. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “Your sister? Frau Reichlin, did you call for reinforcements?”

“No, this is my stupid brother –” Her voice developed an edge. “– Who is going to back away and wait for you to leave before I scream at him.”

Julian ignored her. His mind raced through scenarios and possibilities, attempting to rifle through what fiction had taught him about fanged creatures like Schmidt. There was holy water and crosses, neither of which Julian kept on his person, and Mama had garlic, but it was back at the house. He thought about wooden stakes, though, and chanced a glance toward a dumpster at the end of the alley. While it bore the typical compliment of trash bags and cardboard boxes, a few wooden crates had been stacked along its side, once containing produce from the look of the outside markings. His gaze returned to Schmidt and he took a deep breath.

Without giving it another thought, he lifted his hand and drove his fist right into the vampire’s jaw.

Schmidt stumbled to the side as Julian raced for the dumpster. The punch had only served to stir the hornet’s nest, however, and Julian’s ignorance left him ill-prepared to handle what happened next. The faster creature made up the distance between them in a few paces. Reaching for Julian, he clutched onto Julian’s arm, stopping them both dead in their tracks and twisting the appendage behind his back in a painful manner. Julian cried out from the contortion. Schmidt’s breath hit his neck as his mouth advanced closer to where his teeth would soon claim purchase. Birgit screamed and started a run toward them both, but the world froze in place for a split second, ripping Julian from the events taking place.

Or that was how it felt to him. Like the metronome ticking out the cadence of the universe had been stopped and he was suddenly aware of it. The air around him changed and thoughts reached his mind he couldn’t trace from any true path of origin – such as the fact that Schmidt was probably just over a century. And he moved twice the speed of any human, so he would capture Julian again even if he managed to weasel away. This made the odds impossibly stacked against him, and might have meant his death without one clarion certainty which rose above the rest.

Julian Reichlin was about to kill the first vampire he’d ever encountered.

He opened his eyes without realizing he had closed them. The sharp prick of Schmidt’s fangs taunted at the skin of his throat, and instinct took over before Julian could stop to question it. He pushed the vampire away, but this time the force generated threw Schmidt back several meters. He hit the ground with merciless finality. Julian ran forward and kicked one of the crates until a plank splintered from its body, then reached forward and pulled it the rest of the way off. Distantly, he heard the drumbeat of the vampire’s steps, but he maintained a strange level of calm, seeing what he needed to do before it even happened. Schmidt closed the gap between them. Julian spun around and plunged the broken, pointed end of the wood through the center of the vampire’s chest.

Schmidt’s face registered a look of sheer surprise. Then he flaked into ash which fell to Julian’s feet.

The younger man exhaled a shaky breath, blinking twice and waking from whatever trance he had momentarily entered. Birgit’s screaming continued in the background, but the words started becoming tangible again. “… Idiot! Du bist so ein Trottel! What were you thinking? Why did you do that? Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!”

Julian felt his disposition sink, his back still turned to Birgit. Whatever had just happened left him feeling shaky. “Do you have to shout at me so loud?” he asked in their native tongue. “I was trying to protect you.”

“Protect me?! That man was an informant. Now my superiors…” Birgit trailed off. While she had begun walking toward him, she stopped. “I wasn’t shouting.”

“Yes, you were. I heard you clear as day. You called me a fool.”

“I was thinking it, but I certainly didn’t say it.”

“Stop talking nonsense.” Julian turned to look at Birgit, but the reaction was instantaneous. Her jaw dropped, both hands lifting to cup her mouth while her crystal blue eyes widened in surprise. The posture struck Julian with panic, provoking him to walk over to her and furrow his brow at his now-mute sister. His already-quickened heart sped anxiously as her expression only turned more fraught with disbelief. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Mein… Gott…” The words were stretched out, perhaps to give her a chance to regroup, because she immediately squared her shoulders and dropped her hands to her sides. Whatever she choked back lodged in her throat, until she swallowed it down. “Come,” she said, taking Julian by the wrist and tugging him forward. “We’re going back to my car before someone realizes what just happened.”

“Where are we going?” Julian followed, though dragging his feet more than it seemed his sister would’ve liked. They wound out of the alley and back onto the main street. “We can take my car.”

“No.” She barked out the word tersely. Birgit took in a deep breath and exhaled it slowly. “We have to take mine. I’ll… have someone fetch yours later.”

“I don’t understand.” As they turned on the road where they had parked, Julian stopped, ripping his hand from Birgit’s hold. He folded his arms across his chest. “I just…” He glanced around at the other pedestrians and lowered his voice. “… Saw a vampire. An actual… vampire and drove a piece of wood through his chest. And I’m surprised my hands aren’t shaking more, but my head is spinning and I don’t even understand why you’re so upset. Now you want to go for a drive?”

“Julian…” When he refused to budge, she shook her head and sighed. Her eyes met his, but the gaze held for several beats. Julian began to suspect she was staring at him rather than into him, if just until she managed to refocus her attention. “I promise I’ll explain more. I know you don’t understand, but this isn’t the right place to discuss it. If that man had any friends close by, they will want your head and I doubt you’ll get lucky twice.”

For as sound and practical as the suggestion was, Julian saw the truth hidden in layers. The arrival of other adversaries had her nervous, yes, but something about her demeanor toward him had changed. He felt like telling her he didn’t care what she’d been hiding and why, but the real problem remained shrouded behind even this. She didn’t care – or cared very little – that he’d come upon her meeting with a supernatural creature. Killing the vampire was what had done something.

A sudden wave of nervousness crested over Julian Reichlin.

He nodded, no longer dragging his feet when she looped an arm around his and silently led him to the car. His eyes stole to the windows of the shops they passed, but nothing struck him about the distorted reflection which hadn’t been there before. A steady pulse still beat from an anxious heart and shaky breaths passed through his lungs the same way they had before. The strange thought that the world had turned quiet taunted at the corner of his mind, but Julian had no idea what that meant.

Instead of questioning it further, he slid into the passenger seat of Birgit’s car. Doors shut and the engine turned over when Birgit twisted the key in the ignition. As they departed, his stomach sank while his eyes scanned across Stuttgart. Nobody he regarded gave off the same air as he remembered from before. He couldn’t tell if it was because he now knew something they didn’t, or had become something they weren’t.

Either way something had changed. And it didn’t seem liable to change back.

Story Beginning | Next Chapter Coming Fri., 8/5

The Shadow Fox Chronicles – Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Scott Reilly

They had been sitting in the same room for the last two hours and it was beginning to wear on everyone, from their client to the opposing counsel and everyone else in-between. Taking a deep breath, Scott flicked another quick gaze toward the phone in his hand, silently wishing he’d received a response to the text message he’d sent halfway through this debacle. Whether or not it looked good to be exchanging messages with your roommate like an adult version of pass the note, something needed to change about the moment.

Gaze lifting, he allowed himself to look at the woman seated opposite him, trying to figure out how much she shared the sentiment.

She wore her hair gathered at the top of her head, twisted in a tight nest of blonde. Her hazel eyes remained fixed on the tablet in front of her, her long fingers making the occasional swipe across the touch screen while she held every other card besides how bored she was close to her chest. Scott raised an eyebrow and she looked up, her ruby lips registering a slight curl in recognition of the look. Mirroring the expression, he looked away again, toward the senior partner seated beside him as he cleared his throat.

“The terms of this are still unacceptable,” Renault Moyer said through what was still a thick French accent despite nearly a decade spent in the States. Handing the document he held back to the lawyer across the table, he then sat back in his chair and adjusted his suit jacket. “You are trying to bribe our client with a smaller contract to keep them from filing a lawsuit.”

“Not bribing,” the other man corrected. “Offering support to a smaller company. Devlin Biosystems realizes that local industry fears we’ll form a monopoly when we move into an area. This is our way of proving otherwise.” Placing the papers onto the table in front of him, he kept them within reach of Moyer and flashed a polite smile at the opposing counsel. While Moyer’s salt-and-pepper hair had receded nearly to the top of his head, Francis Spacey resembled a modern incarnation of Patrick Bateman. Everything about him suggested paleo diets and manicures and if Scott hadn’t been used to that sort of life, he might have found it intimidating.

As it was, he was simply hoping Spacey might shut up sometime soon.

“Be that as it may,” Moyer countered, “It’s still bribery. Our clients have had reason to believe the technology Devlin offered to the Jefferson Hospital System in its recent contract bid violates several patents filed by Franklin Pharmaceuticals.”

“You think it does. Honestly, I think Devlin could have sued them by now for their similarity to patents we’ve had on the books for years longer.”

“So Devlin thinks.” Moyer glanced at his client, seated at his left with Scott on the right. The older man nodded at Moyer, prompting the lawyer to look back in the direction of the opposing counsel while flipping open a manila file folder. Moyer shifted his focus to the papers in front of him just long enough to pick out the correct set and toss them in front of Spacey. “Here are the specifications for a respirator Franklin has had patented since 1996. Does it bear any similarities to something Devlin manufactures?”

The level of bored annoyance on Spacey’s face proved only to be a precursor to the way he rolled his eyes before picking up the packet of papers. Flipping to the second page, he turned them horizontally and studied the photocopy of a schematic. “Sir, I don’t have every device Devlin has patented memorized,” he finally said.

“No, no you don’t, but this should look familiar.” Moyer’s smile broadened. Scott felt the weight of the senior partner’s gaze settle on him, startled back into the moment by it. Glancing away from the pretty blonde, he made eye contact and raised an eyebrow as Moyer nodded toward the opposing counsel. “Would you tell Monsieur Spacey which of their products should be coming to mind?”

Scott straightened in his chair and set his phone down, in favor of reaching for the tablet at his right. Sliding it over, he unlocked it and, in a few seconds, had the Devlin website up on the screen. “You produce a heart valve, effective 2008, and have sold it across the country since 2010,” Scott said. “We have the paperwork in place to file an injunction against you for the production of this product and several other devices which contain parts Franklin has held patents for longer.” A few extra selections brought an image up of the heart valve in question.

The smile on his face broadened as he turned the tablet screen to face Devlin’s lawyers.

Spacey leaned closer, reaching for his glasses and slipping them on while regarding the screen. The associate beside him – the aforementioned blonde – leaned closer as well and the two exchanged a glance before Spacey looked back toward Scott and Moyer. “I think Miss Thompson and I both agree that if Franklin had a leg to stand on in court, there would have been an injunction filed already.”

Scott shrugged. “Surely you’ve heard of holding some cards close to your chest, Mr. Spacey.”

“And we were the ones accused of having ulterior motives.” A thin smile traveled the length of his lips, his gaze settling on the younger attorney and staying there. “My apologies, sir, did you say your name was Mr. Reilly?”

“Yes, I did.” Scott held his posture steady. The question bore more to it than the words presented. “Do you need that spelled?”

Spacey breathed a chuckle. “I don’t think anybody from this area needs that name spelled, I only wanted to be sure.” Reclining back in his chair, he settled both hands on his stomach, their fingers intertwining. “Considering your family’s reputation, I should like to think you don’t need basic concepts like product similarities explained to you. You have your schematics and our picture, but we don’t have any paperwork yet requesting our patent applications. What would that say to you?”

“That would say our clients hoped they might have a more amiable discussion with Devlin Biosystems, despite being rebuffed by your company several times.”

“Aren’t you essentially wasting your time then?” the female lawyer asked, interjecting. Brow arched, she made eye contact with Scott and held tight to a cordial smile. “If Franklin wanted to play ball, they should have come prepared.”

“With all due respect, Miss Thompson, even Franklin knows Devlin wields a larger bat.” Scott glanced from her back to her senior partner. “What Franklin wants at this point is something more than scraps while Devlin gets Jefferson Hospital. Their ultimatum is to file a list of injunctions for patent violation. If you wanted requests for your applications, then I can have them prepared for Renault by Monday.”

“We’ll have lawsuits already filed against Franklin by tomorrow afternoon,” Francis Spacey countered. The look he shot his associate came with a sigh, the sound more fatigued than troubled. He shook his head and collected the original proposal which had been laid on the table. “Mr. Lawrence,” he said, addressing the client seated beside Renault Moyer, “I highly recommend talking to your CEO again about our offer. The last thing Franklin Pharmaceuticals needs is to be tied up in court with frivolous lawsuits while these gentlemen siphon your profit margin into extinction. There are several other companies in the Philadelphia metro area who would step all over each other for this proposal.”

“Go and feed your crumbs to the birds,” Lawrence said, entering the discussion for the first time. A slim, older gentleman – early seventies at his youngest, Scott reckoned – he bore the stubbornness of a person who had long since forgotten how to surrender. “We refuse to roll over like the others have.”

“Did the others roll over, or did they learn the proper way to ‘play ball’ as Miss Thompson worded it? I’ll trust you all to have a decision for us before we leave for Bethesda on Friday.”

Spacey stood, as did Thompson and a silent member of the Devlin team who had accompanied them into the meeting room. Scott glanced first at the Devlin employee before allowing his gaze to settle on Miss Thompson. Whatever words Renault Moyer had to offer the opposing counsel when he and Scott came to their feet got lost in the background. Scott focused on his female counterpart and mouthed one word.

‘Benet’s?’

She nodded and turned to face her senior partner, ignoring Scott for the remainder of the discussion. Sliding his hands in his pockets, Scott focused on the parting exchange as much as he felt apt to. He had done his part for the time being. Renault Moyer bore a frightening level of intelligence, making him one of the best assets the firm had in their employ, but a bulldog he was not. Scott never had to wonder why his resume floated to the top of the pile out of law school. The founders might have claimed it was Scott’s steel nerve and his ability to cut through the bullshit, but the Reilly name had given him more than just a sense of the business world.

It had also come replete with its own list of connections.

Scott nodded at Francis Spacey when the other man bid him farewell and watched with Moyer and Walter Lawrence throughout the opposing team’s egress. Each man remained silent, even after the glass door swung shut and left the remaining three standing exactly in the same place. Moyer took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly, pivoting to line the other two in his sights. “Mr. Lawrence, I’d be prepared to tell your board of directors that Devlin means business,” he said. “I’ll have Scott sort out the paperwork in case we determine filing suit against Devlin is our best course of action, but they should be prepared to have this tied up in court for quite a while.”

Walter Lawrence drew in a deep breath and held onto it for an extra moment before releasing it. “If that’s how it’s got to be, that’s how it’ll be,” he said. Lifting a hand, he scratched at the back of his neck. “We’ve lost our contract with Jefferson and we’re floating by on borrowed time now. If we go down, I think the board wants it to be with a chunk of Devlin stock knocked away in the process.”

“I doubt your board wants to go down, period,” Scott interjected. He offered the older man a polite smile. “But if they play their cards right, the publicity could earn them different contracts. Renault and I will do our best to shore up your case before anything gets filed.”

“Can always count on the Reillys for that.” Lawrence flashed a wry grin at Scott. He offered his hand to the young attorney, but as they shook, Scott read so many things in the space between them. The Reilly name stood for a lot. Quality was one thing. Ruthlessness, another. By the time Scott released his hold on the older man, he’d come no closer to determining what impression had been left with their client.

“If it’s alright with you, Renault, I’ll collect my things and get started at home?” Scott asked, his gaze shifting to his senior partner.

Renault waved Scott away with a flick of his hand and a few words muttered in French. Shooting the other lawyer a much less strained smile, Scott added a mock salute and left the conference room, waiting until the door shut behind him before exhaling the sigh of relief he’d been holding. Everything about the polish of his exterior remained intact, from his stride to the straightness of his posture and crispness of his suit. Scott nodded to the lingering remnant of paralegals and associates who remained in the office, noting to himself just how much later life had become ever since the firm had taken on immortals as clientele.

“And kids are being born that won’t know any differently,” he mused aloud, rounding a corner and slowing to a stop in front of one of the elevators. Reaching out to press the down arrow, he collected himself once again while waiting for the doors to part and kept his remaining thoughts to himself throughout the trek to his desk. The lawyers still diligent at work ignored him and he, them, while gathering up his things. Slipping on a wool coat, he secured his briefcase strap over his shoulder and departed just as quickly as he had arrived.

Outside, the air had gained more of a bite than it bore that morning, when he had arrived at work. The bustling thoroughfare of 17th Street and John F. Kennedy Boulevard seemed to have only picked up in pace and a quick glance at his watch revealed the hour to be a barely-tolerable nine o’clock. Gathering his coat close to his body, he buried both hands in the pockets and took a deep breath. With one last look spared toward the skyline, he strode toward the intersection, heading south on 17th.

***

The name of the establishment was rumored to have familiar significance to its owner – one of those cases of being a favored aunt’s maiden name or something of the like. The important part to Scott was that it had been rated high when Zagat’s made their pass through the restaurant, and that it put enough of a dent on his credit card to make taking dates there impressive. It required a short walk from the office, nestled deep within the heart of Rittenhouse, but it also brought Scott a few blocks away from home in the process.

On a Wednesday night, reservations at Benet’s were a moot point. It wasn’t one of those establishments the politicians took their mistresses to, or where players from the Eagles brought their wives for a place that was both private and opulent at the same time. When Scott walked up to the hostess, he asked for a table for two and was seated immediately, his coat hung properly on a hook and work pushed out of sight directly before he settled into his chair. “My date should be here shortly,” he said, “But can I start with a glass of your house red?”

The hostess nodded and rushed off to find his server. Scott’s shoulders relaxed, the relief of being away from the corporate world washing over him like a wave lapping up from the ocean. It took until the first glass of wine had been consumed, refilled and partly depleted for Scott Reilly, attorney-at-law to transform back into the Scott who lay underneath. By the time a familiar face appeared at the door, he felt much more at ease.

She spotted him first and made her way to him with no further ceremony.

Scott stood once she had reached within a few paces and pulled out the chair opposite him. The tight bun had been pulled out, allowing her blonde hair to hang free in ringlets, her business suit still her armor, but a much more relaxed manner to her demeanor as well. She smirked when she looked up at him; Melissa Thompson remained the perfect picture of amusement throughout the duration of his movements. “Whoever said chivalry was dead had yet to meet you,” she quipped as he sat back in his chair.

He laughed. “I’m not so sure about that,” Scott said. “After all, if my fiancée knew I was seeing you, she wouldn’t be calling me chivalrous.”

“Oh really?” Melissa’s smile broadened. “And what would she be calling you?”

“Probably something like a homewrecker.”

Melissa blurted out a laugh, prompting Scott’s smile to broaden. Their conversation paused as their server wandered over, but only until the formality of drink orders could be ironed out. As the humor surrounding them dissipated, Melissa sat back in her chair and crossed her legs, studying Scott in silence for a few moments before speaking again. “I’ve missed you. Bethesda is too far away sometimes.”

Warmth radiated from Scott’s expression. Reaching forward for one of her hands, he took it in his and lifted it up to his lips. “I’ve missed you, too, Mellie.” The admission preceded a small kiss, pressed against the back of her palm before he released his hold on her hand. The diamond in her ring setting glimmered when the light hit it, the white gold bearing an added shine, as though being worn by her made it more beautiful than it had been when he first bought it. He waited for the bittersweet to dissipate from the air before speaking again. “Let’s not dwell on Bethesda,” he said. A small measure of the mask he wore returned, if just for the moment. “How have you been?”

“Oh, busy,” she said. “Just like you.” A playful smile danced across her lips, in open defiance of the melancholy still lingering. “But really, Scott? Franklin Pharmaceuticals? They haven’t been on the cutting edge of anything since the 1970s.”

Scott laughed and Melissa’s smile broadened. “One day, when I’m in control of our client list, I’ll make sure we don’t take on anything but the cutting edge, regardless of how deep their pockets are.”

“I think that’s the only thing they have going for them.”

“The Viagra business keeps them afloat.”

Melissa snorted and Scott chuckled, his eyes dancing with mischief. She waved a hand in front of her face as though chasing away an invisible batch of flies buzzing in the space in front of her, barely able to compose herself in time for the server to appear again with a glass of Riesling. The same hand hovered over her bottom lip while the waiter addressed them both. “Are we ready to order?” he asked.

“Give us a few moments,” Scott said, the words spoken through a haze of laughter.

“We’ll order some calamari to start,” Melissa added, promptly cupping her mouth after managing that, nodding as the server nodded and watching him walk away. She and Scott made eye contact once the waiter had departed. Lifting up in her seat enough to reach for Scott, Melissa slapped his shoulder, forcing him to draw up into himself, using his arm to block the attack. The action only caused his laughter to escalate.

Melissa settled herself back into her chair and adjusted her suit jacket. “Andy’s been a bad influence on you,” she said, the sparkle of playfulness in her eyes defying the accusation of her words.

“I’ve always been this bad,” Scott countered. He cleared his throat and glanced around, straightening his posture on reflex. “Though he’d be happy to hear someone say he’s forced me to lighten up.”

“I’ll bet he would.” The smile lingered on her face. “The Viagra business?”

“Actually, he’d accuse me of needing new material. That joke’s almost as old as we are.” Scott ran a hand through his hair, pushing back the locks of auburn that had started to fall in his face. He raised an eyebrow at Melissa through the gesture. “Are you able to come over tonight?”

“We’ll see. You didn’t hear it from me, but Devlin has us working like mad trying to shore up the new contracts in this area.”

“Taking over a city does probably create a lot of work.”

Melissa lifted an eyebrow back at her fiancé. “Oh, are you going to get on this particular bandwagon? Especially after what Delaware Valley Industries has been getting its hands into lately?”

The comment stung more than he let on. Scott glanced away, taking a deep breath inward and releasing it slowly. “I have no control over what DVI does with its operations. My father does.” He looked back at Melissa, a tired expression developing on his face in the process. “If I had a say, the merger with Cochran would’ve ended up a lot civiler.”

“Sweetheart, you don’t want any control over what DVI does. That’s the point.”

“I wish it wasn’t.” His fingers settled on the handle of a fork and ran along the length of it, ending at the tongs before shifting back to the tablecloth. Scott’s eyes remained fixed on the cream-colored fabric. “DVI and Devlin are two totally different creatures, though. It’s apples and oranges.”

“It’s not if we’re comparing business practices.”

“I really think you and I should know better than to discuss work over dinner by now.” Scott’s gaze flicked back up to meet hers.

Melissa frowned and rolled her eyes. Silence settled between them, uncomfortable, marked by either person taking small sips from their wine and setting their glasses back down on the table. They both paged through the menu and when the server arrived again, took turns ordering while avoiding eye contact. As the tense quiet returned, Melissa shook her head and played idly with the rim of her glass. “You could do better than them,” she said, glancing up at Scott once more. The pad of her finger traced circles around the circumference while her eyes remained fixed on him.

He shrugged noncommittally. “Than my brother, maybe, but not my father,” he said. “And that’s assuming I have any aspirations toward working for them one day.”

“They would make a much better client than Franklin Pharmaceuticals.”

“Even if that wasn’t potentially a conflict of interest, I’d rather not sell my soul that much.” He lifted his wine glass again. “It’s bad enough reading about it on the internet than staring at the bottom line.”

“Somebody forgot to leave his soul behind in law school.” A playful grin curled the corners of her lips.

Scott huffed, the sound sardonic, but not devoid of amusement. Pausing to finish off his wine, he continued holding the empty glass, peering into it like it had become a focus. “I was sick the day the crossroads demon showed up.” He reciprocated the smile as he looked back up at Melissa.

She reached forward, prompting him to lower the glass again. Taking his hand in hers, she interlaced their fingers, her smile broadening. “You get so touchy about your family, Scott. Nobody’s going to forget the Reilly name any time soon. You might as well figure out a way to use it to your advantage.”

“I thought I was saving that for when you run for political office.”

“Already planning my first fundraising dinner. That’s almost as sweet as the day you proposed to me.” Her thumb brushed over his fingers. Melissa tightened her hold on him and leaned forward, a conspiratorial way to her movements that brought her closer to Scott’s personal space. Her voice lowered to a whisper, eyes slyly darting one way, and then the other before she spoke again. “I think we should take dinner back to your place.”

Scott tensed a little as the sensation of her foot touching his leg preempted his response. The look in her eyes conveyed a story all in its own right, daring him to turn the page and uncover what laid inside her mind. Scott licked his lips, making up some of the distance between them himself. “I still have that bottle of Glenlivet my parents gave me for my birthday,” he said.

Melissa hummed. “Scotch, steak, and considerably less clothing than we’re currently wearing?”

“Much, much better than corporate negotiations.”

“You’re such a smooth talker, Mr. Reilly.” They both looked up as the server approached, holding the plate of calamari in hand. Melissa released her hold on Scott, sitting back against her chair and sighing up at the waiter. “I’m tired and I think the wine’s going to my head. Do you think you could wrap everything up for us, please?”

The server, in turn, studied her and frowned, opening his mouth to issue something that had all of the earmarks of being an objection. She nodded in Scott’s direction, however, her eyes never leaving the tall, slim man in front of them. “He tips very well when I’m being difficult,” she added.

The server glanced at Scott, who nodded in assent. Reaching into his back pocket, Scott pulled out his wallet, producing a credit card and placing it on the table. “Our dinner and the check, if you could,” he said.

“I’ll be right back with all of that,” the server responded. Turning his back to them, he marched away, leaving Scott and Melissa to exchange another conspiratorial look in his absence. It took a matter of minutes for the server to reappear and only a scant amount of time before the bill was paid and both lawyers found themselves out in the cold, November night. As they disappeared inside Scott’s room, though – two glasses and two sets of utensils in hand – they wasted no time setting the food aside and lighting a fire in the hearth.

The logs had barely any chance to catch before she snuck up behind him.

Both of her arms looped around him from behind, hands settling on his chest. Her fingers fanned out against the smooth fabric of his shirt, one nail toying with a button before sliding underneath to unfasten it. Scott remained still until her trek ventured northward, obediently lifting a hand to undo the tie knotted around his neck and pull it out from around his collar. As she reached the top, her teeth toyed with his earlobe and a shiver ran the length of his spine. His lids threatened to flutter shut as she chuckled.

“Are we alone?” she whispered.

Scott nodded. “Andy doesn’t go to bed this early,” he said. “He would’ve been out in the living room.”

“Then I want to see how loud you can make me scream.”

“Challenge accepted.” He turned in her grip and pressed their bodies flush, the action forceful and enough to prompt her to loop her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. As he carried her to bed, his lips crashed into hers, the kiss long and decadent, lasting the full journey and parting only as they toppled onto the bed. Melissa worked on the buttons of her blouse while Scott pulled his shirt and suit jacket from his body. The first pieces of clothing fell to the ground, forgotten just as soon as they were discarded.

Whatever time passed between them became lost to the throes of lust, and after gathering blankets and consuming food, they curled together beneath the sheets. Neither of them budged when they heard the door open and shut, the other occupant of the condo sneaking into his room without any further ceremony. It took until Scott jolted awake from a dream for him to finally slip out from the cocoon of tangled limbs and comforters, one leg sliding after the other into his boxer shorts so he could pad through the apartment for his briefcase.

Melissa remained sleeping when he returned. He lay in bed, glancing through court orders and patent reports, making notes concerning what paperwork he would need to prepare when he returned to the office. Sounds of the city filtered into the bedroom, and the haze of the metropolis prevented either stars or the moon from shining past the clouds. Still, he read by the scant light of the city, reminding himself it was either excel at this, or someday be pulled back into his parents’ world.

Story Beginning | Next Part Available Tues., 8/2

Hand of Fate – Chapter One

Chapter One

He had been tracking the boar for the better part of the evening, staying low to the ground and following the small marks left on the soft, forest floor. Once or twice, the beast had broken through less navigable terrain, but it always wound back to one of the paths. A few more meters and he might finally have a clear shot.

Julian paused by a running brook, still crouched and with his crossbow hanging by his side. The fingers of one hand tracing idly across the string, he lifted his other hand high enough to check the direction of the wind. In those blessed moments which followed, the world fell to a hush. The harmonious sounds of nature faded into the background and serenity blew through his soul like a breeze on the wind. His palm found the stock of the crossbow while the lifted hand reached back and felt for the bolts in his quiver. Just as the leaves of a bush began to rustle, Julian sprang into action.

The bolt was swiftly secured into place as he launched onto his feet and lined the boar in his sight. The animal lurched and as Julian pressed the trigger, he compensated for the turn with a split second adjustment which drove the bolt home into the back of the boar’s neck. It floundered to one side and lay still after issuing one last squeal of protest. A smile of victory broke out on Julian’s face. “Got you,” he murmured under his breath.

The words produced a tuft of steam and the march toward the fallen animal brought with it the crunch of pine needles and small twigs. The air crisp, it bore the reminder that this winter would be a brutal one and might have surrendered the last hunting trip Julian would enjoy. He knelt beside his kill and pulled the bolt out of its neck, admiring the size of the beast with a heavy sigh. Carrying it back to the car would be a difficult, mile-long march. Still, Birgit was worth it.

It had been two years since the last time she returned home.

Julian frowned as his gaze lifted to regard the overcast sky. Securing the crossbow into a sling, he removed his quiver from his back and unzipped a pouch to produce a small, folded tarp. His thoughts drifted as he tied a length of rope around the boar’s body. Two years ago, he had been seventeen, finishing school and apprenticing at the factory. Now, he worked there full time, a mundane life of employment and family waiting for him in the horizon. It was enough to make the military look appealing.

He stifled a soft chuckle and tossed the length of rope around a low-lying, sturdy branch. Gripping it tight with both hands, he pulled on his end until the wild pig dangled from the ground. His muscles strained under the weight of the animal and the tree limb bowed nearly to the point of breaking, but held. He tied his end of the rope off and pulled a dagger from a sheath strapped around his thigh. Bleeding the pig out would at least make transport a little easier. Not to mention, it would give him more time alone with his thoughts, even if that had been a dangerous proposition those days. The walls were closing in around him – the life of auto assembly lines and urban chaos becoming more than he could bear. The only time he found any reprieve seemed to be out in the forest.

Papa said he had almost been born with a crossbow in his hands. Mama relished the fresh meat and rewarded the family with a hearty dinner. Julian only told a half-truth when he mentioned hunting something for Birgit’s homecoming; he had wanted to ensure she have a proper dinner, true. But he wandered an hour away because seeing her again was beginning to mark the passage of time. Something about the concept had inspired this latest wave of unease.

He grumbled softly and slit the boar’s throat. Blood trickled from the wound, a macabre display he had long since become desensitized toward. As it pooled onto the forest floor, he admired the blade of his knife and frowned, wishing he knew what had bothering him lately. Maybe it was something in the air, but it did not seem apt to depart anytime soon.

With a solemn sigh, he began the task of dressing the kill.

Maybe Birgit would know. She always seemed to.

***

It had been explained to him the only way such matters could be discussed with eight-year-old boys. His older sister – the rock who had been a surrogate parent to him – was sick and needed to get better. Years passed in-between. Hannelore gave birth to Klaus shortly after Birgit’s departure and baby Ilse followed three years afterward.  Each time Julian saw Birgit since then, he never noticed any illness manifest in the way she held herself. She would sleep for half the morning her first day there and tell stories about London over dinner. Her tales of the school itself were vague, with faceless instructors who were teaching her ‘a lot of things.’ By the time he turned twelve, his parents stopped asking which things and by now, they had given up any hope of her moving back to Germany.

Julian would still press her, though, in private, and away from the skeptical glances and frowns of their mother and father. Through the years, a tale had been assembled with strategic pieces left out of certain parts. Her school let her travel, and she’d sneak back a trinket for Julian from Paris or Belgium or somewhere in Spain. “I wish I could see the world like you do,” he had said during her last visit home.

She only smiled solemnly and replied, “Everything comes with a price, Julian. You wouldn’t want to see it for the same reasons.” Still, it had done nothing to dissuade him. He visited relatives in Switzerland one summer and took the train to Italy on his eighteenth birthday in a sheer flight of fancy. Mannfred chastised him when he returned, reiterating the charge that one day, Julian would have to find his own apartment and be an independent man. The life of responsibility thrust upon him suited him ill, but he never failed to show up for work and never stopped considering the next place he might wander off to. Backpacking in the Alps. Perhaps even surprising Birgit in London. Maybe life would find him somewhere out there, instead of fencing him within the confines of Stuttgart.

Maybe one day he would figure out why that was such a concern for him.

Carting the remains of the boar took longer than he expected, and dusk had begun to settle by the time he started the car and drove the tarp-wrapped carcass back to the city limits. A light drizzle descended on the German countryside which turned into a full deluge when he merged into the busy metropolitan traffic. His mother was waiting by the door when he pulled up to the house. “Back in plenty of time?” she said, folding her arms across her chest as he opened the trunk and hefted out dinner. “I expected you home three hours ago. Your father had to take his car to the airport to pick up your sister.”

Julian sighed, water beginning to trickle down the collar of his shirt. “I needed to dress the pig,” he said, leaving the trunk ajar in favor of carrying the boar into the house. His mother frowned as she held the door open, and deigned to walk outside and shut the trunk before retreating inside again. The weight of her stare settled onto his shoulders when she padded into the kitchen.

“We’ll have to save that for tomorrow. Your father isn’t here to butcher the pig.”

He deposited the weight on the counter and bit his tongue when his mother suggested that next time, he should kill a rabbit or something smaller. The Reichlin matriarch did not skip a beat in springboarding from a critique of his target to commentary on his state of appearance, and as the topic of discussion centered on his general grooming, Julian retreated into the bathroom to shower. The silence of seclusion found him again, even if just for a few fleeting minutes. The activity of the house picked up soon afterward, though.

His younger siblings bustled around the living room and were shooed away from the kitchen while Hannelore cooked. Julian smirked to himself when he noticed bits of pork frying in a skillet with a complement of chopped up vegetables and broth. The beer he stole from the refrigerator served as a prize for a job well done, and was polished off in time for the front door to swing open again. Mannfred entered first, lugging a suitcase in each hand.

When Julian spied Birgit, his face lit with a smile.

She glanced around at the other children as they raced to the door to greet her. The years had bestowed her with beauty, and regardless of whatever might have been twisting inside her mind, her exterior bore a tough, but graceful appearance. Barrettes held back her long, silken locks and her blue eyes were still the glacier blue they had been as an eleven-year-old. When they found Julian, a mixture of relief and happiness washed over her face. In the back of his mind he wondered how much he mirrored the expression.

He crossed the room to circle her in his arms, his grin broadening when she clutched onto him in return. They held the embrace for several moments and when they parted, kissed each other’s cheek before pulling away. She chuckled when he brushed drops of rain from his shirt, both hands settling on her hips as she paused to admire him. “Julian, who gave you permission to grow into a man?” she asked.

Julian laughed, pointing heavenward while walking with her toward the kitchen. “Take it up with the Almighty,” he said. “I think He handles that sort of thing.”

“At least your brother is big enough to bring dinner, now.” Hannelore turned from the stove to kiss Birgit on the cheek. “Hello, Liebling. I hope your flight went well.”

“It went very well, Mama.” Birgit exchanged the kiss and glanced toward Mannfred as he lumbered into the hallway and toward the girls’ room. She sighed. “I should help Papa with my bags.”

“Oh nonsense. Let your father leave them in your room. You can unpack after dinner.” Hannelore nodded toward Julian. “Thank your brother. He went out hunting and brought home a pig.”

Birgit smirked with amusement when she looked toward Julian again. “Sneaking through the woods with that crossbow of yours?”

Julian shrugged, grinning coyly. “I like to hunt.”

“He would live in the forest if he was able to,” their mother said. She pointed a wooden ladle at the boar’s remains. “Your father is going to grumble about having to cut up a pig so late in the evening. I’ll remind him that means he has bacon in the morning.”

“He complains too much as it is.”

Birgit shot a look of warning at Julian, who rolled his eyes in response. The gesture brought a smile to her face, as it did every time they played this game. Julian felt like adding the obligatory comment, that he had to deal with their parents more than she did, but it seemed to settle between them just the same. Mannfred joined the family in the kitchen and while their mother cooked, he carried the rest of the boar into the shed and butchered it.

Hot bowls of soup and warm chunks of bread adorned the kitchen table. Julian’s father retreated to wash up and when he reappeared, the family held hands and prayed over their food. A mostly silent meal followed, bursts of conversation brewing which dissipated just as quickly as they were summoned. Julian winced when Hannelore asked if Birgit was dating and interjected once on her behalf, saying, “Mama, Birgit’s only three years older than me. Let her find a husband when she’s ready to.”

“Says the boy who refuses to leave the house,” Hannelore rebuffed, but the comment was enough to change the topic of conversation, even if it trained its focus on Julian for longer than he would’ve liked. Julian sighed and cleared the bowls and plates from the table, casting a sideways glance at Birgit. ‘See what you’re missing,’ his eyes conveyed to his sister.

Hers responded with a gentle, ‘Be grateful for what you have. Even when it annoys you.’

He frowned, but continued to the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves and starting the cleanup. The younger children helped by putting the dishes away and Mannfred settled in his chair with his pipe, taking possession of the television for the night. Birgit caught Julian’s eye, cocking her head toward the front door and Julian nodded, finishing up the last dish and tousling Klaus’s hair as he walked past. The teenage boy issued a complaint Julian promptly ignored to join his sister outside.

The rain had changed from a downpour to a light mist. Birgit huddled her coat close to her body and smirked when Julian emerged with his sleeves still up to his elbows. “You’re trying to catch your death,” she said, settling onto the swing mounted on the porch.

Julian laughed, walking over to one of the posts and resting his weight against it. With one hand, he rolled the fabric back down to his wrists. “I don’t know how the weather is in London, but you get used to autumn here.”

“It’s cold there, too. Foggy and rainy more than I think it is here. I don’t remember.” The corner of her mouth curled into an apologetic smile. “I feel like I’ve spent more of my life there than I have here.”

“Sometimes feels that way for me, too.” He sighed, glancing toward the streetlights and glistening roads. “They won’t let you come home for Christmas again?”

“I’m sorry, Julian. Christmas isn’t a good time of year for me.” She brightened a little. “They’ve been letting me work lately, though. I help in the office, sorting mail and filing papers.”

“That’s good.” When he looked back, he mirrored the conciliatory grin and walked over to the porch swing. Birgit slid over and he settled beside her, one foot propped on the banister in front of them and the other on the ground, pushing off the wooden boards to swing them back and forth. His gaze remained fixed forward, a pensive air emanating from him which only made the silence tenser.

Birgit shook her head. “You’re moodier than usual.”

He grunted in response, but finally directed his attention back to his sister. The look in her eyes read of concern and when Birgit was concerned, it wasn’t easy for him to dismiss it. His disposition softened. “Restless,” he said, punctuating the word with a shrug. A subtle grin tugged at his lips. “I’ve been traveling this past year. I would’ve sent you postcards, but we don’t have your address.”

She smiled, the side-step an obvious, but forgivable, one. “So, tell me where you’ve gone.”

Julian laughed. “Just to Switzerland and Italy. I’m saving for another holiday, but I’m not sure where yet.”

Her smile brightened. “How did you like Italy?”

“It was nice. The sea looks beautiful in the sunlight. I went for my birthday and brought Mama back a few souvenirs. Klaus, Heike, and Ilse, too.” He chuckled, motioning with his hands as he spoke. “Ilse tried to play tea party souvenir cups and Mama had a fit when she spilled her drink everywhere.”

Birgit descended into a torrent of laughter and Julian nodded as her cheeks flushed, her eyes dancing with amusement. “She made me help Ilse clean it,” Julian continued, “And Ilse cried, asking if her doll had been ruined. It took us hours to assure her that Mama could wash it.”

Steam escaped past Birgit’s lips when she exhaled a deep breath. “I barely know Ilse. Klaus looks a lot like you and Papa.”

Julian wrinkled his nose. “You think I look like Papa?”

“Probably easier for somebody doesn’t see you as often to notice.” She shot Julian a wink and giggled at the expression on his face. He huffed, but she nudged him with her shoulder, a gesture he reciprocated. The moment of levity lingered, but gave way to sobriety once more, becoming that thing dancing in the corner of the room without being recognized. She leaned against him and frowned, resting her head on his shoulder. “Why don’t you get out of the house anyway? Mama and Papa are driving you crazy.”

“I don’t know. It seems like I should have a different purpose in life than living in the city and factory work. Moving out means I have to stay at the factory.” He frowned as a reflex. “At least they gave me a week holiday for your visit.”

She issued a soft chuckle in response. “You aren’t going to find much better. You didn’t get enough schooling to do something else.”

“It isn’t the schooling. It’s just a feeling in my bones.”

“I know what you mean.” She paused, but this time, the silence was much more comfortable. Julian continued rocking them back and forth and Birgit fiddled with her hands, staring down at them while Julian gazed straight ahead. Of all the things which could have broken the silence, Julian hardly expected it to be the question Birgit issued. “Do you believe there’s more out there than just… us?”

Julian raised an eyebrow. “There are a lot more people than just us.”

“Dussel.” She reached up with one hand and slapped at his arm. “I meant other things in this world. Like the old stories told to us by Opa and Oma.”

“The wolf people in the woods?”

“Yes. Do you think anything like that actually exists?”

The question made his stomach sink. Julian tensed despite himself, attempting to mask the reaction while being unable to all at the same time. “Do you?” he finally asked, but in his mind, he found himself afraid she might actually say yes. His voice sounded small and uncertain, while usually being anything but.

She tensed, too, though Julian didn’t know if she recognized the trepidation he harbored or not. When a sigh escaped her lips, he shifted to face her, forcing her head to lift and her gaze to shift to the horizon. He frowned. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to make it sound like that.”

“Yes, you did, Julian.” Her eyes shut, arms folding to huddle her coat close to her chest. When her lids lifted, she glanced heavenward, exhaling a breath which sounded both exasperated and upset. “The last time I visited home, Mama and Papa asked me if I was feeling any better and now, you’re getting funny on me just for posing a silly question.”

Julian frowned, one hand lifting to scratch his scalp. “Maybe if we saw you more often…”

“You’d what? Believe that I’m not as delusional as you think I am?” Her eyes glistened. “Out of all of them, you were the one I thought knew that the most.”

“What am I supposed to think when you’re asking about fairy tales?”

“A lot of sane, normal people believe in special things.  You haven’t seen enough of this world to be so skeptical.” Birgit rose to her feet, pacing toward the edge of the porch in a huff. She turned her back to Julian. “You were the one saying you’ve got ‘feelings in your bones’. Sometimes that’s why it happens. The spinning of the world isn’t just you and me, it’s everything around us, and sometimes we sense it even if we’re not sure what’s causing it.” A tuft of steam drifted past her lips, her head turning enough to show Julian her profile. “Forgive me for trying to help.”

It was the most insane thing his sister had ever suggested and yet, she sounded lucid while saying it. He rose to his feet and walked closer, palms raised. “So there are wolf people in forests and this is why I dislike my job at the factory?”

“Du bist so ein Vollidiot,” she said through clenched teeth. Birgit spun to face Julian, pushing a finger into his chest. “Stop being so thick.”

“Explain what you mean, then!”

“Never mind! You won’t get it.”

“I definitely won’t if you don’t explain it.”

She lifted her arms. “I mean everything’s connected. The trees, the birds, the humans, and the special things. You’ve seen how animals behave before bad weather, right?” When Julian nodded, she did as well and continued, arms lowering back to her sides. “It’s the same idea.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I still don’t understand how this proves there are things like wolf people.”

“Not wolf people, but other things. Other things like them.” She sighed, shaking her head as she looked away. “Look, just trust me when I say you’re not the only person that’s restless.”

“If you say so.”

While he issued the statement in concession, Birgit grumbled and turned for the door the moment he spoke it.  Julian reached for her hand, attempting to stop her, but as their fingers touched, a strange spark of electricity jumped from Birgit’s palm to Julian’s – invisible and yet palpable at once. Julian retracted his hand and Birgit shoved hers in her pocket, looking startled while disappearing inside the confines of the Reichlin house again.

Julian remained on the porch. Eyes fixed on the door as it swung shut, he furrowed his brow, staring first straight ahead before allowing himself a glance down at his hand. The skin looked just as calloused and blemished as it had before, though he expected at least a burn mark from how much of a jolt had been delivered from such a brief connection. It reminded him of a static shock, but in his gut, he knew this had been different.

He exhaled deeply and walked back to the porch swing, settling on it with his hand still extended awkwardly in front of him. Two years had passed; he had to remind himself of that again while being presented by the entirety of Birgit’s strange correspondence throughout the past decade. Places traveled; things experienced. Stories she could only half tell and scenarios which begged for further explanation when none was forthcoming. It could’ve all been some elaborate hallucination, but Julian had a hard time believing her school would’ve let her off grounds like this, progressive or not. Especially when she lacked the tell-tale signs of being medicated.

A frown surfaced in all its cynical glory. He wasn’t sure what logic was trying to tell him, but that nameless sensation which had circled around him in recent days surged to further prominence the longer he sat. Maybe Birgit was right; that there were other things in the world which contributed to the feeling of unease which had taken up permanent residence inside his soul.

Or maybe he just hoped life could be something more than ordinary.

Story Beginning | Next part available Friday, 7/29

Good Charlotte Walker – Chapter One

Chapter One

It was the headache that woke me, but when moving caused a sharp pain to shoot from my shoulder to my upper arm, I knew I had really done it to myself this time. I didn’t know where I was. Didn’t remember for the life of me what had happened last night. All I could say with any certainty was that I was alive and returning to the real world after one hell of a strange trip.

I knew it was daytime by the way the warmth of the sun rained down on me, but I wasn’t ready to open my eyes yet. The moment I did, I’d be greeted by rays of sunshine blaring the Hallelujah Chorus and only misery would follow from there. A hangover waited to greet me with open arms. There was no sense in rushing the inevitable.

Instead, I paused to take stock of my mental faculties.

My name was Charlotte Mary Walker, I remembered that much. I was born in Lancaster, Pennsylvania to William and Susan Walker, two small town Catholics who served drinks from Monday thru Saturday and warmed pews every Sunday. Not that I faulted them for their religion. Hell, if it meant being rid of this migraine, I would have called out sweet Hosannas to the Almighty and ended my Agnosticism right then and there, but as that was as likely to happen as me remembering the night before, I held back the spiritual awakening and moved through the rest of my exercise.

I was an art student in Philadelphia when I wasn’t home on break. I loved the color black and hated when people called me ‘Char’. And even though I hadn’t had another nickname since parochial school, I remembered the nuns used to call me ‘good Charlotte’ because I was the girl who never acted up in class. I hadn’t been called that in years, though, as I’d been anything but good these days.

‘No… Wait a minute,’ I thought. Someone had called me that recently.

My eyes shot open the moment I remembered him.

Sure enough, the sun was there to greet me, but not as harshly as I thought it would. I still squinted, though, and tried to adjust my eyes to the light as I followed this fledgling thought down the rabbit hole. A picture of him emerged again, sepia-toned and distorted at first, but gaining clarity the longer I focused on it. I had met him last night, at my parents’ bar, while I was serving drinks to the locals.

A more-recent memory started to unfold, but thinking about it too hard threatened to bring my headache back in all its sound and fury. A soft moan passed through my lips and my brow wrinkled as something began to seem off about what I saw surrounding me. It took a moment, but suddenly I realized the reason why the sun wasn’t searing my retinas. A dense patch of woods surrounded me, with branches still clinging to the last leaves of autumn. My eyes narrowed in disbelief. This meant I’d fallen asleep outside.

‘What the hell happened last night?’

The next startling revelation came as a slight shift in position rustled the leaves beneath my body. Lying on my side, I was in the middle of a clearing with a brook babbling somewhere in the distance. Birds were chirping, a cool breeze blew past, and oh my God, I wasn’t wearing any clothing, which should have caused me to bolt upright and start a frantic search for my shirt and pants. A strange thought piggybacked the previous one, though, and I could only think I should be freezing.

That’s when I became aware of the body lying beside me, pressed against my back. The arm draped across my waist tightened its hold on me and a pair of lips brushed my shoulder with feather-light kisses. When his hand pressed against my stomach, I inhaled sharply, tensing despite myself. I could have turned to face him, but something told me those head-splitting memories would return if I did.

Regardless, he already knew I was awake.

“Bon matin, chérie,” he said, his kisses stopping so he could nuzzle my neck. His warm breath caused prickles to erupt on my skin and soothing voice rang familiar, but I was stuck for his actual name. Not to mention, I couldn’t remember how I’d wound up in the woods with him in the first place.

“What…” I began, but stopped when images made it past the invisible dam holding them back, regardless of how much it made my temples throb. I remembered our conversation in the bar and the drunk, dizzy feeling that had accompanied the entire discussion. Talking to him had been like tip-toeing on the edge of the otherworldly, an experience which led to a whirlwind kiss and an expedition through town when I left to find him. I remembered strange lights paving the way to the forest, breadcrumbs leading me straight to Corbyn Marchand.

Corbyn. That was his real name. He’d told me that after I’d followed a…

“Wolf,” I said out loud. What started as a trickle turned quickly into a deluge. I moved in just the right way to reignite the searing pain on my shoulder, which played strangely off the pictures in my head. The light of the full moon; the sensation of Corbyn’s body on top of mine. I remembered being a more-than-willing participant to one hell of a romp. The final picture splashed me with cold water, though, forcing me to bolt upright and inch away from the man lying beside me. He looked up at me, confused, his eyes widening when he caught sight of whatever panicked expression I shot back at him.

“Charlotte?” he asked, sliding cautiously toward me. “What is the ma…?”

“Don’t you dare!” I shouted back at him, lifting a hand to stop him. My chest rose and fell with frantic breaths as that last memory kept playing over and over again. Sure, the gentle look was in his eyes again and the beautiful man I became consumed with was the one peering back at me, but I could see it all now. Lucidly. And when I glanced at my shoulder, my stomach heaved at having it confirmed in all its gory detail. Deep cuts had barely scabbed over. Dried blood smeared from wounds which resembled bite marks.

He had screwed me into euphoria. Then, the sadistic son of a bitch had sunk his teeth into me.

I lurched backward, ignoring the sudden chill which collided with me once I was out of arm’s length. “I have no idea who the hell you are,” I said, “But…”

He reached for me again. “Ma chérie, please let me explain.”

“Don’t touch me!”

The outburst made Corbyn jump. Guilt overwhelmed his expression while he settled back onto the ground. I fought for a moment not to take pity on him, scrambling to my feet and collecting my clothing when determined not to care about his feelings. My body ached in protest. The landscape tipped for a moment, a dizzy spell threatening to knock me back onto my ass before I could make it five steps away. I took a deep breath and started to put on my underwear.

“Charlotte, where are you going?”

“I’m getting away from here.” After adjusting the waistband, I reached for my jeans next and fanned them out, continuing to talk while stumbling into each leg hole. “You’d better not follow me, either, or I swear I’ll find a rock to beat you with before you can get any other freaky ideas in your head.”

“I’m not sure what you mean…”

“What the hell do you call this? A love nip?” I pointed at my shoulder, my bra dangling from my hand. With an exasperated huff, I fumbled with the straps, wincing as one dug into the cuts and sent fresh jabs of pain shooting the length of my arm. Slowly, and gingerly, I reached behind my back to secure the clasps and turned away from Corbyn in search of my shirt. When I found it in a pile of leave, I picked it up and shook it out.

“Is this what you do?” I continued while sliding my head through the neck hole of my shirt. “Do you lure strange women out here and leave marks all over them? You must have a difficult time getting past the first date.”

“Non, ma petite, I’ve told you already about my life.”

“Right. Arranged marriages, if you were even telling the truth about that.”

“I was telling you the truth.” He sighed. “Charlotte, please stay. There’s a lot I need to explain to you.”

“Oh, no. No way. I’m going home.”

Corbyn stood, but only to begin dressing himself. I didn’t give a damn about it, either. My shirt was on and I had already started walking briskly away from the clearing. Snatching my boots from the ground as I walked past them, I grabbed my coat, too, and didn’t bother to put either on. Instead, I launched into a jog, heading in the direction of the creek I’d first heard when I woke.

My newfound stalker wasn’t so easily deterred, though. I heard the sound of leaves crunching and footsteps closing in on me. “Charlotte!” Corbyn yelled. “Please, stop. I promise, I won’t touch you. I need to talk to you, though.”

I shook my head, letting that suffice as an answer. Half-tripping in the process, I slid one book on while still walking and lost my balance when trying to put on the other. It slipped into place easily once I was sitting, but a quick glance over my shoulder revealed Corbyn had started toward me, his shirt hanging open and his eyes set on me. I scrambled to a stand, and began to run despite how much that worsened my dizzy spell.

“Charlotte!”

Clenching my eyes shut for a second, I blocked out the sound of his voice with another, more adamant, head shake before opening my eyes again. I side-stepped a tree, staring at the horizon while hearing the sound of the creek growing louder, the running water visible in the distance. Beyond a dense collection of trees and past another clearing lay my salvation and I thought to myself that if I could follow it to civilization, I could leave this whole mess behind me. The thought had me so focused, I didn’t think about where Corbyn had gotten to.

Which is why I yelped and slid onto my ass when he suddenly appeared in front of me.

His eyes continued entreating me. I could have sworn I saw a flicker of golden turn back into an amber brown when he paced closer to me. “Ma chérie, at least listen to me before you go running off,” he pled. “There’s something you need to know.”

“Nope,” I said. Regardless of how he had managed to race ahead of me, I spun around and ran in the opposite direction. I couldn’t tell if it was the dizziness or the sense of utter surreal surrounding me, but I felt like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole, only now, I began to realize I had made it through the looking glass. ‘Nevermind that,’ I scolded myself. I wasn’t going to stick around for explanations. Whatever mystical crap he’d worked on me, I added, I wasn’t about to let him do that to me again.

Only, he had already raced in front of me again. I came to an abrupt stop when I saw him strolling toward me with a hand extended. My chest burned, lungs gasping for breath, and while I hadn’t realized how hard I’d started to run, I struggled against realizing the pounding in my chest wasn’t just because of physical exertion. “How did you do that?” I asked.

“That is what I need to talk to you about,” he said. While he inched closer, I walked backward, keeping my eyes locked on him lest he figure out some way to sneak up behind me. He held out a hand to me. “Ma petite, if I need to chase you around, I will, but you need to listen to me.”

“Why? So you can play one of your tricks on me again.” I grabbed for a thin branch, breaking it from its tree and holding it out like a weapon. “I bet you hypnotized me somehow.”

Corbyn furrowed his brow. “What makes you think that?”

“Everything feels fuzzy. I don’t know how, but you’re messing with my brain.”

“I promise, I’m doing nothing like that.”

“Then explain last night to me.”

He looked genuinely confused. “What about last night?”

“How did you get me out here? What’s with the weird lighting on your face and how are you running ahead of me?” Before he could answer, I stopped, thrusting the branch in front of me and narrowing my eyes at him. “Did you drug me?”

“No. No, never. Charlotte.” He stopped walking, the look on his face turning serious with a frown creeping across his lips. Taking one, last step closer, he leaned his weight on a tree and this time, the way his demeanor sank was enough to get me to lower the branch and listen. Corbyn folded his arms across his bare chest. “Mon amour, I have special abilities, but I can’t hypnotize people and I would never take away your free will. If I could, I would stop you from running away, even if I had to let you go after I explained myself.”

I stared at him for a tense moment, cursing at myself for believing him, no matter how crazy he sounded. Besides, I told myself, if the man had the ability to run ahead of me like that, he’d probably be more apt to pin me down if he had ulterior motives. “Alright, then tell me what happened,” I said, my stomach tying in knots, anticipating whatever he was about to say.

Corbyn pointed in the direction of the creek. “Sit with me?” he asked. “Please?” When he chanced a step closer, I inched away again, but when he retreated, I relaxed. His eyes flicked to the branch, which only made me grip onto it tighter. Once he’d resigned himself to the fact that he hadn’t earned my trust back, he frowned again and walked toward where I’d been headed in the first place.

I followed, making absolutely certain to keep a healthy distance between us. This meant an occasional tree or two separating us along the way. At first, we spent our walk in silence, until Corbyn bent his head, studying the ground as he spoke. “You said last night that you didn’t know what you believed, so I won’t ask if you accept the existence of the supernatural. I’ll tell you what I am and let you make your own conclusions.” He stole a glance at me. “I belong to something called the wolfen. We’re able to exist in both human and wolf form, though your people usually call us werewolves or lycanthropes.”

I nodded, but didn’t respond otherwise. Corbyn paused in favor of waiting until we’d arrived at the creek, situating himself on a large rock by the water and draping the coat he hadn’t bothered to put on across his lap. Sitting down on a different boulder much further away, I shook away a sudden wave of nausea, trying to let the world right itself again before I said anything. Something was wrong. I knew this, and yet, I couldn’t put my finger on what.

When I glanced back at Corbyn, I discovered him eyeing me with a lot of concern. He decided not to pursue it, though. “I’ll spare you the long stories,” he said. “We have histories and myths, but I can tell you more about them later, if you decide you want to hear them. For now, last evening…” He trailed off, seemingly to think, before speaking again. “What you’ve been experiencing is something I’ve felt for the last decade, ma petite. Something outside of us has been pulling us together and last night, fate finally pulled us together.”

“That’s a lot of mystical bullshit,” I countered.

“If it is, then deny you’ve felt it.”

Opening my mouth to do that, I remembered lights and magic, and that sense of being whisked away into the unknown the night beforehand. As much as it made me sick to relive the experience of making love to him, I thought about how wild and uninhibited I’d been and knew something else had been to blame for it. Regardless of how much I’d wanted it.

When I failed to respond, Corbyn continued. “I wasn’t lying about the arranged marriage, Charlotte. I ran away before the wedding and came here to hide. That I found you on the same night I was supposed to be married isn’t coincidence. I’ve tried to tell my people I wasn’t meant for her, but they wouldn’t listen?”

“Why?” I asked, in part out of genuine concern.

“Because I’ve run away,” he said. “Because nobody believes me when I talk about the visions I’ve had of the future. Other reasons, that aren’t worth talking about.” Corbyn picked at a leaf that had adhered to his coat, the action making me think of times when I’d complained to a friend about my parental problems. “I’m their only son. Le Fils du Marchand. The heir of the leader of the wolfen people. The Marchand name is important. With it comes the burden to continue our line.”

I raised an eyebrow. “So, they picked your wife and you were stuck with their decision?”

“More or less. We’ve fought over this for some time, though, because their choices have been all wrong. Political posturing, at times. Like being a prince in Europe.” Corbyn’s eyes returned to me. “Like I said, though… I have visions of the future.”

Something about the way he said that made my stomach twist again. “What about it?”

Corbyn shifted his position to face me. “I can’t control when or how it comes upon me, but it’s what led me to run away. I saw a woman in my dreams ten years ago, when my parents last demanded I settle on a wife, of an outsider who I was supposed to marry. My parents would not acknowledge it because they hate outsiders, but I went to find her anyway.

“When I did not find her that first time, I returned and began to doubt even my own gifts. Still… J’ai pensé tout le temps à toi.” He didn’t bother to translate it, but I knew somehow it had to do with me by the way our eyes met. “And then, two months ago, when I allowed myself to be pulled into this betrothal, I had this vision again. It reminded me what I had been searching for, like the goddess was warning me not to make a terrible mistake.”

I swallowed hard and felt the dizziness resurface as my heart skipped a beat. “The woman in my dreams was you, good Charlotte Walker,” he said. “I’ve been chasing you for years and finally found you.”

“Well, if it helps any, I was in high school the last time you left. It’s no wonder you didn’t find me.” I shook my head, unable to believe how much I’d bought into his story. For as far-fetched as it was to think I might be talking to a wolfen prince, something about the magic of the night threatened to return again, the memory bringing back the throbbing in my head. I retreated and looked downward. “Nothing about this makes sense. How you know my name. Dreams and the strange feeling I had when I was first with you. And yet, you say you weren’t the one doing that to me.”

“I did nothing to you, ma chérie. I let the goddess speak and it looks like she revealed her magic to you. Like I said, I don’t have the ability to make you act outside of your will.” He paused. “Now, do you see why I asked about destiny?”

My eyes lifted to meet his again. “What do you mean?”

“Whatever led you was leading me. It’s brought us to the point we’re at right now.”

I sighed and moved my shoulder when it began to ache again. Whatever expression I had on my face, it brought the concerned expression to Corbyn’s face again, pairing it with what looked like an attempt to restrain himself from rushing to my side. “Are you alright?” he asked.

“It bothers me on and off. I’ve been feeling really dizzy, too.” I smiled, if only to set his mind at ease. “I know the sex was good and all, but did you have to bite me so hard?”

While I’d made the comment in good humor, Corbyn didn’t laugh and only looked more worried after I’d said it. He finally gave in and rose to his feet, walking to make up the distance between us. This time, I didn’t flinch away. “There’s something else I need to tell you, Charlotte,” he began. I shifted over on my seat to give him a place to settle and watched as he draped his coat on his lap again.

“You’re scaring me, Corbyn,” I said.

The confession caused him to flash a quick smile at me. If he’d been trying to comfort me, he failed. “Do you know what it’s like to wait so long for something, chérie? Knowing that it’s been woven into your future, but not knowing when or how you’ll find it?”

“No, I can’t say that I do.”

“I wanted so much to tell you everything last night. If I could have painted it in one, large picture I would’ve, but I didn’t think you would understand. Or even believe me.” He kept his eyes lifted to engage mine, though he looked to be fighting the urge to glance away. I thought he might have even looked chagrined. A newfound sense of dread crawled up my spine, making the dizziness worse.

Corbyn, on the other hand, took a deep breath and soldiered though. “When we take someone as our wife,” he explained, “After the ceremony, the husband bites his mate on the shoulder to stake his claim on her. This isn’t something we do lightly. Once two people are mated, only death can separate them, and if one of them isn’t wolfen kind, they will shortly become so.”

His eyes penetrated mine as my heart skipped a beat and my throat became dry. “By the next full moon, the change will be complete and you’ll become what I am, Charlotte. You’ll be wolfen, too.”

While the words only bounced off me at first – with shock acting as the barrier – the longer the thought processed, the more lightheaded I became. Another wave of throbbing pain shot from my shoulder as I brought my hand to my head, only serving to make matters worse. Before I knew it, the world went black and Corbyn reached for me to catch me in his arms.

My eyes rolled back just as the landscape began to spiral.

Within seconds, I was unconscious again.

The Shadow Fox Chronicles – Chapter One

Chapter One

Andy Lane

He wore a sharp, pressed suit that matched the color blue in his eyes, his blond hair styled and his posture statuesque as he sat across from me. His hands folded nicely on his lap, he made me wonder if we had gathered together for an interview or for an afternoon tea, though my visits to Scott’s homestead might have affected my feel for the latter. As Allen Hughes smiled, something about the gesture struck me as odd and out-of-place, and not for any lack of genuineness.

Maybe it’s because I knew too well what he was hiding in the effort.

“Is that muscle memory?” I asked, both breaking the silence and the ice by posing the question. I gestured the end of my pencil toward his lips before lowering it back down toward the small notepad I held. “The way you smile I mean.”

Whatever question Mr. Hughes expected me to ask, I doubted it was the one I issued. He burst into laughter and this time, I saw them – two sharp, pointed incisors that looked like they could puncture the lid of a tin can. He sobered quickly. “I suppose it is,” he said. “Considering I’m not aware I’ve been doing that.”

“How old did you say you were?”

“Two hundred and fifty, if we were going to round.”

I nodded, pushing my glasses further up the bridge of my nose and smoothing back hair a much darker shade of blond than my interviewee, the pencil still in my grip the entire time. “I have a hard time breaking myself of certain habits. I can’t imagine what it’s like to shake loose something you’ve done for centuries.”

The vampire shrugged and crossed one leg over the other. His hands settled atop his knee. “Had you asked me even a few decades ago if we would ever walk among humans, completely honest about what we were, I would’ve instantly disbelieved you. As it is, it’s still difficult to grasp this has become our reality.” He paused, and in the space between one comment and another, I saw a myriad of things pass through his gaze. He tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. “Is this to be a piece about my philanthropic contributions to the city of Philadelphia or about vampires in general?”

“You.” I barked out the word so quickly it forced me to laugh. “Definitely you. I’m sorry, my best friend says I’m too curious for my own good. Believe me, it’s already earned me a dance or two with one of you guys.” I reached to the collar of my shirt, pushing it away enough from my neck to reveal the scars of two jagged wounds.

A small amount of the relaxed demeanor Allen Hughes had affected tensed again. He held fast to the convivial smile, though. “Are you certain that wasn’t some sort of mishap?” he asked. “Those are hardly clean cuts.”

“No, more like an attempt to cover them up. I’m not harboring any anti-vampire sentiments or anything about it, so don’t worry. I’m just saying my friend loses sleep over where I stick my nose.” Our eyes met and for a moment, I debated adding that I didn’t remember the encounter. ‘Yes, I know you could make me forget we ever had this discussion, but then I’d really wonder about the crossed off appointment I have written in my book.’ Fortunately, my sense of self-preservation won out this time. “What I am here to write about is the generous contribution you and your… coven, is it?” I waited for him to verify the jargon with a nod. “Your coven made recently to the Philadelphia Symphony Orchestra. Do you consider yourself a patron of the arts?”

The polite smile shifted back into a more comfortable one. “Very much so. It was something instilled in me by my maker, in fact. He plays the violin and we used to attend concerts and live performances very regularly. I think the arts are some of the best forms of contribution human kind have ever made to the immortal experience.”

“Our own slice of immortality, I guess.” I flashed a smile and looked down at my notepad, scribbling down shorthand so I could remember to type this out later.

“You’re old-fashioned,” Allen Hughes observed.

I nodded, peeking up for a brief moment before continuing to write. “It seems to be the best way for my hands to keep up with how fast my mind goes. The laptop is for writing the first draft.” Lifting my head, I nodded for him to continue.

He took the prompting and drew a deep breath inward. I wondered – not for the first time – just how necessary that was. “But yes, as it has been a pursuit of ours for the better part of my vampire existence, I thought it might provide a gesture of good will to this community.”

“A gesture of good will?”

“Well, confidentially, Mr. Lane, we haven’t always received the best press throughout the years.”

He flicked a glance toward my neck when I looked back at him. This time, I offered him a knowing smile, hoping he read just how much forgiveness was being extended toward him and his in the process. At the same time, I could read an apology in his gaze and so, I settled my pencil and notebook onto my lap. “Do you that’s the biggest challenge facing vampires, now that you’ve made yourself known to the public?”

“Oh, I think our problems are myriad and will only increase as the years go by. We’ve only been a fixture on the visual landscape for the last year. But yes, if you’re asking if overcoming the stereotype of being psychopathic monsters is our greatest hurdle, I would have to agree.”

My lips quirked once more. “You mean you aren’t?”

He seemed to read the latent sarcasm in the question and answered as a co-conspirator. “Mr. Lane, with all due respect to humanity – and I trust I’m saying this off-the-record – I have found human nature itself to be more feared than anything which goes bump in the night. And I have met some vicious immortals in my time.”

“I’ll bet.” Clearing my throat, I nodded, and he seemed to read the gesture for what it was. A shift in dynamic; back to business, if you will. I began by asking, “What further pursuits into the arts do you see vampires making?” but it was just another question in the mound of fluff that would make up this blog post for the Philadelphia Inquirer. The world had become aware that vampires existed and there I was, interviewing them about the arts.

I reflected on that as I left his coven’s house and walked toward the nearest train station, hands digging into the pockets of my coat. Being on the fringe of Northeast Philadelphia – in a neighborhood called Fox Chase – brought to mind how few times I actually explored the bustling metropolis I’d called home now for over six years. More of my conversations were happening over Skype or FaceTime, more of my articles written at home or in a coffee shop than in the office. I trudged through a mound of freshly collected leaves and stole a quick glance back at the sprawling estate.

Reality had been flipped on its head, alright. And I had yet to figure out what it all meant.

A confident stride still marked my steps, though, and despite the chill of late fall, at an hour well past sunset, I didn’t let the cold get to me. I wove through the prestigious neighborhood, aware of the houses displaying ‘For Sale’ signs. It had to have been unnerving for some people – the less adventurous type – to figure out they had horror movie creatures in their backyards. Some had fled into rural areas like they were avoiding a member of the sex offender registry, and others had taken measures such as added security. I sighed as the train station came into view. Maybe my natural curiosity had already gotten me bitten by one vampire, but it hadn’t stopped me from enjoying my job.

I walked up a short flight of stairs and paused at the edge of the tracks, feeling in my wallet for the monthly train pass I kept tucked inside. The wind kicked around the edges of my coat, prompting me to fasten a few buttons shut and dig my gloves out from my pocket. It would be another few minutes until the train leading back to the city would arrive, but I wasted the time away much like every other person keeping me company on the platform. Smart phone out, I entered my passcode and flipped through screens until I reached my messages.

My mother had tried to call; I winced and immediately changed over to my text messages, grateful she hadn’t figured out how to do that yet. My phone chose that moment to buzz and chime, however, and the preview which flashed from the top made me laugh.

‘Caught up at work. Eat without me.’

“Well, fine, sweetheart,” I murmured with an edge of sarcasm to my voice. “But if you’re any later than midnight, I’m going to assume you have somebody else.” My thumb pressed the touch screen, bringing me to the message, and my other hand lifted to aid in the effort of responding.

‘The third time this week. I see how it is.’ I hit send and smiled to myself while pocketing the phone. Clacking sounds from a short distance away preceded a whistle and as we all peered up, the commuter train rounded the bend. I hitched my satchel’s strap further up my shoulder and formed a line with the others, climbing onto car as the vehicle came to a stop and settling myself in one of the seats. That meant I could go home, and regardless of how tempted I was to do just that, I also didn’t feel like occupying an empty condo in my current state of mind.

Times, they were a-changin’, and nobody knew that better than I did.

I had graduated from college two years prior to my interview with Allen Hughes, and my first year post-graduation had been spent slinging drinks at a small café when not shopping my resume around to every major newspaper up and down the East Coast. It was at the moment that I thought I might have to switch coasts that I found myself staring at the television, watching as whatever show had been on was preempted by one of our local news anchors.

“The president has announced that at 6 PM, Eastern Standard Time, a special message from the United Nations will broadcast across every network around the world,” he had said, pausing as though for dramatic effect. “Ladies and Gentlemen, this is an unprecedented event and while all of us are wondering what would cause such a major, global simulcast, the bigger concern on everyone’s mind is this: Are we standing on the brink of a brave new world? We can’t begin to grasp the size and the scope of something so monumental and something tells me that after tonight, life as we know it will never be the same.”

While I had thought the idea a little on the melodramatic side, as we sat and watched President Obama and every other major world leader tell us that vampires were real, I suddenly understood what the news anchor had warned. Some people claimed it was a hoax, while others speculated what else might be out there now that we had been personally greeted – on live television – by one of the creatures of myth. I had still been in college when videos of “vampires” killing humans had gone viral across the internet. This, however, defied all understanding.

The bad news was how much the city lost its collective marbles over the next few weeks, until this new life settled into something resembling normal. The governor of Pennsylvania gave press conferences with every major vampire authority – from Allen Hughes to people who held titles like ‘Duke’ and ‘King’ – and others volunteered to be interviewed by members of the press of their own accord. The feeding frenzy resulted in something good for me at last, as a call from the Inquirer offered the first glimmer of hope I’d been given since receiving my diploma.

“We found your resume on file, Mr. Lane,” the voice on the other end of the line had said. “Would you be available tomorrow for an interview?”

“Absolutely,” I had responded, not caring how eager or desperate I sounded. After a little spit, polish, and shine, I appeared at the giant white monolith that housed the city newspaper and gave the interview my all. Whether or not that much effort had been required or not, I walked out with a paid, salary position. Brave new world or not, my ship had finally come in.

They wanted to know more about our fanged residents. As much as possible. An entire mountain of possibility had exploded like a dormant volcano and now, the major news outlets were celebrating in the aftermath. One month of employment resulted in eleven and as I sat on the train, I read over the notes I had scrawled down and couldn’t help but to feel both a sense of pride and a twisting in my stomach. I had lived in Philadelphia for six years now. I had a job for the time being, but other aspects of life were bending and shifting and this new phase of being an adult had taken some adjustment.

I pulled out my phone to read the screen.

‘I swear, you’re harder to please than my actual fiancée, Andy.’

The joke bore bittersweet tones to it, but I didn’t linger on them for long. Instead, I produced a set of earbuds and got lost in news feeds and videos for the remainder of the trip. I disembarked with all the other occupants in Center City and walked the length of the tunnel which connected the rail lines with the subway. A short hop on the Broad Street line brought me a block over from one of our favorite haunts, bustling, yet tucked away from the noise of the Arts district. Somehow, I knew there’d be a table there, though. It had become one of those gospel truths on which I could almost wager my life.

Outside, the building bore shamrocks illuminated in neon and the windows showed the passersby enough of the interior for them to get the hint they had encountered a pub. One of the many Irish joints Center City boasted and if you were looking for the tourist experience, you usually opted for Moriarty’s or Finnegan’s Wake. As I walked inside, however, I immediately spotted the reason why I preferred this place. It wasn’t just the jazz music belting over the speakers, though I appreciated that over pop music any day. The establishment might have been named Sláinte, but most of us liked to call it Boston Pete’s.

Its proprietor, the aforementioned Massachusetts native, looked up from the bar as I entered and waved at me from behind the counter. I saluted back, cinching my satchel strap once more on reflex and proceeding further into the place after the exchange of gestures. My eyes shifted past the pool tables in the back again, landing on the short, slim hostess who slunk down from the stool she’d been perched on to walk over to me. “Hey there, Andy,” she said. “Where’s your other half?”

“He’s stuck at work, doing important, lawyery things,” I said. I adjusted my glasses and pointed toward the back. “Have anything out of eyeshot of the screens? I don’t need to hear what plans the Eagles offense has for winning on Sunday.”

She laughed, a light, airy sound I wished I could find cute. Her name was Sonya – I remembered that much – and while she had been a student at Drexel University when we first met, that was back when being carded had become a unique, new experience for me and not the normal ritual it was now. Sonya reached up to tuck a lock of chestnut hair behind her ear and nodded for me to follow. “I think I have something for you. If the screen by the pool tables drives you crazy, we can always turn it off.”

“Nah, if you’re talking the far corner, then I’ll be able to work in peace.” I flashed her a quick grin. “Thank you.”

“Anything for one of our regulars.” Sonya winked and walked ahead of me, even though I knew exactly where we were headed. A nervous breath caught in my throat, rendering me mute even as she started chattering about how slow it was tonight, and did I hear it might rain, and how cold November could be one moment, but by Thursday it was supposed to reach as high as the mid-60s again. I nodded and slipped onto the bench seat, accepting the menu even though I could recite every item on it by now.

“Your waitress will be right with you,” Sonya said, offering one last, parting smile to me.

I nodded and lifted a hand, the wave a halfhearted failure that died by the time she had her back turned to me. Another deep breath chased away the last of the flutters in my stomach and as I tossed aside the menu, I put my feet up on the opposite bench and removed my glasses. Rubbing at my eyes, I felt the temptation to reflect on the sorry state of my love life for the fiftieth time that day alone.

“You alone tonight, Lane?” an accented voice asked, its interruption nothing short of a small mercy.

“Tonight. Tomorrow night. Probably next Tuesday, if you were looking for an opening, Pete,” I quipped. Lowering both hands, I reached for where I had set my glasses and slipped them back on my face. What had been a blurry image of a portly, middle-aged guy in an obnoxious Hawaiian shirt sharpened and I smiled at the pub’s owner while sliding my feet down from the bench. “How’s tricks tonight?” I asked.

Peter Gallagher snorted a chuckle and took a seat across from me. “It’s dead during the week when it’s not baseball season,” he said. “Fuckin’ Phillies fans can’t watch a game sober, seems like.”

“Did you see their record this past season? I can’t say I blame them.” Gesturing around us, I succumbed to a broad grin. “I like it better this way, but maybe it’s just me. You can actually hear the jazz music you play over the speakers.”

He mirrored my smile. “You see, this is why I like you kids. You appreciate the atmosphere.”

“Well, we sure as hell don’t come for the chicken wings.”

“You can fuck off, Andy.” A laugh defied the sentiment of his words. “I saw you turnin’ turtle on Sonya again, but I know you better’n most. That’s typical. This mood of yours ain’t.”

I indulged a sigh, preempted from answering only by the arrival of my waitress. Her nametag said ‘Gretchen’, and by the time my business with Gretchen was finished, I had an order put in for a burger and the porter they had on tap. She wandered off and I looked at Pete with a shrug. “I don’t know, it’s not like anybody took a piss in my Corn Flakes recently, but I’ve been trying to figure out what to do with my life now that my partner-in-crime is getting married.”

“They set a date yet?” Pete inched as far forward in his seat as his spare tire would allow.

“Not yet, no. To be honest, it’s not like they have any plans of running off to Vegas this weekend or anything like that, it’s just… things changing. I’ve been sorting through that since graduation and it doesn’t help that life got even more surreal a year ago.”

“Right.” The man seated across from me raised an eyebrow at me and held his gaze steady. “Like I believe for a moment the rain cloud over your head has anything to do with you landing the job you were tryin’ to get for a year.”

I frowned in response to the look in his eyes. “No, Pete. We’re not going over this again.”

“You ain’t never gonna tell him, are you?”

“Jesus Christ.” Both hands lifted, combing through the sea of floppy, dirty blond atop my head. I couldn’t imagine the mess they left behind and didn’t care at that moment. “No. No, I’m not. And that’s not the point here. I want him to be happy. Period. And I’m not sure he really is.” I scowled at the bar owner. “There, I spat it out. Can we change topics?”

Pete held up both hands in surrender. “Alright, alright, but you’re getting pissier lately and I’m about to suggest you do somethin’ different.” He leaned closer to me, looming over the table, both hands coming to rest on the top. “Because I think him bein’ happy isn’t the problem here. I think it’s you.”

“I’m not going to argue against that point.”

“Good.”

We both looked up when Gretchen returned to the table, carrying the beer I’d ordered. She set it down in front of me without a word exchanged between us and I glanced at Pete once she’d left.

He sighed and rolled his eyes at me. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “You’ve got work to do an’ you want me to stop giving you unsolicited advice.”

My smile broadened, its undertones sarcastic. “This is one of the many reasons why I like you, Pete,” I responded. “You read between the lines.”

“Smart ass to boot, too. Go an’ get yourself laid if nothing else. You fuckin’ need it.”

Pete winked and I shook my head, unable to help the laugh that spilled past my lips and continued even after the proprietor had wandered off. Gretchen arrived with my food shortly after that, and as it cooled, I pulled out my laptop and settled in to work. The warmth of the establishment took the chill out of my bones and once I’d finished off half of the porter, I had the pleasant beginnings of a buzz to accompany it. One more drink and a full dinner after that, and I was in much better spirits.

The words flowed from my fingertips onto the page, and the melancholy that had been weighing me down hid somewhere in the recesses of my psyche for the time being. I finished the first draft of the article and saved it while polishing off the remainder of my beer. Movement by the bar captured my attention and I glanced over in time to see Pete look in my direction, the gesture too deliberate to be ignored.

I furrowed my brow at him. He nodded in the direction of the end of the bar, prompting me to look at whatever he was trying to point out with the gesture. When I failed to register it, I shrugged and this time, he lifted a finger and pointed, using his other hand to conceal the action. I sighed, craning my neck to get a better look.

This time, I saw it.

He wore a button down shirt and a black leather jacket over his shoulders, his hair cut short and bearing blond highlights Mother Nature had not been responsible for. ‘Really?’ the look in my eyes communicated to Pete, but he scowled back and took matters in his own hands. Reaching for a glass, he pulled it down and filled it a half-inch from the brim full of what I had been drinking. ‘No.’ I mouthed the word, but it was too late. Pete set the drink in front of the man and pointed in my direction.

“I swear to God, Pete, I am going to ship you back to Boston overnight delivery,” I muttered through clenched teeth, trying to smile when the stranger turned his head to look at me. He tentatively raised a hand to wave at me and I reciprocated the gesture, hoping he would drink the beer and not bother to say hello. The moment he slid from his stool, drink in hand, I realized I wouldn’t be escaping at least a brief conversation.

Well, Scott was working late tonight, and technically, I had until tomorrow afternoon to hand the article in. And granted, the guy walking over to me might have screamed everything from his sexual orientation to which end he favored, but the fact that a disorganized, bespectacled dork like me had been good enough to garner a ‘walk-over’ suggested I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

He paused a few feet shy of where I sat.

“Thanks for the drink,” the stranger said.

I lifted my own empty glass. “Simply sharing the wealth,” I retorted. The smile on my face felt a little less strained as I took in the sight of him. No skinny jeans; that boded well for him. Maybe a little vainer than I usually cared for, but really, I could’ve stood to be more myself. “My name’s Andy. What’s yours?”

“Justin.” He eyed the empty bench in front of me before his gaze flicked back to meet mine. “Is this seat taken?”

It was my last chance to tell him that honestly, Pete meant well, but I didn’t need his interference in my personal life. Instead, I extended a hand, pointing at the opposite end of the booth. The alcohol I had already consumed probably muddled my judgment, but that would be a problem for future Andy. “Make yourself comfortable,” I said, then paused before adding, “I’ve got nowhere else to be tonight. Why don’t we make the most of that?”

Next Part Available on Tuesday 7/26

Hand of Fate, or the Story of Julian Reichlin

Available for offline download at Wattpad.

Prologue

“Mama… why do they want to take Birgit away?”

Hannelore jumped at the sound of her son’s voice, startled away from the conversation taking place a few feet away. She had stood to put the kettle on the stove and got distracted when the words ‘London’ and ‘special school’ passed through the lips of men she had only met ten minutes ago. A small hand tugged at her skirt and as she glanced downward, the frown on the boy’s face deepened.

Her frown mirrored his. One hand resting on her swollen belly, she reached for the eight-year-old with her other hand and nodded at her husband and their guests once he took hold of it, saying, “If you’ll excuse me, please.” The statement came out in English, as had the rest of the discussion until that moment, when Julian had broken through using their native tongue. She walked him deeper into the house, switching to German when she spoke. “Mein Mausi, not now. I’ll explain it to you after our guests leave.”

Julian’s eyes sparkled, but his jaw clenched and a nod punctuated all the answer the little boy was apt to give. Hannelore summoned as much of a smile as she could for his benefit, tousling his hair once before waddling for the kitchen again. The view of the table and chairs was partially obstructed by the wafts of smoke drifting from Mannfred’s pipe, and if the Englishmen were offended, neither gave any indication. They had refused a drink, but settled for tea and didn’t look like they’d be easily dissuaded.

The first one – a taller, thinner fellow – reached into his jacket and produced a pack of cigarettes. His features hawkish and his eyes narrow, he made Hannelore instantly uncomfortable when he sported a toothy grin. “Are you sure we can’t persuade you to sit, Frau Reichlin?” he asked, his focus shifting to Hannelore as he lit his cigarette.

“No, please. I was making tea,” she said. “Continue.” Her husband exchanged a glance with her and she turned to face the stove, switching on the burner.

“If you change your mind, please let me know. I’d sooner stand than force you to.” The Englishman looked toward the family patriarch, pausing briefly before picking up the conversation again. “Herr Reichlin, I understand your concern, but this affects the future of your daughter. With another one on the way –” He nodded toward Hannelore. “– This is a matter which should be addressed sooner, as opposed to later.”

Mannfred issued a grunt in response. The recent years had settled around his belt in an unflattering manner, but his mind remained sharp even as his hair had started to gray. He shook his head in response. “Herr Berwick, I know what it affects,” he said, his voice gruffer and English not quite as polished. While he had never been the type given over to frowning, one looked to be taunting its way to the surface. “Why do you think your school should take Birgit and not one here in Germany?”

“As I told you, we have special instructors more suited to Birgit’s needs.”

“What does that mean?” Hannelore interjected before she could stop herself. Her eyes stole quickly to Mannfred, then back to Berwick when her husband failed to scowl. She paused beside the stove, but made no motion for the kettle yet. A hand rose to clutch her bosom, fingers curling around the collar of her shirt. “Birgit’s needs? Special instructors? It feels like you’re speaking riddles on purpose.”

“And I assure you we’re not.” Berwick twisted in his seat, lifting the filterless cigarette to his lips and drawing from the end. His partner – a much shorter, older man – remained mute the entire time, content just to observe. Hannelore had never seen eyes so green so identically matched between two men who couldn’t have ever been mistaken as brothers.

Berwick continued, smoke billowing past his lips. “Your daughter has special talents none of the local teachers would be able to handle, Frau Reichlin. We’ve talked to her school about her recent problems.”

“She’s having trouble concentrating in class. That’s all.”

“Not just concentrating in class.” He glanced at his partner and pointed toward a black briefcase poised by his chair. The man nodded, reaching for the handle. “Didn’t her school recently request a psychiatric evaluation?”

The mute partner set the briefcase on the table top and popped the lid open. A manila folder was passed from one man to the next, and the briefcase closed and placed back on the ground before another word could be exchanged. Hannelore watched in horror as a page filled with typed text bearing a photograph of Birgit came into view once the file was opened. “What was the result of the evaluation?” Berwick asked without glancing up from the page.

A flush rose on Hannelore’s cheeks. “She is a bright and beautiful little girl!”

“Schatzi…”

She glanced quickly at Mannfred as the look in his eyes softened. Her shoulders squared at first, but buckled when the downward curl of his lips finally surfaced. “They said more than that,” he continued in German. His eyes shifted briefly to Berwick before returning to her. “I agree with questioning these men, but we can’t pretend there isn’t something wrong.”

She bit her lip and looked away, her eyes squinting shut. Mannfred glanced back at Berwick, switching to English again. “What is your point, Herr Berwick?”

“Simply put, our facilities are able to handle young women like Birgit. Bright and beautiful–” He nodded toward Hannelore. “– Young women with special concerns.”

“The psychiatrist said there were places like that here.”

“Ah, but do those places look to take exceptional children like Birgit and help them flourish? Do they see the remarkable beyond the problems and keep that part of them intact?” The frown touching Berwick’s lips was startlingly genuine. “Or do they favor things like electroshock therapy? Do they shroud them in a haze of medication simply due to a few little voices?”

“Do your people, Herr Berwick?” Hannelore asked, her lids slowly opening.

“Perish the thought. It is our goal to see Birgit learn and grow, to become the exceptional girl we know she is. And I promise you we don’t resort to things like narcotics to achieve that end.”

The Reichlins shared a glance. Mannfred reclined in his chair and waited for Hannelore to nod before glancing back at the British visitors and gesturing with the hand not holding his pipe. “Tell us more about your school then,” he said, the gruff intonation returning to his voice.

A smirk graced Berwick’s face again. He reached forward to tap ash from his cigarette and flipped a page in Birgit’s file, beginning a sales pitch leaning heavily on seclusion, one-on-one care, and challenging lessons for gifted students. The sound of his voice droned from the confines of the kitchen, reaching the small ears of the eight-year-old boy still standing nearby.

Julian frowned while turning away.

He passed the youngest, Heike, as she sat zoned into the one television the Reichlins boasted. A dark hallway ran the remainder of the length of the house, leading to four bedrooms arranged on either side. Birgit sat in the first one to the right, her solemn eyes fixed on the window as Julian pushed the door ajar. Julian lingered by the doorway, not even sure his sister had heard him until the corner of Birgit’s mouth curled upward. “You make a terrible sneak, Julian,” she said.

Grunting indignantly, Julian padded the rest of the way inside. She chuckled and finally regarded at him, her crystal blue eyes much brighter than his cloudy, steel irises. Her hair was the same dirty blonde color, though, and her fingers just as spindly even if hers were more delicate. She patted the empty space beside her on her bed. “Well, come on. You don’t need to be shy.”

“I’m not shy,” he said, crossing the distance between them. With a hop, he settled onto the bed and folded his hands on his lap. His brow furrowed as he stared at Birgit. “Why are Mama and Papa talking to those men about you?”

The amusement which had danced across her face mere moments before melted like the snows of winter. A frown tugged at her lips, not able to crack all the way to the surface. She sighed and lowered the volume of her voice. “The people at school think I’m crazy.”

“Why do they think that?”

She shrugged, not making eye contact again. “I said a few things. It scared the teacher and she made Mama and Papa take me to the doctor.”

Julian frowned, concern flickering past his gaze. Instinctively, he inched closer to his sister and studied the floor, as though that was the right response for solemn news. He hesitated, knowing the question he wanted to ask shouldn’t be said aloud, but not able to contain it. “Is this why the men want to take you away?”

The inquiry had the affect he knew it would. Birgit’s face contorted and tears sprang into her eyes, bubbling to the surface so quickly, Julian wondered if she had been fighting them back the entire time. He wrapped his arms as far around her as he could, and she rested her head atop his while her chest rose and fell with laborious sobs. He wrinkled his nose when several drops landed on his clothing, but held tightly onto her while Birgit cried.

Something about the whole thing was so bizarre, he couldn’t begin to unpack it. Even after Birgit settled and shooed him out of the room, the rest of the house clamored, with Julian helpless to do a thing about it. Berwick and his partner rose with Hannelore and Mannfred, accompanying them both into the girls’ room. A short, tearful argument broke out between father and daughter with equal parts German and English being tossed between the two.

Julian sat at the end of the hallway, head against the wall, and knew then why Birgit had been so broken up at just the mention of leaving. Suddenly, he had tears in his eyes with nobody to tell him everything was going to be alright.

His mother ignored him when she spirited past, the now-wakened Ilse in her arms. Even Mannfred’s attention remained focused on his daughter as she walked out of the room with a tear-streaked face and one large suitcase clutched in each hand. Berwick made mention of seeing to ‘school transfers’ and that the ‘proper paperwork was filed’, but no one paid much mind to Julian.

Not until they were walking out the door.

Julian stood by the corner, watching the parade and accepting a goodbye hug from Birgit when the time came for them to leave. The action drew the attention of Berwick’s partner, but even he left with only a passing glance spared to the small boy. It wasn’t until Berwick himself noticed Julian that any of the adults afforded him a lingering glance. Berwick paused at the doorway, making eye contact as Julian motioned to retreat toward the hallway again.

The eight-year-old froze. Berwick raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable as his eyes traced Julian in an appraising fashion. The young boy stood a little straighter, not flinching under the examination even if he didn’t understand the meaning behind it. The grin Berwick summoned in response was the only thing the other adults saw before the Englishman made his exit.

But Julian blinked at the door as it swung closed. A voice still echoed in his mind, strangely disconnected from his own thoughts, yet spoken in the clearest German.

“Perhaps we’ll see you again. Until then, be careful, young man. There are monsters in the dark.”

Next Part Available on Friday 7/22

Good Charlotte Walker, a Paranormal Romance

Available for offline download at Wattpad.

Prologue

Art by Heather Watson

I should’ve known better than to walk into the woods that evening. I’m normally not the kind of girl who lets herself get wrapped up in circumstances that might result in regret and I’m certainly not what many people would consider easily love struck. I went to college alone, within the city, only coming back to my hometown of Lancaster, PA on breaks and during summers when I needed to earn money instead of taking extra classes.

Maybe I shouldn’t have gone so long in-between relationships or stayed at school during fall break to find myself instead of returning home. Whatever the case, I will go to my deathbed saying that there was a damn good reason I found myself dodging tree limbs and dashing across the fallen autumn foliage that evening.

I blame it on the fact that he was perfect; the most gorgeous creature I’d ever seen before, with all of the right physical attributes in all of the right places. Boyishly handsome and tall, his long hair was a stunning brown color I didn’t know existed in nature – reddish-brown with a hint of golden when the light hit it the right way. It was tied back when he walked into the bar and shot me a gaze with eyes the same color as his handsome locks. He looked strong, but gentle; toned without being stocky. And the moment he spoke, his European accent seduced me right into the palm of his hand.

He told me his name was Corey. It could have been Lucifer for all I cared. When he sat at the counter of my parents’ tavern, he ordered a drink and immediately asked for my name after introducing himself. As I said, I’m typically a more cautious woman, but there was something about him; something that disarmed me and coaxed the answer from my lips as I placed the beer bottle onto the hardwood counter. “Charlotte,” I said, intending to leave it at that. But that was before he clutched my hand and stopped me from turning away.

“Tell me more about you, Charlotte,” he said. His eyes were pleading. The tone used to say those words sounded so inviting that I was spellbound. “It’s been so long since I’ve talked to a woman like you that I’d almost forgotten what it feels like.”

The line could have been taken out of every guy’s classic ‘bullshit a woman out of her clothing’ book, but Corey stated it sincerely. His attire might have been clean and modern – a simple, long-sleeved white shirt with a pair of blue jeans and brown boots – but there was a naïve innocence to him as well that seemed to separate him from the rest of the world, like this was the first time in a while he’d touched down onto our planet to interact with us. The brown coat he wore had been made from leather and almost looked to be handcrafted. It reminded me of a Native American’s handiwork, but there was nothing native about the white boy before me.

Corey had me too intrigued to back down.

“What do you want to know?” I asked, sliding my hand away from his in favor of placing it on my hip.

He smiled. “How did a woman like you end up serving drinks in a place like this?”

I fought the urge to mention Scorcese, having an inkling that he wouldn’t get the reference. “What do you mean by a woman like me?”

“You seem different than these people. Brighter than them.”

“Well,” I began, but the complement caused me to blush despite myself. Clearing my throat, I looked away from Corey quickly before glancing back at him again in time to catch a perked eyebrow from the stranger. “My parents own this place,” I said. “I help them out when I’m not at college.”

“Your parents run this establishment?”

“Yup. I am one of the Walkers of Walker’s Tavern infamy.”

“Charlotte Walker.” He grinned to himself, tasting my name in his mouth while gazing around the tavern. “That’s a beautiful name.” His eyes shot back to me as though he realized belatedly that he looked away. “Good Charlotte Walker, how old are you?”

“I’m twenty-five. And you?”

“Older than I look.” Corey winked. “And younger than I feel. Which makes me a bit beyond age at this point. I know, it’s a confusing answer, but it’s the best one I can offer you. Where I come from, things like this stop being relevant.” He finally acknowledged the beer I placed before him, pausing to take a long drink of it before setting it back down again.

“Where you come from?”

“My home, yes.”

“And where is that?”

“Close,” he said, his eyes drifting coyly to the wooden bar. “Probably forty miles north of this place.”

“It’s nothing but woods in that direction.”

“Woods and a few rural communities.”

“I’m trying to figure out where age would be irrelevant.” Narrowing my eyes at him, I studied him as he looked back at me again. “You can’t be Amish,” I said. “Your accent isn’t right.”

Corey issued one quick, abrupt laugh and shook his head. “No, no, no. Not Amish. And the accent is from France, where I was born.” His eyes lifted upward as he pursed his lips in thought. “Come to think of it, though, the Amish are not much different than us, in some respects.”

“How so?”

“We’re a cloistered community as well.” He raised his hand, flipping it from side to side as he stared at the ceiling. “Sort of close, but not close at the same time. My family has been little more nomadic.”

I quirked a brow. “Are you Romani?”

His eyes met mine again, a pensive look on his face until his expression illuminated with recognition. He shook his head. “Not quite like the Romani. We had other reasons for wandering.” Saying the words reminded him of something and caused the grin to fade, taking the invisible light with it. It struck me as peculiar – almost making me wish I could provoke him to do it again to see if the same thing happened – but when he spoke again, the heaviness of heart that cast a cloud upon him drew my attention away from lighting tricks for the time being. “I’ve had to leave them,” he continued with a sigh. “For now, possibly for a long time. I’m not sure when I’ll be ready to face them again.”

I furrowed my brow at him and frowned. “Why did you have to leave?”

Corey waved his hand dismissively. “It’s not worth talking about. They’re stuck in their ways and I’m stuck in mine. Perhaps one day, we’ll see eye-to-eye, but for now it’s a hopeless cause.”

The melancholy remained pronounced on his face as he finished off the rest of his drink. Without thinking about what I was doing, I patted his hand reassuringly and leaned against the counter. He was so beautiful. God, why did he have to be so beautiful? It made me sad to see him unhappy. “You know, I sort of know what you’re going through,” I said. “Not so much in being alienated from an entire group, but I’m the black sheep of my family.”

Corey made eye contact with me again. “But, you’re one of the infamous Walkers.”

I chuckled. The response forced a wan smile from Corey. “Yes, I am,” I said. “But I’m an outcast just the same. My parents are Catholics and I’m an Agnotistic. Well, no. That’s not completely true.” I sighed. “I don’t know what I believe in, but I’m not one of them any longer. Ever since my father found that out, coming home has been difficult.” I looked away and shook my head. “Truthfully, I’d rather be anywhere else right now.”

Part of me couldn’t understand why I’d just bared my soul to a complete stranger, with something that I’d never told to my closest friend let alone anyone else. However, Corey nodded sympathetically and looked at me with a gentle, soothing gaze. “Why aren’t you somewhere else, then?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Because I love my family.”

“I love my family, too. I know your pain. I wanted to be away from them as well, but stayed with them until they forced me to leave home.”

“Why did they force you to leave?”

When he hesitated, I feared he’d try to change the subject again. However, Corey forced himself to take a deep breath and exhaled it. “You’re too easy to speak with,” he said.

I raised an eyebrow. When his fingertips moved, I became aware that my hand was still touching his and slid it away. Carefully, so that it seemed accidental. “What do you mean by that?” I asked.

“I want to tell you secrets,” he said, the corner of his mouth curling upward. “Things I’m not supposed to tell other people.”

“I won’t say anything to anybody. I don’t have anyone else to tell.”

“My people are hard to understand from your point of view. There are some of us who assimilate themselves into your culture, but the pa…” Corey forced himself to stop. Just as I thought I’d have to prod him along, he finally continued. “The people I belong to are isolationist. This is why they live away from civilization. They do not trust outsiders.”

“Which is what makes you the black sheep?”

Corey nodded. His smile became brighter again. “I like your people. You have so much charm and vitality. I don’t know why they don’t like your kind when I’ve had the chance to see so many of you with so much to teach people like us. I learned this all when I ran away several years ago, which made returning home so difficult. I returned, though. And they…”

I leaned closer to Corey. “They what?”

He fought against the frown this time by holding my gaze captive, as if using my eyes as an anchor. “They were arranging to have me marry a woman, so that I wouldn’t leave. I’d spoken with the elders about integrating with the outside world and they feared I was about to flee again. Marriage ties you to the community.”

“They wanted you to marry someone you didn’t love?” I shook my head. “That’s terrible.”

“Yes, they did,” Corey said. The shimmer returned to his eyes to accompany his melancholy smile. “Why do you care, Charlotte?”

“Well, I just think that it’s an injustice, you know.” I nodded, adamant. “Nobody should be forced to marry someone they don’t want to be with.”

“Why not?”

“Because, you don’t love her.”

“I’ve never been in love.”

“Neither have I. But, it’s the principle of the matter.”

Corey sighed. “With my people, love is irrelevant. You marry to have children. Love in marriage is a concept that belongs to the outsiders, they say.”

“Weren’t any of them ever ‘outsiders’?”

“Some were. I wasn’t.”

I shook my head, trying to wrap my mind around this world of his while still not understanding who they were. “I just don’t get it,” I admitted. “It’s no wonder you wanted to get away from that, if they were trying to dictate how you should get married.”

“I want it to change. This is what I tried to tell them, that the outsiders have set the right example even if they are flawed.” For a moment, I wondered what he was going to say or do next as he got quiet and lost in his thoughts. When his ethereal brown eyes met mine again, however, a strange premonition came over me, making the background noise of the other patrons suddenly seem pushed into the background. I failed to recognize when his hand shifted over to touch mine again, but I sensed his touch and my breathing slowed beyond my own volition. “And you, good Charlotte Walker,” he said, cocking his head to size me up. “You’ve always been an outsider. And yet, you’ve never been in love?”

“Love is complicated,” I said.

“Even more so when there’s something special you’re looking for,” Corey said. “I wish I would have…”

He stopped suddenly, but our eyes remain locked. My voice was strangely quiet when I spoke again. “You wish you would have what?”

“What I mean to say is…” A slight, devious curl to his lips made the look in his eyes turn both disarming and enchanting. Whether or not he knew it, he had my full attention. “I’ve only just started to talk to you, and here we are, kindred people. I wouldn’t have minded even the arranged marriage if she would have been like you.”

I smirked without looking away. “You say that now, but you barely know me. I’m a firecracker. It sounds like the kind of woman you’re used to isn’t half as feisty.”

“Who said there was anything wrong with feisty?” His hand slid up to my wrist and stopped. The way he leaned forward in his chair drew me closer to him again. “A woman who spoke their mind would be a breath of fresh air to me. I don’t want a wife who’s afraid to be themselves around me. I’d rather not know what to expect from one day to the next.”

“Every guy says that. Until they actually have it.”

The words drifted past my tongue, defying how mesmerized he had me. I had no idea when I got tangled into Corey’s spell. All I knew was that I could feel him gently caressing the skin of my wrist and every compulsion I should’ve had to back away was overridden by the thought that no one had ever touched me like that. I wasn’t a virgin by any stretch, but I hadn’t wanted half of the guys I’d taken to bed as much as I wanted Corey in that moment. It wasn’t only because of his looks. Corey’s soul was so transparent that it made me wonder if he had enthralled me with the same magic that caused his face to shine or darken depending on his mood.

His supernatural wiles drew me closer still until his breath hit my skin and our faces hovered inches apart. Regardless of how much he might have been provoking it, I responded and it was me who closed the gap between us and touched his lips with mine. The kiss started off tentatively, but turned deeper for a few seconds. Just long enough for me to taste him and want more.

Corey pulled away from me and opened his eyes as I opened mine. “Why did you do that?” he whispered.

“Because I wanted to,” I said in the same tone of voice. “I’m a bit impulsive, too, I guess.”

“You sound like a woman finding herself for the first time.”

“Funny, that’s exactly how I feel.”

He smirked “Does this mean you don’t normally kiss strange men?”

I laughed. “Not unless I’m drunk.”

“And you are not drunk right now?”

“I suppose it depends on what you mean by drunk.”

When he reached up to touch the side of my face – to brush my short, brown hair away – I closed my eyes as if on impulse and opened them only when he cupped my chin in his hand. “If I asked you a question, would you answer it honestly,” he whispered again, “Charlotte Walker?”

“Yes, I would.”

“Do you believe in destiny?”

“I don’t know what I believe.”

Corey chuckled. “The undecided Agnostic. Fair enough. I have a proposition for you, but you will have to determine what you believe in order to accept or reject it. Are you ready?”

I nodded and listened intently.

“If you think there might be a reason why I’ve come to this place and why we’ve met one another, then I can show you my world. I can bring you in – not to my people, but just you and I away from this place – and let you know my secrets.” The hand upon my face ran down my neck and caused me to shiver. I refused to look away, though. “You sense it, don’t you?”

I had no idea what he meant, but I knew the answer just the same. “Yes, I do.”

“I can show you what I really am though, Charlotte. Do you want to know?”

Once again, my head motioned up and down, in defiance of my normal, level-headed logic.

Corey mimicked the gesture. “Do you believe in destiny?” he asked again.

“Yes, I do,” I said. All at once, an aching feeling bubbled to the surface with a door opening in front of me, showing me some place I was supposed to be while letting me know I was stuck in this ordinary world for now. Corey’s dimension stood on the other side, calling for me to step though and God, I wanted to. I stood on the precipice, ready to take his hand and explore his realm with him.

“Find me when you’re done with work, Charlotte. I’ll be waiting for you.”

I furrowed my brow, intending to ask him what he meant and how I’d find him, but the moment the question formed in my mind, I heard the answer clear as day.

‘I want to show you a little magic. You’ll know what to do when the time comes.’

He let go of my face and produced his wallet to slap the money for his beer onto the counter. Our eyes remained fixed throughout the whole motion, even when he slipped the wallet into his pocket and strode toward the door. I wrestled with the idea of telling him to stop and vaulting the counter so that we could leave together, but something prevented me from following through with it. Within seconds, Corey had left me standing there, dizzy after our whirlwind conversation.

Under normal circumstances, I might’ve shaken off the hypnotism or the seduction or whatever that was, but for some reason I felt special now. Untouchable. No, he wasn’t ordinary, he was so much more than that; something I knew I’d never seen before.

And he was willing to show me what else existed outside the small world I’d known.

The Shadow Fox Chronicles Begins

Prologue

Available for offline download on Wattpad

They say they found his body lying face down on the carpet, a spilled glass of Johnnie Walker Blue beside him and a cigar burned to cinders in an ashtray on his desk. The coroner report said he had been like that for two hours before his wife, Denise, came upon him, checking on him before intending to retire for the night. Pictures of both the deceased CEO and his widow accompanied the stories in the papers, forming the backdrop of my thoughts as my professor Dr. George Vasquez paced the floor in front of his Current Affairs class.

He glanced at me for a moment before shifting his attention away.

“The press coverage of Henry Devlin’s death,” he continued, “Along with the ascension of his wife as the new head of Devlin Biosystems remains one of the most heavily covered stories of the 21st Century. That might not be saying a lot, only one decade in, but considering we’ve re-elected the nation’s first Black president, that’s nothing to sneeze at, either. What about the story do you think held the public’s interest so much?”

The blonde girl seated two rows down from me and five chairs over lifted her hand. Our professor glanced immediately in the direction of the movement and nodded toward her, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose when they slid down. “Denise Devlin became the first female CEO of a major Fortune 500 company with his death,” she said, smiling politely.

“That’s certainly one of the reasons. A large one, especially in the financial sector of the country. Stock prices for Devlin Biosystems fluctuated wildly for the first few weeks after Henry Devlin’s death, and the change of power has been cited as a contributing factor.” He flashed a grin with enough teeth to it to make me wonder if he was flirting with the girl or advertising for his dentist. I shifted in my seat and sure enough, his gaze flicked to me next. “Mr. Lane, what are your thoughts?”

I glanced around and slid more upright upon being acknowledged. Clearing my throat, I recalled the last time I had addressed a class full of my peers, and attempted not to be self-conscious of the accent my voice still bore. “My thoughts, sir?” I asked, stalling for a moment and using the breath that followed to gather myself. My mind raced for something eloquent in a sea of useless facts. I saw a man eating oriental carpet while seeping bodily fluids out onto the fabric, the victim of a cardiac arrest.

The most powerful man in American biotechnology – a baron of the medical and pharmaceutical world – reduced to a corpse.

“He’d named Denise Devlin as his successor in his will only three weeks prior to his death,” I settled on.

The answer seemed to please my professor. He nodded enthusiastically. “Brilliant,” he said. “A large reason behind the feeding frenzy as well. Speculation ran a huge gamut as to why Henry would name his wife and then drop dead under mysterious circumstances in such a short period of time.”

“No offense,” I interjected, “But there’s not much mystery behind a massive coronary.”

The other students – including blonde girl – chuckled at my retort. Even Dr. Vasquez smirked before commanding the focus of the class again. “No, you’re right, but if you’ll recall, there were a lot of questions surrounding the timing just the same. Not that I advocate the amount of speculation that took place, because it affected the day-to-day life of a widowed woman –”

Lights flashed from television and digital cameras as she walked past them. I saw Denise Devlin with her chin tilted upward in enough of an angle to communicate to every last reporter that they could kiss her ass.

“– But it also highlights what we’ve talked about in this class with regard to sensationalism in the media. We live in an era where the distribution of information is tightly interwoven with the need to make a profit.” He lifted both hands and intertwined his fingers to represent this, the unholiest of marriages. “And because of it, news outlets latch onto what will draw in higher profit margins from advertising. When the man who had been thought to be Devlin’s heir apparent – Gregory Toomes – stepped forward to challenge Devlin’s will, he used this shred of doubt as a fulcrum for his own case.”

“Executing the terms of his will and stabilizing the board of directors took a while,” another student interjected, an African American gal who sat directly in front of her blonde contemporary.

Dr. Vasquez nodded. “It did. His will was tied up in court and many have said, if not for the Devlin money fueling her legal team, it might have been a tighter battle for Denise Devlin. In the end, the shareholders did embrace Henry’s dying wishes, but who knows what might have been going through his mind in those final weeks? Nobody came out and accused Denise Devlin of foul play, but we know it crossed the minds of several people involved in the story.”

“Misogynists,” I murmured, glancing from the laptop open in front of me toward our professor.

He offered me a half-shrug. “That could have very well been the case, Mr. Lane.”

I caught a glance from blonde girl and shied away from it, focusing back on the computer screen as though it was a lifeline. The professor continued droning on in the background, eventually settling on our assignment – which was to summarize the media frenzy surrounding Denise Devlin’s rise to power. I packed up my laptop and slid out of my chair, head lowered the entire trek from seat to door and even a few paces past it. Backpack slung over one shoulder and hands buried in my pockets, I wore the posture of a foreigner even if my hometown had only been seven hours away. The distance between Fayetteville, West Virginia and Philadelphia, Pennsylvania bore the weight of more than just miles.

And so, I buried myself in classwork, much as I always did back then. In my second year at Temple University, staying in an apartment I didn’t even pay for after being given charity by a complete stranger in my freshman year. I left home wanting to make something more of myself and that had become my raison d’être, a determination I fully embraced while eating cereal and paging through articles on the Devlin Biosystems website. In a lot of ways, the brazen CEO reminded me of my mother, who had raised four children without any help and refused to be cowed by peer pressure. My mind flashed once again to the news reports of Henry Devlin’s death and again, I entered the scene.

Only this time, I added Denise Devlin to it.

I saw the doors to his study part, a woman standing on the other side who was no ordinary lady. Whatever reasons Denise Devlin had married Henry, they hadn’t included children and countless interviews with the Devlin first lady had prodded her to cite the reasons why. “Devlin Biosystems is our child,” she had said, “And our legacy to this world.” By that alone, it became clear to me why Henry named her to be his successor, instead of the man who had ascended to the Vice Presidency. It wouldn’t be his child. It wouldn’t be his legacy.

Scrolling down the list of Google search results, I clicked on a video and started to watch.

The thin woman on the screen looked to be in her mid-40s, her stature regal as she stood behind a podium, clad in an outfit that might have been plucked from Jackie Onassis’s closet. Filmed five years before her ascent, the video showed Denise explaining the Devlin framework, replete with all of their long term plans for the company. Inside her intense, brown eyes, I saw a visionary while she calmly explained what they hoped to accomplish at Devlin. Longer life. Better quality of living. And at the time of the interview, they had been awarded a contract from the Department of Defense to send better medical equipment to the front lines, something those both for and against the ‘War on Terror’ could stand behind.

She was the woman I visualized coming upon the corpse of her husband.

Something about the way she looked down at him would have registered heartbreak. The Devlins might not have been the model couple, but they wore the badge of a joint entity in all of their public showings. The initial pangs of shock aside, I saw her rushing beside him and crouching down, feeling for his pulse and calling 911. She had undergone criticism for her cold candidness over the phone and when the police had arrived, she was sipping a drink and sitting in their living room, playing with a strand of pearls around her neck. “I only wish Henry could have lived to see his dream become a reality,” she had said when speaking at his funeral.

Bypassing that particular video, I instead clicked onto Wikipedia and read the entry which had been penned for her.

The door opened and closed, pulling me from my research. I looked up, eyes darting in the direction of the entryway with the other occupant of the apartment not yet visible. Still, I could tell from the jingle of the keys and the measured pace of the owner’s stride that my roommate had arrived at home. “Andy?” he called out, slightly startled when he walked around the corner and found me camped on the couch. A small, pleased expression surfaced on his face. “It’s way too quiet in here,” he said. “You should turn the TV on or something.”

I waved that thought away with a dismissive flick of my hand. “Meh. It only distracts me,” I said. Taking in the sight of Scott Reilly still bore a level of intimidation to it at that time. He had been raised in one of the most affluent families in Philadelphia, bred as the last of three sons to carry on the family legacy and he chose to invest his time with a charity case like me. A few inches taller than me, and perpetually dressed in clothing that cost as much as most people’s car payment, the only thing that set him apart from most of the preppy kids I’d ever known was the auburn color to his hair and the kind demeanor in his eyes. He might have suffered from rich kid-itis, as I liked to call it, but you could never accuse Scott of not having a soul.

Or one hell of a body, if I had to be honest.

“Would it bother you if I turned it on then?” he asked.

I shrugged and attempted to look unaffected, breaking my focus away from evaluating the person who was rapidly becoming my best friend. “I can always put in my earbuds if it becomes a problem,” I said.

“Great.” He cocked a thumb in the direction of his bedroom. “I’m going to take a shower and decompress. Maybe we can order Thai for dinner or something.”

“You mean you want Thai and are offering to get me some.”

“You can pay me back when you’re a hotshot reporter.”

I shook my head, but didn’t argue. Placing aside the bowl of cereal, I sighed and stared at the television in front of me as though now painfully aware of its presence. Both it and my laptop monitor vied for my attention until I finally reached for the remote and scooped it into my hand. Pursing my lips in a frown, I flipped it on and started an idle scan through the channels.

Scott emerged again in a half hour – well into the last act of a movie I had found on HBO. I tossed him the remote and he caught it, twirling it in his hand while reaching in the back pocket of his jeans for where he kept his cell phone. As he placed an order for the usual selections, I added another paragraph to my paper and by the time he hung up, I had become engrossed in it again. I didn’t take another break from it until the delivery man arrived with our food.

“So, how was class today?” he asked, passing me over my container and some silverware before sitting on the couch perpendicular to mine.

I shrugged, popping open the top. “It was okay, I guess. We got into a discussion about the old Devlin fiasco in Current Affairs and then I came home to work on my paper.” A small smile resurfaced on my face. “How’s law school treating you?”

He laughed. “I have a massive paper to finish by tomorrow and I’m stalling.” Scott placed his food on the coffee table in front of us and stared at it as though peering in a reflecting pool for guidance. “I swear, the next year and a half is going to kill me.”

“Yeah, but look at it this way, all you have to do after that is pass the bar exam.” My grin turned cheeky.

“Oh is that all?” he asked, rolling his eyes at me. We exchanged a laugh and I started into eating my food while Scott scanned the channels and finally reached for the laptop he kept beside his couch. His couch. We were starting to become the proverbial old married couple. I shook my head at the thought, tempted to make commentary on that idea, but was preempted by the TV.

The image of Denise Devlin flashed on the screen and at once, I paused, fork halfway between the container and my mouth.

Four years had passed since she had assumed the role of CEO. Nine since the interview where she spoke about the up-and-coming projects her husband Henry had cooking on the burner. A few additional lines had carved well-worn trenches into her face, but she still appeared just as determined as she had nearly a decade ago. A reporter had stopped her on the street, en route from the corporate building in Bethesda, Maryland to her car, posing the question to her about their recent decision to expand their base of operations.

She didn’t even bother to smile for the camera as she addressed the reporter. “We believe that what we have accomplished in the last five years has given us more reason to pursue other enterprises,” she said, a tone to her voice that suggested this should be self-evident. “There are many large hospitals in the area who could benefit from a hands-on training program and universities we’d like to partner with to expand our research and development.”

“Some people fear that Devlin is taking over too large a part of the stock market,” the reporter countered. “What do you have to say to that?”

“I say that means our competitors should be doing more to innovate.”

I raised an eyebrow, my fascination fully drawn in by this point. Placing aside the food, I folded my hands atop my lap.

“What sorts of innovations does Devlin have on the horizon?” the reporter asked. “Can you give us a preview of what’s to come?”

“I can only promise our continued commitment to the health sector. If it means expanding our operations, we will, whether or not our competitors approve of our business practices.” She offered a half-smile, something which registered as a slight curl that faded just as quickly as it appeared. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, we have work that needs to be done.”

Denise Devlin slipped away from the camera, entering a car waiting for her and disappearing from view as little more than a set of taillights. The voiceover from the reporter indicated that New York and Boston would be the first trial runs of this new enterprise of theirs, leading me to wonder what their long-term goals might be myself. It took until I left work the next day and settled into a table at Starbucks with my computer before I uncovered more.

Their initial focus was in the field of limb regrowth. Working with physical therapists and neuroscientists, they had already helped adapt their prosthesis division, expanding it out to include some of the most advanced and functional artificial limbs, some which directly resembled actual arms and legs. Their business proposal with Harvard and Columbia included research fellowships, seeking to integrate their biology PhD programs with Devlin’s own pursuit: to teach the body how to mend itself. It had only enjoyed very tentative success, managing to regenerate a thin layer of tissue, but it was far more ambitious than of its competitors’ programs.

I had enough fodder for the paper by this point. The conclusions that I drew from past and present married together in a chord that rang of promise, not of the fear that so many had attempted to paint when she came to power. Whatever had led Henry Devlin to change his will – whatever force of precognition had infected the company’s founder and led him to his eventual grave – the scientific community all sang the praises of Devlin Biosystems and promised some brave new world might be birthed from the ashes of Henry’s death. Only one word of warning seemed to slither its way out from the cinders.

At times, the things that appear to be too good to be true might just be that.

Dr. Vasquez stopped me after class, holding my paper and sitting on the edge of his desk as he studied me for a moment. “I wanted to ask you about the last paragraph,” he said, raising an eyebrow at me.

I shrugged and cinched my backpack strap further up my shoulder. “What about it?” I asked.

“You rounded off what could have been one of the best press relations speeches for Devlin Biosystems with a very frightening warning.” Freeing one hand to adjust his eyeglasses, he then used those fingers to thumb through my paper. “And I quote: ‘Devlin seems to be the white knight riding into battle after decades of advancements in the field of medicine have yet to show us something truly unique. We have managed to expand the life expectancy of many terminal conditions, but we have yet to truly cure them all. Denise Devlin seems on a holy crusade to do just that.

“‘But with this comes that ancient warning, that the hero of one story is often the villain of another. How that might come to pass in this case is a cautionary tale waiting to be told, of that time the slayer of one dragon became the creator of another. Only time will be able to tell us just what the consequences of both her ambition, and the ambition of the people who aspire to her dream, might be.’”

The professor shut the thin, bound collection of papers again and handed it to me. I glanced through the transparent cover, seeing an A written in red at the top. “Well, it just seemed logical,” I said, glancing back up at Dr. Vasquez. “There’s no such thing as perfect.”

“No, but I think you’re right. This sort of thing often becomes our generation’s form of Pandora’s Box.” He studied me in silence for a moment, a scrutiny I found a little unnerving until he finally shifted his weight further onto his hip. “You’re a Journalism major, right?” he asked.

I nodded. “Yes, I am.”

“It’s a dying art and a competitive field right now, you realize that, right? The fossils are fighting against new blood in a time when more people are switching to computers and away from ink and paper.”

“I’m aware of that.” I punctuated the confession with a shrug. “I’ll take whatever I can get in the field, though. I’ve always wanted to be a journalist and I don’t see that changing anytime soon.”

“That’s an ambitious goal.” A smile finally surfaced on his face, through the serious expression which had been there only a few moments ago. “Why do you want to become a journalist, Mr. Lane?”

“Well, I’ve watched the news all my life, and I’ve wished I could be on the front lines of a lot of it.” A nervous chuckle followed. “I guess we all hope at some point we’ll be the ones cracking the top story.”

He laughed, but the sound bore no condescension to it. Instead, the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes wrinkled in a flattering manner, his demeanor quiet and understanding. “I think we all get wrapped up in the thrill of the hunt at some point or another. It’s in our blood.” Standing from the edge of his desk, he turned his back to me and paced around to his chair. “At the same time, you never know what the future holds, Andy… can I call you Andy?” He waited for me to nod before he continued. “Something exciting is bound to happen tomorrow or the next day. Might even be this cautionary tale you’ve already got registering on your radar. Just keep your eyes open for it.”

A small smile curled the corners of my lips. “You think I’ll be able to see it when it happens?”

“If this paper’s any indication, I’d say so.” A nod of acknowledgement passed between us. He mirrored my smile. “Have a good rest of the day. I’ll see you next week in class.”

“Yes, sir.” I spoke the words with a great degree of confidence, much more than I normally possessed in those days when I was still a stranger in a strange land, trying to carve my path in such an imposing city. It was a moment of validation; that sign from the cosmos that I had left home for a good reason and hadn’t deluded myself into thinking I could be the one voice standing out from the crowd of many. I might have started a poor, small-town boy, but I was on the front lines of something. What, I didn’t know.

I don’t think any of us realize the answer to that question until it finds its way to us. If there really are clairvoyants among us, I have yet to meet any or they have yet to show themselves. But when the story of my life landed onto my lap, it took a form even I couldn’t have anticipated, even if the players would eventually make all the sense in the world.

After all, they had been surrounding me the entire time.

Next Chapter Available Tues. 7/18

How Diversity in Fiction Would Help Heal Our Nation

For a while I’ve been trying to wrap my head around the concept of systemic racism in America and where to begin addressing it. I mean, there are obvious things we could do about it. As I write this, two more black men have been shot and killed by police and there’s a frighteningly loud-mouthed orange man who wants to shut Muslim people out of America. The problem is we see large, catastrophic events occur without stopping to address the underlying issues which fuel them.

And by us, I mean the white people who have been complicit in fueling racism with our silence.

It’s really easy to fall into the trap of what we consider to be common sense. We see #BlackLivesMatter and counter with #AllLivesMatter, because to us, all lives should matter equally. We make sanctimonious declarations about how many Muslim or gay or black friends we have like we’re collecting achievements while not pausing to understand their struggle. The problem isn’t that all lives shouldn’t matter. It’s that, more often than not, theirs don’t.

As I said, though, merely acknowledging the problem exists isn’t good enough to usher in true, lasting change. We’ve been acknowledging the problem in much more evident, vocal tones ever since the shooting of Michael Brown and the protests in Ferguson, MO. It’s been a part of the black community from Reconstruction onward and in more modern-day terms, it remains the great failure of the post Civil Rights era, that we have found more insidious ways of undermining people of color. Historically, people of color have not only been shut out of white communities and denied advancement, they’ve also been either falsely represented or underrepresented in our art.

Much to my delight, that’s started to change in recent years. For example, there’s been a huge push by people like Marvel to include more diversity in their lineup of heroes. You have Miles Morales, who has filled Peter Parker’s shoes in Ultimate Spider-Man, and Kamala Khan, who became Ms. Marvel. Recently, the announcement has been made that Riri Williams, a brilliant, teenage woman of color, will take the mantle of Iron Man. We’ve seen more women, more LGBTQ people, and more people of varying races and religious creeds filling roles on television and in the movies that would once have gone to white people first. Of course, this has not gone on without a significant amount of backlash.

It begs the question of why, though. Some people argue that the attempt to include more diversity is contrived and it never fails that whenever I see the topic of representation in fiction arise in discussion groups, more than a few people have negative feedback to offer. Our own subtle and systemic racism bleeds through into the conversation, sometimes without us knowing it’s happening. To a lot of white people, it seems like the call for diversity in books, television, and cinema is groan-worthy affirmative action at best, and an outright attempt to push white people out of our culture at its most pernicious.

But it’s not. The one thing I’ve realized above all other things is how little we understand people whose cultures and beliefs differ from ours. A brief conversation with a Muslim man about Ramadan turned into a history lesson I’ve never been exposed to in a Western classroom, and I couldn’t help but to feel robbed of a richer understanding of what’s shaped the world. There are a lot of ways we could remedy that, but outside of textbooks and college courses, we have our art. Representation in art would go a long way into exposing us to other worldviews and immersing us in people whose lives we’re not able to experience otherwise.

And therein lies the path toward compassion. Towards breaking down the barriers which exist inside our own minds, preventing us from acknowledging people who differ from us as actual human beings. We’re so used to the human experience as we encounter it that we fail to see even the passive ways we undermine somebody with different colored skin. Or a different faith. We need so many other measures to stop the dehumanization of others, but representation is one of the most basic ways we can depict not merely the rich collection of cultures which exist, but understand how they fit into the kaleidoscope of our nation.

So, please do yourself a favor the next time you’re tempted to react with fear or disgust at the inclusion of other races or cultures or gender identities in the fiction you consume. Take a moment to see the benefits which come from representation. Chances are, if you’re reacting poorly to something like the concept of a black girl becoming Iron Man, you could stand to appreciate not merely the triumphs and trials of young Riri Williams, but the same celebrations and struggles people of color face every single day.

That’s my soapbox for today kids. Stop the hate and embrace compassion. And if you’re feeling adventurous, take this as a writing prompt. Read something and write something more diverse and challenge yourself to see the world through another set of eyes.