Chapter Twenty-Six

“Who in the hell are you?”

            “My name’s Elijah Beaumont.” Then, a touch grizzlier: “I assume you’re Sylvia Norton, Nicolle’s mother?”

            “Yeah,” her mother said, as if it were a challenge. “What do you want?”

            Nicolle couldn’t see them; she could only hear them from her spot in the bathroom. Elijah was commonly very courteous to adults; she knew his less-than-polite tone was a small revenge of her behalf. She’d hoped to be finished getting ready before he arrived so this could be avoided…

            He sighed heavily. “I’ve come to see Nicolle.”

            “She aint here… now scat.”

            “Her car’s in the driveway.”

            Nicolle heard nothing for a second. Then: “You’re one of them what thinks they’re smarter than everybody else, aint you?”

            “Not at all.”

            “What’s wrong with your eyes? You carrying some kind of disease?”

            “No ma’am.”

            “It don’t matter… get out of my doorway, you’re stinking it up.”

            Again he sighed. “I’d like to see Nicolle now.”

            “I’d like to call the cops on you now!”

            “I think you should calm down.”

            “I think I’m about to call the cops!”

            “Allow me the pleasure,” he said fiercely; Nicolle had been hurriedly brushing her hair but her hand suddenly stopped when she heard his raised voice. “As they escort me from your father’s property, I would be giving them a rather detailed report of why your daughter appeared at school with a bruise on her eye a few weeks ago. Or tipping them off to the illegally obtained substances that you keep in a bowl under your bed. Or, perhaps, informing them that you once threw a neighbor’s cat off a bridge because they beat you at poker.”

            “That’s… that’s a load of mess!”

            “I don’t believe the cops will think so,” Elijah said. “I’m going to wait outside for Nicolle now. I recommend going back to your seat quietly and resuming your game show. My patience for you is spent.”

            Her mother did not reply. Nicolle imagined her standing in the doorway with a gaping mouth, looking like some kind of moronic dumbfounded fish.

            “And lastly, Mrs. Norton,” Elijah added softly, “if the thought ever occurs to you to strike Nicolle again, throw yourself off the bridge next time. It would be preferred to what would happen if you decided to remain and face me instead.”

             

            Nicolle settled into the passenger’s seat of Elijah’s Jeep �" the back tires repaired courtesy of Ian Erlander, the top on due to the overcast weather �" and slowly looked over at him.

            “So,” she said, nodding. “You met my mother?”

            “I met a fool, and an abuser of herself and others,” Elijah said, still sounding annoyed. “Your descriptions of her were complete failures. She’s worse than you said.”

            “That she is,” Nicolle said sadly. “I’ve… never really heard you get that way before.”

            He started the ignition and began to back out. He was quiet long enough that Nicolle believed the topic dropped. Then, just as they hit the asphalt of the road, he said: “I have little patience with irresponsible parents.”

            They rode in silence for a minute. Then Nicolle spoke up.

            “Thank you for coming with me today,” she said. It had been a difficult favor to ask.

            “I’m happy to come,” he said, a little more sunshine in his voice now that Nicolle’s house was receding behind them.

            “Do you think you can help him?” Nicolle asked.

            “I’ll do everything in my power,” he said. Then he added: “I’m a mite nervous, actually. To be meeting him.”

            This came to Nicolle as a surprise. Elijah Beaumont, Mr. Cool and Collected, nervous?

            “Why?”

            He looked at her and smiled for a moment before returning his eyes to the road. He’s beautiful, she thought to herself. On the inside and the outside. Her own personal miracle, packaged in lots of pretty things: pretty eyes, a pretty mouth, a pretty nose, pretty hair…

            “Few people offered you kindness growing up,” he said. “It will be an honor to meet one of those few. To shake his hand.”

            Nicolle smiled hearing this, and her entire body warmed. She’d never brought a boy to Granddaddy Longlegs before (she’s never had a boy to bring); she was realizing suddenly that she, too, was nervous. She had a feeling her grandfather would like Eli… if anything just because he was a friend to his beloved, usually friendless granddaughter.

He would want to shake Eli’s hand, too.

            And maybe, in that moment… Eli could cure him.

           

            Timmy was in a dark place. Not physically… the day was overcast but far from dark. No, Timmy was in a dark place of heart. He wasn’t stupid; he knew this, he acknowledged this. He accepted this.

            As a child he’d been terrified of the dark, falling into tears every time the power went out or when he awoke on moonless nights; he assured his mother that a monster existed somewhere in the shadows, wanting nothing more than to devour him. He cried now just the same, just as hard as when he was a little boy. It was dark, dark, dark in his heart. And there was, most assuredly, a monster that existed in the shadows. It was him.

            He didn’t know the name of the girl across from him. He’d never thought to ask. Not that it mattered; her name wasn’t Nicolle. He’d been driving home when he spotted her jogging near the park a few miles from his house. He detected no other people within his range and decided that, d****t, it was time he was given what he was due. He deserved goodness. He deserved love. And he would have it, whether it was given or whether it had to be taken.

            Whatever it was he’d just taken… it wasn’t love.

            He’d pulled up beside her, his heart thumping madly, and rolled down his window. She smiled politely at first, but once she saw him more clearly �" the failed attempt at stylish hair, the excessive weight, the runaway acne, the jarring Yellow Eyes �" the smile vanished and a repugnant look came over her. His skill with Yellow Mark: Commandment still wasn’t excellent, but it was better than before. He commanded her to get into his Chevette. She did, her eyes suddenly alive with confusion and fear. He commanded her to stay put and stay silent as he drove away, finding an old unused dirt road he and his mother used to take walks down. He commanded her to climb into his backseat and to remove her clothes, and she did. He commanded her to remove his, and she did. He commanded her to lie on her back and to not move, and once she did, he climbed atop her. There was virtually no room in the back for him alone, much less her, but he made it work.

            Once he was finished, he commanded her to say I love you. She did. And he sensed the lie loud and clear.

            Now she sat in the passenger’s seat again, her face wet with tears, silent, still, and dressed, as commanded. Timmy looked at her for perhaps ten minutes, just looked at her.

            “Tell me if you hate me or not,” he finally commanded. A new wave of fresh tears rolled down her face as she began to nod, forced to tell the truth where she would normally lie to protect herself.

            “I do,” she said, less than a whisper.

            “Get out of my car, now,” Timmy growled, crying as well. “Do not ever tell anyone about me or what just happened.”

            He knew she would comply… she had to. She opened the car door and stepped out. Timmy drove away, wailing so loudly she could probably hear him, leaving her standing in the middle of nowhere.

 

            Knock, knock, knock…

            “Granddaddy?” Nicolle asked, poking her head into the room.

            He was lying on the bed, a very sick man. Visions of Adam’s final days blasted her memory; it looked much like this. The pale skin, the dark lips, the barely open eyes… but his eyes were at least open. And upon seeing her he smiled.

            “Well look who’s here,” he said, his voice cracking. Perhaps his throat was dry. “Hello dearheart.”

            “Hi,” she said, pushing the door open further and stepping inside. And then Elijah walked in behind her, his hands clasped respectfully in front of him. Her grandfather’s eyes widened a little.

            “Oh? You’ve brought a friend?” He searched Elijah up and down.

            “Granddaddy, this is my… this is Elijah, Elijah Beaumont,” Nicolle said, stepping aside for Eli could step forward. He placed a hand forward and smiled; her grandfather’s arm was too weak to lift so Elijah reached down and took his hand himself, shaking it gently. Nicolle had never loved the boy more than right then.

            “Glad to meet you, sir,” Eli said, looking her grandfather right in the eyes. She wondered what Granddaddy thought of Eli’s eye color.

            “Oh, the pleasure’s mine, son,” he said cheerfully, smiling so wide it seemed he might burst. “Are you Nicolle’s fella?”

            Nicolle’s heart gave a funny little jump at that. She had no idea how to answer. But Elijah just chuckled.

            “Something along those lines,” he said.

            “Nicolle’s never had a fella before,” he said, looking over at her happily. She wanted to hide.

            Elijah chuckled again. If he truly was nervous he wasn’t showing it at all; he was playing everything perfectly. “Well now she has me.”

            “Well, lemme see,” Granddaddy said, his eyes falling on Eli again. “No lip piercings…”

            “No sir.”

            “You’re hair’s not green, or blue.”

            “Which I’m grateful for.”

            “You say sir, not man or dude.”

            “Yes sir.”

            “You don’t wear your britches around your knees so I can see your underwear.”

            “Never, sir.”

            “And you have the same eyes as Nicolle,” Granddaddy finished. Nicolle looked on in confusion… same eyes? Nicolle’s eyes were dark, dark grey, Elijah’s were very a very light grey. Even Eli himself seemed puzzled by Granddaddy’s words, tilting his head a little. “Not the color, of course… the soul underneath,” Granddaddy explained. “Not a whole lot of people are like my Nicolle, but you are, I can see it.”

            Elijah nodded. “Yes sir.”

            “Please take good care of her,” Granddaddy said with sincerity. “She deserves many good days.”

            Again Elijah nodded. “Yes sir.”

            Nicolle felt her phone rumble in her pocket. She decided to ignore it until they left the hospital. Preferably with Granddaddy in tow, fully healed and ready for life.

            Nicolle hated death.

            “Granddaddy,” Nicolle said, stepping forward. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

            His eyebrows rose. “Okay, hit me. But not really,” he smiled, jiggling his arm to illustrate, “I’m a bit out of shape at the moment.”

            Nicolle took a deep breath. “Granddaddy… I know of a way to help you out of your sickness.”

            His eyebrows rose even higher. “Oh?”

            “Yeah,” she nodded. “Don’t ask me how, please… but I can make it to where you’re better again. We might be able to give you lots of more years to come, even, I’ve worked it out myself and you might be able to have lots more time.”

            “Dr. Wilcox… isn’t as optimistic, dearheart,” he said quietly.

            “I know he’s not, but it doesn’t really matter… “

            “Sweetie,” he said, his tone kindly demanding her attention. “I won’t last much longer… I’m old, and tired…”

            “But I can fix that,” Nicolle said. “Don’t worry about that, we can fix that, and… and like I said, we can maybe even give you fifteen more years, maybe more…”

            Granddaddy opened his mouth to say more but resigned himself to a sad smile. He looked at Nicolle for a moment before turning to Elijah.

            “May we have a few minutes, son…?”

            Elijah nodded and silently stepped out of the room.

            “Hello, Nicolle,” he said kindly. He patted the edge of his bed. “Come here… tell me all about it…”

            Nicolle sat beside him, as she had done so many times over the years.

            “Tell me all about it,” he said.

            Nicolle loved Granddaddy Longlegs. She trusted him, too.

            “I can’t let you die,” she said, not looking at him. “Not when this time I can fix it…”

            “Fix it…?” He chortled. “There’s nothing broken about this, love… it’s the circle of life. Young Adam’s time had to come, and Grandmama’s time had to come… my time will eventually also, it’s natural.”

            “No it’s not,” Nicolle said, still looking into her lap. “Loss isn’t… it’s…” She wasn’t even sure what she was trying to say, so she just stopped.

            “I’m not afraid of death, sweetheart,” he said, finding the strength to reach up and smooth her hair. “I’ve ridden this ride for a good long time, but I’m done. I’m ready to rest. I miss her, Nicolle.”

            His last sentence poured over her like water, catching her attention. She turned to look at him. Grandmama Longlegs.

            “You… want to die?”

            He smiled, taking her hand into his own. His voice was so drained that he could barely muster any volume. “I know exactly how it will happen too… when I see that happier place. I’ll be a young man again, like how she probably remembers me best, and she’ll be looking like she did when I fell in love with her all those decades ago.”

            Nicolle was crying. His eyes were a little teary but his composure held.

            “I’m gonna miss you,” he said. “A bushel and a peck. But it won’t be goodbye. If dying meant goodbye I’d hate it too… but it doesn’t. It just means see you later. And I will.”

            Nicolle hugged him. He hugged her back as best as he could.

            “Still planning for Carolina after you graduate?” He asked from over her shoulder.

            She nodded, unable to speak.

            “I love you, dearheart,” he said.

            “I love you too, Granddaddy,” she said.

 

            Somehow, deep down, Nicolle knew that text would be bad news.

            Elijah drove through Savannah and into the outskirts towards Riverlove Run going a little over the legal speed limit, taking corners so sharply that Nicolle had to grip her surroundings to keep from slamming into things. Dom’s Up-and-Coming Artistry was nearly here; with its impending arrival everything seemed to be happening all at once. She didn’t even have time to reflect on her talk with Granddaddy Longlegs much before turning her attention to the newest crisis.

            They arrived at the cabin and walked briskly to the door, opening it with a heavy hand. They found Natalia, Ian, Dominic, Vee, and Peter all gathered in the living room. No one was smiling, no one was moving. Most everyone had the same worried look on their face; Dominic was one of the few that did not. Instead, he looked as if he were living through the most horrific headache of his life, gripping his head with both hands, his eyes closed tight.

            It’s the lights, Nicolle thought. They’re close. How close…?

            The expression on Vee’s face was one Nicolle recognized; it was the same sorrowed look she wore in the hours after Maria had died. Nicolle knew very little about the situation: the text she received asked Have you seen Elyse, to which she replied No. Vee came back with She never returned home last night. Had they gotten more news…?

            Vee heard her thoughts. Her nod was slow, as if doing so caused her pain.

            “What?” Nicolle asked breathlessly. “What happened…?”

            “Her PT Cruiser was found about two hours ago,” Ian said sadly. “Elyse is… presumed to be dead.”

            Nicolle felt suddenly absent from her body, a feeling of sharp unreality coming over her. Elijah took her by the arm and guided her to a couch across from Vee and Dominic. Nicolle’s first thought was that it couldn’t be true, there was no way. Her second thought was an image: the photograph of herself, Vee, Maria, and Elyse the night of the bon fire, the Chess Club gals, all smiling pretty. How was it possible that two of them were now gone…?

            “Why is she presumed dead?” Elijah said; he hadn’t let go of Nicolle’s arm. “She could simply be missing, or kidnapped, right?”

            Ian and Natalia looked to one another in silent conversation. Vee, seeing that the older Artists were taking control of the conversation, allowed herself to fall out of it, laying her head on Dominic’s shoulder, rubbing his back her hand. She’d been crying.

            “The vehicle was turned over in a river outside of town,” Natalia said, her professional voice free of emotion. “It looked as if she drove off the bridge and into the river, and due to the strength of that particular body of water, her body washed downstream, potentially for miles.”

            After a moment Elijah caught her word usage. “Looked as if? You doubt it happened?”

            Natalia rested her hand on one of her guns. “I’m certain it didn’t.”

            “How?” He asked. Nicolle was barely hearing any of this; she felt nearly faint. She wondered if the spirit of Elyse would come hovering through the walls in a minute or two, like Maria’s had. Nicolle didn’t know if she could take that or not.

            “Ian and I examined the wreckage,” she said. “We found GSR on the steering wheel, and it’s highly unlikely that would come from Elyse.”

            “What’s GSR?” Nicolle moaned.

            “Gunshot residue,” Elijah answered. Natalia nodded.

            “Elyse surely hadn’t fired a gun in the time that she left here and began for her home,” Ian said. “My conclusion is that whoever shot the gun got into her vehicle, rubbing the GSR from their hands onto the wheel, and drove it off the bridge.”

            “They’ll never find the body in that river,” Natalia said. “It’s been taken elsewhere. The vehicle in the water was intended to mislead officials. I’d bet anything on that.”

            The body, Nicolle thought. Elyse Robinson, the girl with the Yellow Eyes, her friend, pretty Elyse, was now the body. It hit Nicolle like a fist: she would never see Elyse again.

            Another thought hit Nicolle as well.

            “She’s one of them alright, look,” he said.

            “Take her down, President’s orders,” another said.

            There was a flash of gunfire, and…

            Was her dream coming true…? Was someone hunting them?

            It seemed Natalia was thinking the same thing. “One of us will want to be with you at all times,” she said. “Try to stay at least in groups of two or more. I’m not yet convinced that this is a move against Artists… it’s possible the person didn’t even know Elyse was an Artist… but that doesn’t gel with me. For now, we’re taking precautions.”

            At last Dominic raised his head and opened his bloodshot eyes. Vee was still rubbing his back.

            “They’re so bright,” he said.

            “Can’t you ignore them?” Elijah asked.

            “To an extent, yes… but I want to check it often. The lights seem to be accelerating as they get closer so it’s hard to tell when they’ll arrive.” He massaged his temples, trying to rid himself of stress that was unlikely to be rid of. “The day after tomorrow, I think.”

            The day after tomorrow. The already somber mood fell into grave silence.

 

            Nicolle entered with her head down. The door closed quietly behind her, and then she looked up timidly. Vee was alone, sitting on her bed. It seemed like forever ago that she met her best friend. She walked into Room 44 for the first time that day �" this memory was golden to her, near mythical in its remembrance �" and saw the Chess Club, and Vivian van Valen smiled at her.

            “You know my full name? It’s a darned mouthful… Vee is shorter and cuter. Nice to make your acquaintance.”

            Her smile was the welcome banner to the Club, to a new era. To friendship. That smile had become an uncomfortably rare thing lately. And how common would it be the day after tomorrow? Would she be alive to smile?

            Stop that, Nicolle told herself. She’ll live.

            She walked over and sat on the bed with Vee. The Artist of the Blue sniffed, her nose a little runny from the tears. Nicolle, oddly, had yet to cry; it still didn’t even feel real. Reality was numbed.

            “Remember…” Vee began; her throat constricted, forcing her to compose herself before continuing. “Do you remember back… back when things were simple? Everything was so freaking simple?”

            Nicolle nodded. “Yeah.”

            “We kept points based on conduct, and hung out after school, and had sleep overs… and rode around town, and cheated on homework… now…” She wiped a tear from her eye. “Now we’re getting shot at, and worrying over Dom’s thing the day after tomorrow, and there’s this Kincaid Gardens place… why couldn’t things just stay simple…?”

            Nicolle pulled her friend into a hug and at last the tears came. They cried together, at times loudly, then softly, and then, once the tears stopped, they remained embracing, holding tighter than a typical hug would be.

            “What if we die…?” Vee asked, her cheek on Nicolle’s shoulder.

            For this Nicolle had no answer but to hug even tighter. She knew the assumed response: we won’t die. But how could she say that? She wasn’t omnipotent. She wasn’t a prophetess. She was Nicolle Darling, known by some as Salem, limited in her abilities, unlimited in his devotion for others. She couldn’t assure them that they wouldn’t die. But she could assure them…

            “I’ve never told you this, Vee,” Nicolle said, her cheek on Vee’s shoulder. “But I love you. You’re… my sister.”

            Vee’s fingers, behind Nicolle’s back, gripped the cloth of her shirt, as if latching on for dear life. “I know… I love you too,” she said. “We’ve been through a lot together… remember that day in the galleria? Our first day out together?”

            Nicolle chuckled. “Yeah, I do.”

            “That was fun,” Vee said.

            Nicolle allowed her mind to drift, her arms still wrapped around her sister, allowed herself to remember the smells of the food court that day, and laughter as they tried on clothes and sunglasses. She remembered riding with the windows down at sunset back to Casa van Valen, as Vee had called it, singing along to the music. Nostalgia robbed her of her breath; she tried to recall the words to the song and couldn’t. All she could recall was

            “I like you, Darling,”

            “I like you too.”

            All she could recall was Vee’s grin in that dusk glow. Simpler times.

           

            “You seem a tad frostier that usual,” Reid said, chortling.

            Timmy didn’t reply; he looked out the window of the Lincoln without apparent interest in anything beyond. The kid was a zombie, and truthfully, Reid was a little freaked being in such close proximity to him. Even among the Artists that made up the Hunters Orionis he’d rarely found such vengeful eyes.

            This was a meeting of special significance. Reid had, of course, compiled Timmy’s profile himself, and was therefore able to include facts that he knew the Unseen Society would favor. Predictably they were fond of his Yellow Mark: Commandment, even if it was relatively weak. What he hadn’t foreseen was their interest in his psychological profile. They showed more interest in Timothy Benjamin Stoker as a person than any of the other Artists he’d won them, so much so that Reid was pulling out all the stops to ensure that Timmy said yes to his proposal.

            That wouldn’t be a walk in the park. In their talks together he’d learned a good deal of how Timothy felt the world should work; he had no faith in the notion of governing Artists because he found them ungovernable; he had no desire to be under anyone’s thumb. He’d even said the phrase no one may ever again call themselves the master of Timothy Stoker… I am my own master, my own judge, my own god. Where did he come up with this stuff? Who talked that way?

            I only know of one other, Reid thought with a chill in his belly. The First himself… the man who calls himself the Eidolon. Which, then again… the man has been around for hundreds of years…

            Few had ever seen the First. He lived in the shadows, heavily guarded, his general plans known only to a few, his more specific plans known to none. No one really knew anything about him, but there were scattered facts accrued over time. He spoke with eloquence and even kindness, offering manners to allies and enemies alike; his way of speaking and carrying himself exuded the fine intelligence of a head of state. And then, snap, in the length of a heartbeat, that demeanor would vanish, the smile would die, and he would become like an inconsolably ferocious animal, deranged, even. And who dared stand in his way? As far as Reid knew no one had ever officially had him tested, but the First was reportedly a V-Rank Artist. A Virtuoso. As far as Reid was concerned, the First could tell him that his mother was an incredibly ugly w***e and he’d agree with the man wholeheartedly, regardless of the truth.

            Ear-to-ear smile in place, he said: “It’s been a true joy studying and spending time with you, Timothy. You’re an amazingly unique Artist, and I’ve been honored�"”

            “Stop with the crap,” Timmy said, still looking out the window. “I don’t buy that smiley routine anymore, it was all a lie. Tell me where we’re going.”

            He wasn’t even using Yellow Mark: Commandment… he was simply commading in the normal way, as if he were of higher rank. Reid wanted to reach over and pop him, but truth be told, he had enjoyed his time with Timmy, in a way, and he still had the meeting ahead of them to consider.

            “You’re perceptive,” Reid said, and the mask was off, his voice falling to its natural lower octave. There was no need to go through the steps of asking about their desire for a life of meaning or conscience; he’d cut right to the chase. “I’m taking you to meet someone.”

            “Who?”

            “Someone with a very lucrative proposal for you,” he answered. “Someone who wants to meet you very badly.”

            “You’re not with Natalia Hawthorne and Ian Erlander, are you?” Timmy still wasn’t looking at him.

            Reid was astonished. He was perceptive. “No… no I’m not. I’m with another group with different ideals. A secret group.”

            “I don’t wanna be part of any group,” Timmy said.

            “I think you may change your mind, my friend,” Reid said. Reid hoped.

            He pulled his Lincoln up to the brick building. It looked ordinary, which was good. It showed no signs that at one time it had been a temporary hideout for a few Society men. They were long gone, but their communications equipment remained, or so he had been told.

            “Follow me, please,” Reid said, getting out of the car and walking to the door. Timmy waited a long time before finally climbing out. As Reid unlocked the door and stepped inside Timmy followed along behind him.

            “Where are we?”

            “Don’t concern yourself with the where, Timothy,” Reid said. The room they’d walked into was dank and dark, the carpet stained and the walls busted; only the cloudy light of the day allowed them to see. “But with the whom you are about to converse with…”

            Reid walked to the corner of the room and knelt down onto one knee. He felt around in the carpet for a moment before finding it; a tiny string was mixed in with the carpet, the string he’d been told to look for. He yanked at it with a heave; a square of the floor, about five square feet in size, came up. It was a trapdoor; beneath was a set of stairs leading to a completely dark basement. A smell like hundred year old sludge floated up to meet him.

            “Follow me, Timothy.”

            “Will I be in danger down there?” Timmy asked. “Tell me the truth.”

            “No, you’ll be in no danger,” Reid said. In that moment he’d been forced to change his mind about killing Timmy should he reject the proposal… otherwise the lie would have been heard. He would have to take an alternate route… wiping his memory of the event or something…

            Reid descended the steps, his hand reaching around in the air for the chain to pull to turn the light on. Timmy’s heavy clomps followed behind him; whatever the Unseen Society had in mind for the kid, it certainly wasn’t espionage. He found the chain and pulled it, and chink… a single bulb lit the basement, and not very well; corners were still too dark too see much. It was cold underground. Reid knew that, years ago, Society Artists had held someone against their will here. Had they ended up killing the guy in this very room? Maybe.

            In the center of the room, on a stand, was a television. Several weird blinking machines sat under the stand; Reid had come ahead of time and turned it on, configuring the satellite connection so that, at exactly the right time, they would be able to talk through to the other side.

            “Are you ready, Timothy?” Reid asked.

 

            Ready for what? Who was he about to talk to?

            “Yes,” Timmy said. Reid was watching his wristwatch closely.

            “Any minute,” he said. “Wait for it…”

            “Natalia Hawthorne and Ian Erlander want to take everyone back to that Garden place when we graduate,” Timmy said. “But… you don’t intend for that to happen… do you?”

            Reid smiled. “No. Truthfully Timmy, Kincaid Gardens can rot in Hell as far as the Unseen Society is concerned. Artists were meant to lead, not serve. You are a leader, not a servant.”

            He’s telling the truth, Timmy sensed. And he was right, of course. Timmy was done following anyone.

            “Tomorrow those who have agreed to become part of the Society will be taken by a Society car away from here, Lady Natalia and Sir Ian completely ignorant of the fact,” Reid said.

            They waited for the TV to come on, for whoever Timmy would be talking with to appear. Timmy’s thoughts raced as they waited. He was doing something that, in his belief, he never would have done a few months ago.

            A few months ago: he was walking the halls of Maple Hill High, his eyes a normal color, a goofy grin on his face, wearing a bookbag with the words NIGHTRIDER on it. He was playing Tower of Gilgamesh IV. He was being bullied, and having tea with his mother. He was standing in a dark theater room with Nicolle, watching her remove those sunglasses for the first time, confiding in him, confiding in HIM, that her eyes had changed color.

            And now… this was his life.

            Nicolle… that look of fury on her face as she climbed out of the ditch was burned into his memory. How he wanted to run to her, to apologize, to hold her, to take care of her…

            “What will happen to Nicolle Dar�"?”

            “Here he is,” Reid said in shock. “The First of the Unseen Society! Eidolon! Bow Timmy, quickly…”

            Reid sank to one knee and bowed his head as the TV winked to life.

            Timmy yelped, like a scared dog. Little of the man’s face was visible; shadows had been carefully situated to block the man from sight. Only his eyes were visible.

            One eye was White. The other eye was Black.

            “Your Grace,” Reid said tenderly. “As requested… I’ve brought Timothy Stoker, Artist of the Yellow…”

            Those eyes.

            They were staring right at Timmy. Did the man ever blink?? Timmy took several steps back, truly horrified.

            The man spoke; the words passed through Timmy, wrapping around his bones, boring into his brain, paralyzing him in movement and thought. No Artistry was involved; the man’s authority was extraordinary.

            “In visions of the dark night I have dreamed of joy departed…”

            The bottom corners of his eyes, those horrifying eyes, bent with a malicious smile.

            “… but a waking dream of life and light hath left me brokenhearted.”

            Timmy was nearly shaking with fear. “Y-yes sir.”

            “Do not speak to him unless spoken to!!” Reid barked, still looking to the ground as he knelt.

            “Where are your manners, Counselor Reid? You mustn’t yell at our dear guest… welcome, Stoker. Artist of the Yellow.”

            Timmy said nothing. He couldn’t… his throat was dry and his courage was gone.

            “Stoker. Are you brokenhearted as well?”

            How had he known…? Could he know Timmy’s thoughts? Timmy slowly nodded; his thoughts were of his best friend, of his love, of Nicolle.

            “For centuries I have been… I’ve walked on every shore and heard every tongue. There was time when I served others… when I walked those shores and was cursed in those tongues, and my response was to… turn the other cheek. Was this your way as well?”

            “Yes,” Timmy said, frightened. No hesitation.

            “Never again. Does the antelope ask the grass if it may be eaten? Does the beast ask the antelope the same? You are the one with the power now, Timmy. Ask none if they may be devoured. Devour on.”

            Timmy looked at the man with unblinking eyes. He nodded.

            “Yes sir.”

            “I was once weak. Now I am the Eidolon, the Night, the First of the Unseen Society. You were once weak. Now you’re the Truthbringer, the Light, my ally in the Unseen Society.”

            Timmy nodded slowly… and the quickly. Yes.

“Yes.”

That smile. Those eyes.

“Now, when storms of fate overcast, darkly my present and my past…”

Timmy couldn’t look away. This man knew him…

“… let my future radiant shine with sweet hopes of thee and thine.”

His laughter came so maniacally and so fast that both Timmy and Reid jerked in surprise; his joy was loud and unnatural. The TV winked off and he was gone, the echoes of his power still alive in the room.

           

            Reid watched the boy closely. Something was different. He’d entered the basement with a loser, but what was he now…? The loser was gone… someone different was in his place…

            Those eyes… that look on his face…

            “Timothy…?” Reid asked.

            “What will happen to Nicolle Darling?”

            Reid hadn’t expected this. “Nicolle Darling? Well… I’d intended to proposition her tomorrow morning. Before we leave Savannah.”

            Timmy didn’t nod or make any movement at all; he didn’t even blink. His Yellow Eyes were blazing with thought.

            “My decision is made,” he said. “I have a request to ask of you before I… do what must be done.”

            Reid smiled but it was weak; who was this kid?

            “What must be done?”

            Timmy’s teeth ground together so loudly it was audible.

            “Justice.”