Just Deserts

[Delahada]

I’m a shouldn’t be.

Shouldn’t be here.

Can feel the “you don’t belong” burning along my skin.

This isn’t my world. I don’t belong here.

None of them See.

They turn their heads to look, but I’m not really here.

I’m an overlap. A nightmare slipping through the cracks.

The best part is the banality.

A room full of the faithful, but not a single believer in sight.

They bow their heads for prayer.

Their hands clasp together in servile reverence.

They thank their maker for the wealth and plenty that surrounds them.

Greed. Piled high. Mountains of fine china and “the good silverware.”

Enough food to share with guests, but only the people they like.

It’s a dinner party.

They don’t see me standing at the window looking in.

The dog next door sees me; it won’t stop barking.

They disregard it, of course.

“That stupid dog again,” someone grumbles.

If only people understood the language of dogs.

“Get out,” it’s saying. “Get away. Danger! Danger!”

I touch my hand to the glass.

Do you feel safe, preacher man?

Are you secure in your faith?

I pull my hand away when someone looks.

The imprint fades like an apparition.

She blinks and shakes her head, thinking she only imagined something.

Someone makes a joke and she laughs.

I’ve already been forgotten.

Hours pass, and I watch them.

Two by two they filter out into the night, drive off in their Chryslers and their Buicks.

The missus goes upstairs to remove her face.

He locks up the house and turns off the lights.

For a while I listen to them fucking.

She screams things her bake sale friends would consider improper.

The quiet of the night starts to settle in.

Even the dog has stopped barking.

On the other side of the fence I can hear it panting and wheezing and whimpering.

The animal has made itself hoarse, exhausted.

“I’ve done all I can,” its labored breathing says. “Why won’t they listen?”

The guilty never do.

Hush now, little dog.

I’m an echo.

The sins of the past slowly catching up to him.

A spectre slipping through the walls.

They’ll never know I was here.

[Canaan]

Friday 27th 2015, 1:31 pm
New Orleans, LA

"Have you seen this?"

Hundreds of commuters were delayed in reaching their destinations after a fatal car and Metrolink accident in Hancock County early this morning. Multiple cars were derailed and thirty-nine people were hospitalized, several of them in critical condition, following the fiery wreck.

The train slammed into the truck near the intersection of East Ninth Street and North Avenue in Oxnard, an official with the Hancock County Fire Department said. A 911 call to police just before 5:45 a.m. reported the crash.

Police responded a few minutes later and found the truck fully engulfed in flames and three rail cars overturned. Firefighters determined the driver of the truck died on impact.

SKY9 shows the car's frame crumpled like a foil candy wrapper. From the street, the wreckage looked even worse.

"The whole front of the engine was destroyed, none of the front of the car was there. It was shattered," Justin Cavanaugh, the witness who reported the crash, said.

The northbound express train was moving at about 55 miles per hour when it struck the vehicle. Preliminary reports indicate the railroad gate crossing was working. The train pushed the truck some 300 feet down the tracks, said Robert Ashford of the National Transportation Safety Board.

The crossing where the crash happened has been the scene of many collisions over the years. A similar tragedy occurred almost exactly two years ago when an eastbound Metrolink train demolished the vehicle of a Bay St. Louis teacher, though it is unclear if alcohol also played a part in today?s events.

"They haven't released a name, but I checked."

Silence.

"It's Waters."

Silence.

"Nash, this has Cane written all over it."

Silence.

"Where are you going?"

Silence.

[Canaan]

Saturday 28, 2015 at 2:00 am
Casa del Brujo


"Quaint," he decided after circling the little beach house.

Various wards and protective enchantments kept the high warlock from getting too close to the Cajun's home, but that didn't stop him from testing the boundaries at every angle. With each rebuffed spell, the warlock's smile grew bigger and bigger. But eventually boredom took the place of curiosity. He'd nearly given up on waiting for Canaan when the man came strolling up the deserted stretch of road that wound along the top of the cliffs.

Nash's body seemed to melt into the ground, dropping from view into a pool of dense, black fog.

When Canaan stepped through what was left of the inky cloud a minute later, nothing but sand and gravel crunched beneath his boots. A quiet, airy sort of song trickled out of his mouth, the words in French. Despite the almost melancholic tune, he wore a faint smile on his face, which was tipped toward the sky.

Just before the Cajun crossed the invisible threshold of protection, Nash appeared behind him. But instead of rising from the earth, his body seemed to materialize from above. He splashed down out of a plume of darkness.

A slash of fire cut through the air, parting the dark cloud and narrowly missing the high warlock who dove to the side with a shout. Canaan gave a low growl, extending his arm toward the blur of movement. All around them, the snow began to melt.

Nash rolled to his feet quickly and threw a hand out to meet the Cajun's advances with a strike of his own. A pulse of light flashed in his palm.

Concentration broken, he stumbled back a step. Canaan bared his teeth and pressed forward again, bringing both arms around in a wide motion. A ring of flames encircled the would-be attacker; but he didn't stop there. Stalking forward, he rotated a wrist and the space inside the flames seemed to blur.

"Goddamnit, Canaan." Nash put his hands up.

Firelight reflected off a pair of eyes in the shadows beyond Canaan's left shoulder, and behind him a quiet voice said simply one, cool word.

"Guapo."

Shock and recognition illuminated Canaan's face as much as the firelight. The second voice tore his eyes away from the high warlock trapped by fire. Canaan craned his neck around to peer in the direction he'd heard Salvador's voice. He clenched his teeth together and turned back around.

"Da fuck is goin' on?" Cane straightened his aggressive posture and waved a hand at the circle of fire. As the flames were sucked into the ground, the enchantment fell away as well, freeing one warlock from the other's entrapment.

The quenched fire stole the Spaniard's eyes, and he shrank back into the dark on a single reverse step. His presence could still be felt, if not entirely seen. Cold, fae eyes were watching.

Nash adjusted his hat and swept forward as though nothing had happened. Salvador's presence was entirely ignored. "Defensive much? And why might that be?"

Cane snorted. "Yer da one sneakin' up behind me." His gaze landed on the stetson and his eyes narrowed. "Are ya spyin' on me now?"

Ignoring the question, Nash offered one of his own. "Have you lost your goddamn mind, boy?"

Advancing a step, Canaan thrust a finger in the other warlock's face. "Ya don' get ta lecture me 'bout bein' wound up right now."

"Oh, right now." Nash nodded patronizingly and then gestured to all the space around them. "You have all of this space. All of this freedom. I gave you a chance to start over, to live." A terrible, furious scowl marred his face. "I told you to stay away from the preacher!" By the time he'd reached the end of the sentence, Nash was yelling into the Cajun's face.

Confusion splashed across Canaan's face. "Da hell is you talkin' 'bout, Nash?"

Angered by what he assumed was an attempt to play dumb, he reached out to catch the Cajun's jacket with both fists. Drawing the man close, so they were nose to nose, he said, "Waters is dead."

Cane looked like he was about to be sick. With a flurry of movement, he shoved Nash away and ran a hand through his hair. "I didn'...you t'ink I did it?"

"Stop playing dumb, Canaan."

"I ain' playin' at anyt'in!" he countered, still reeling from the news. The Spaniard peeled out of the shadows along Canaan's side, right hand lifting to touch fingertips to the warlock's left elbow. He said nothing, but watched Nash impassively.

The high warlock's eyes shifted from Canaan's bewildered expression to study the Spaniard's face. Curiosity lurked beneath the anger, but his attention was only spared for a moment before he focused on the Cajun who seemed more grounded with the added presence of Salvador.

"Tell me you didn't do it." The warlock's gaze shifted, looking past Canaan into the ocean. "Tell me you didn't know anything about it."

He answered immediately. "I didn' kill 'im, Nash. I've been here. Got proof I can show ya if ya want."

Nash's blue eyes snapped back to the Cajun's face, staring at him intently. "Did you know?" He gave a flicker of a glance to the man standing to his left. Their eyes met, the Spaniard's narrowing shrewdly, but otherwise he remained inscrutable.

"No," Cane replied resolutely.

"I've never doubted you, Canaan, because you've never lied to me." Licking his lips, Nash shook his head. Rather at a loss, he tossed up his hands. "But what am I supposed to think when I get word that an upstanding community leader decided to get drunk and park his truck on train tracks?" The Cajun blanched, but Nash pressed on. "Does that sound familiar?"

Canaan twisted to grab hold of the Spaniard's arm. Nash watched his face carefully. The action did not appear to be made in alarm, but out of a sudden need to steady himself. Salvador drifted more than stepped a little more into the other warlock's personal space, left hand lifting to touch the fingers gripping his opposite arm.

"I don' know what else I can say. 'Cept fer maybe dat I wish I could tell ya I'd killed 'im. But I was here. On a fuckin' talk show pretendin' like I got my shit t'get'er." At this point the Spaniard closed his eyes and touched his forehead to Cane's temple. "I didn' send anybody an' I didn' know a damn t'ing until ya told me."

Nash's eyes tick-tocked between the two men, lips pursed, expressionless. He listened to what the Cajun said and what he didn't say. He studied the man from which Cane seemed to draw strength; the Spaniard was passively protective of his lover's palpable vulnerability.

Lowering his eyes, the high warlock drew in a breath and took a step back. "I believe you." He reached up, tugging the brim of his hat a little lower on his forehead. "The others are suspicious, but I'll talk to Pearl. She nearly came after you herself."

Nash looked up, hoping the Cajun had concealed the intensity of his emotions. All he found was poorly contained grief. He shifted his eyes to fix Salvador with an imploring expression. Take care of him.

The Spaniard answered him just as silently with a slow and measured blink that said, I will.

He took another step back and turned to show both men his profile.

"You'll be fine, Cane. I'm sorry it came out like it did, but it was better I came than someone else. They wouldn't have asked questions." Though he spoke to the Cajun, the explanation was meant for the man's lover. On that note, the high warlock turned away completely. "I'll clean this up."

"Wait--"

But Carson Nash vanished before Cane had a chance to finish.

[Canaan]

Monday 2nd, 2015
New Orleans, LA

Police have positively identified the victim in the fatal train collision that occurred in Hancock County early Friday morning as 54 year old Jon Waters, well known Reverend of Saints Crossing church in Bay St. Louis, MS. The wreck occurred about 45 minutes after the northbound train left the terminal at 5:02 a.m., with an estimated 350 people aboard.

Officials say a man walking his dog in the woods near the tracks heard the crash and called 911.

Justin Cavanaugh, the witness who reported the crash, recalls, "I heard the train's horn blare several times, a warning, I think. I didn't see anything until after it hit the truck. All I could hear was the horn for the longest time and then this awful metallic screeching. The sound seemed to go on forever. It spooked my dog. She'd been skittish the whole time, even before it happened. Almost like she knew something bad was going to happen. By the time I ran down the tracks to catch up, the truck was already on fire."

Firefighters were dispatched after receiving the call, arriving on scene to find what was left of the Reverend's vehicle engulfed in flames. After firefighters extinguished the fire they discovered the body. The victim was so badly charred that authorities were unable to immediately establish gender, but determined the driver was killed before the fire upon impact.

Preliminary reports from the county coroner were able to confirm their suspicions. Waters was identified by his dental records after a DMV search using his license plate led officials to the Reverend's home where Waters' wife affirmed that both he and the vehicle were missing. Officials ruled his death a suicide. Sources indicate alcohol played a major role in the tragic event.

Waters and his wife, Phyllis, were longtime residents of Bay St. Louis. The couple, described as a prominent and active family, had two children and one grandchild.

There is some good news in light of the tragedy; only one of the thirty-nine injured passengers remains in critical condition this evening, with half a dozen listed as good or fair--and fifteen victims released from hospitals.

"I think we shouldn't point fingers," said Martha Greggs, wife of critically injured passenger, David Greggs. "Sometimes accidents happen," she said. "And sometimes people get themselves in bad situations. So it's too soon to say what's to blame or who's to blame. My heart goes out to the family of the man who died."

Nash snorted, abruptly folding the newspaper in half before casting it aside.

A dark haired man looked up from across the table and quietly leaned down to retrieve the newspaper from where it had fallen on the floor. He laid it out flat in front of himself and carefully smoothed a few fingertips along the crease.

After scanning the columns, Adrien sniffed emphatically and ventured a guess aloud. "This is about your protégé." He spoke with such cut-glass elocution that one might wonder if he endeavored to hide an accent. "Downworld is abuzz with his most recent blunder."

"Is it, now." Nash questioned, though it lacked proper inflection.

He nodded once.

"It's only been three days."

"We do not all of us sleep, mind you." Nash snorted again. Adrien blinked owlishly. "I do not much care for the rumor mill, but I must say. Even I find myself intrigued."

The high warlock stared at the vampire impassively before asking, "Is'sat why you showed up out of the blue?" Adrien simply waited for Nash to continue. "It wasn't him."

He lifted a well-groomed eyebrow in response. "I find that difficult to believe. Did he not recently, in a fit of childish petulance, make an attempt on that man's life once already?"

"That was two years ago."

The vampire went on as if he hadn't heard the other man speak. "And the details, Carson. A blazing display of theatrics. He had such a flare for them, I remember." His tongue made a soft noise against the roof of his mouth. Adrien le Boursier sat back regally as if perched on a throne, looking every bit the wicked prince his reputation implied. He was tall, lean, and of a pallid complexion. Lifting a hand, he brushed a long lock of raven's wing hair away from his face. Then he smiled. "Your love for the boy has softened you."

"We are not all of us equipped with unyielding hearts made from stone," Nash replied evenly, in an impressive mimicry of the vampire's pompous disposition.

It was so well done that Adrien cracked a smile. "What exactly makes you think him inculpable?"

"He gave me his word." And that, to Nash, was everything. "In all the decades I have known Canaan, to my knowledge, he has never lied to me. Oftentimes he spared the truth to his own detriment."

"A man who claims he has never lied has most certainly perjured himself."

"I didn't say he hasn't lied. I said that he has not lied to me. There is a difference." Nash held up a finger and canted his head to the side, punctuating the clarification with a brief pause. "I trust him, Adrien."

"If it was not the boy, then his sister, surely."

Nash scoffed, but not unkindly. "Petra is more than capable, yes, but she would never let herself be driven by hatred. Unlike her brother, she is not blinded by the flames of passion."

"Someone murdered that man."

The warlock remained silently introspective, staring just over Adrien's shoulder through the window.

Someone had killed Jon Waters and he was steadfast in his belief that neither Cane nor Petra had been involved. But whom, then, was the culprit? Someone close to the situation, who knew the intimate details of Jeremy's murder.

After reading the original coroner's report, Nash discovered someone had gone to great lengths to inflict pain and suffering before strapping Waters into the vehicle. In addition to having a BAC of 0.311, the interior of the preacher's vehicle appeared to have been doused with alcohol, presumably in place of a more blatant accelerant. His face had been smashed in and all of the teeth broken. In fact, he'd needed to ensorcel the coroner to match the dental records to practically non-existent teeth just to make sure the report concluded unambiguously. He did not need Gulfport's high warlock, Pearl, casting further aspersions on the situation. The last thing Nash wanted was someone suggesting...

An infuriated scowl stole across the warlock's face. Adrien merely looked amused. "I can practically hear the gears spinning, Carson. You've had a revelation! Are you going to share it with the rest of the class?" Never mind there was no one in the warlock's penthouse but they two.

Nash rose up from his chair to reach across the table, snatching the newspaper away from Adrien's place setting.

'My animals are afraid of him.'

He recalled an old conversation with Petra while scanning the paper for the article containing the details of Waters' death.

"Clever son of a bitch." When he'd spoken to Canaan, the Cajun never offered to vouch for his lover.

"Of whom do you speak, Carson? I'm simply dying to know."

Looking up, Nash said, "No one."

Adrien smirked. "Now who is the liar?"

[Delahada]

Friday the 27th, 5:00 am
Bay St. Louis, MS


He stirs.

Taking him from his house was easy.

The security control panel told me the history of the alarm code with merely a touch.

I can pass Between, even here. There will be no trace of me having gone in.

We only had to input the numbers once to indicate we were going out.

We took his keys and his clothes, his car and his booze, and he slept while I drove him here to this place. He slept because I made sure he would. His wife slept through him leaving, too.

The drugs will leave her system by morning and she’ll never even know. I waited until they were sleeping before I slipped into their room and stuck the needles in their veins. She might feel an itch, but she’ll disregard it in her panic as she searches for a man who’s no longer there. A man who will no longer be there ever again.

How does it feel?

I followed the road of memories I remember seeing through my lover’s eyes. This is the lay of the land. I know it now as if I had been here before. As if I lived here. As if I’ve driven this road a hundred times, the way he did when he lived here.

I am his anger. His hate and his rage. I brought it with me. I let it boil in my blood and guide me to the place where premeditated horror made him completely undone.

Now I will recreate his nightmares and give them away.

This is Karma. Part of what I am. Part of a Name I never gave him, because he didn’t want to know. But if he knew… Oh. If he knew.

“Where--” The first word out of the preacher’s mouth is an incomplete question. He’s groggy and disoriented. Then he says, “Phyllis?” He realizes she’s not beside him. He’s starting to acknowledge that the cold asphalt he’s laying on is not his soft, warm bed.

“She’s not here,” I tell him as I prop the drunk drifter in the driver’s seat. He was easy to find. Men like him are always easy to find, if you know where to look.

My voice startles the preacher, and he realizes he’s bound. He wriggles like the worm he is. Or is he a fish the way he flops about testing his bonds? I made good use of the tow rope he kept in the truck bed. He won’t be breaking out of those knots any time soon.

“Where is she?” he demands.

They always make demands, these people. Think they’re in control when they’re not. He’ll start shouting when the realization sinks in that he isn’t. We have time yet for that, though.

“We left her nice and snug in her bed,” I tell him. My voice is calm. I am calm. I am a calculating menace with a voice made to soothe. “She’s safe,” I assure him. “Alive.” These words are necessary before he can begin to protest and ask what I’ve done with her. Best I tell him now and save myself the trouble of his exhausting questions. I’m expecting the next one, though.

“Who are you?”

I smile, and I can see that it unnerves him.

“I’m nobody,” I tell him. “I’m nothing. I don’t even exist.” And all of that is true, here, in this world.

They’ll never know I was here.

“What’re you doing?” He sees me loading the cab of his truck up with bottles, pouring some out onto the floor. The fire that will be needs fuel to burn to make this body difficult to identify. I put him in the preacher’s clothes and switched their wedding rings, but I know a thing or two about DNA and dental records.

I’m taking every step necessary to make them think this other nobody is the somebody squirming on the shoulder of the road behind me. They need to think it’s him. More importantly, they need to believe that it is. Belief defines reality.

The train and the fire will take care of most of the distinguishing features. I’ll have to smash his teeth in myself. Good thing he’s too drunk and unconscious to feel anything just now. I made sure of that too.

“What’re you doing to that man?” Hysteria is starting to set in as he watches me work. Deep inside he wants to believe himself a good man, because his Jesus loves him so. But I know better, and so does he.

“This man?” I turn with a smile that makes the preacher flinch. “This man, Jon? Why. This man is you.”

Terror lights his eyes. I know him. I said his name. He can’t at all place me, though. Of course he can’t. We’ve never met. Not until today. I can see him desperately searching his memory trying to place me, trying to think of anyone who might want to do him harm.

The other trouble, apart from not actually having ever seen me before, is that he can think of far too many people who might like to do him harm. Nobody has ever acted on it, though. They’ve all been too afraid. Of the law. Of God. He made sure to help put those fears in their hearts so he could get away with all his sins.

“Does this seem familiar to you?” I ask him. I keep my tone friendly, conversational. We’re discussing the scores of the latest big game. We’re talking about the youth programs available at his church. We’re two men sharing a beer and a story.

His heart is hammering in his chest; I can hear it. Still, he plays along hoping he can prolong the inevitable and plan his escape. He rocks and shuffles on his side until he’s angled in just such a way that he can see the tracks and the crossing. I see this one specific sin of his past light up his frightened eyes. He remembers. But he lies.

“No.” The slight quaver in his voice betrays him. He swallows over the thick, lumpy guilt collecting in his throat. The reflection of what he’s done plays out in his eyes. I can see it. He’s no longer seeing me, nor the now. He’s seeing a night much like this one two years gone.

Good. That’s good. This is what I want him to be seeing.

I can hear the train now. It’s close. Timing is everything.

I turn the key in the ignition. I rev the engine by pressing my hand on the gas pedal. A little creative engineering locks the drifter’s foot in place to weigh it down for me. I reach across the nearly dead man’s body to shift the truck out of park and into drive. The door’s closing on me as momentum takes control, but I give it an extra push to shut as I duck out of the cab.

We watch together, the preacher and I, as truck and train move on an intercept course for the same X-marks-the-spot on the grid.

“It has to be like this,” I tell him. “They have to believe.”

The other man whimpers. I turn my head to smile down at him.

“Of course, you understand.”