Seeker
: Interlude – Chapter 23

Interlude – OTHER TIMES AND PLACES

John had fallen asleep on the small bed. He woke when he heard the crash. Someone was out in the living room, making a lot of noise. There was another crash a moment later, followed by several more, then a voice, cursing. It was the voice he had been waiting for. His mother was home!

John swung his small legs off the bed and ran out into the other room. There she was, standing in the middle of the living room floor. A chest was overturned in front of her, with its wooden drawers pulled out and their contents spilled across the floor.

He noticed these details only in passing, because there was something much more important—blood. Blood was everywhere. For a moment, he thought it was paint, but it didn’t look the way paint looked. It was more … real. His mother’s trousers were covered in it. There was a puddle of it below her on the floor, and large splashes on the papers that had fallen out of the drawers. Her light brown hair was tied back, and it too was streaked with red.

“Mama!” he called, too frightened to get closer to her.

Catherine stopped her frantic search of the drawers.

“John …”

She was so surprised to see him, she didn’t move for several seconds. She stared at him, her face drawn tightly about her mouth and eyes.

John’s attention focused on the cut high on her left leg. Her pants were torn, and she’d tied a strip of cloth around the wound, but it was still bleeding. All over.

“Sweetheart,” she said, “what are you doing here?”

“I—I found this address. On something in your pocket at home.” He took a step toward her, then stopped. It seemed like she might be angry with him.

She was moving again, searching through the papers strewn across the floor. Her fingers closed around a thick book, bound in leather. She stared at it, as if unsure, now that she had found it, what she planned to do with it.

“I didn’t want you here,” she said, more to herself than to him. The words made John feel bad. He’d come to the apartment all by himself to surprise her.

She was having a difficult time catching her breath. She staggered over to John, and went down on her knees so her blue eyes were level with his. Her hands took hold of his small shoulders, and the rich metallic smell of her blood was in his nose. It was terrifying. “You’re supposed to be on Traveler. Safe.”

“I—wanted to see you. You were gone for so long. And you’re hurt.”

He could tell that she wasn’t really listening to him. Instead her head was cocked to listen for something else, or maybe someone else. Or perhaps she was counting something inside her head.

“They will be here soon. How much time? Can we make it?”

Even at seven years old, John could tell that she was speaking to herself and didn’t expect him to answer. She tucked the leather book into the waistband of John’s trousers, then pushed herself up onto her feet.

“Come,” she said, taking one of his hands. “I can’t get you home, but I can get you close. Find a policeman. Tell him who your grandfather is. You need to keep the book safe—Maggie will know where to hide it.”

“What do you mean?” he asked her, pulling at her hand, trying to get her to look at him. “We should go to a doctor, shouldn’t we?”

Catherine was taking something from inside her jacket that looked like a dagger but was made out of stone. She began to turn the stone dials of the handgrip. Then she paused, squinting as if it was hard to see, even though the dagger was right in front of her.

“Can I do something?” John asked.

She looked down at the gash in her left thigh. A new puddle had formed near John’s shoes. He noticed then that there was no blood by the apartment’s door. The mess started and ended in the middle of the room.

Catherine lost her balance and fell hard onto one knee.

“No, no, no,” she muttered. She put her hands on John’s shoulders, tried to push herself up that way, but her legs would no longer obey. Her strength had deserted her. John felt panic overtaking him, unsure how to help.

“I can’t take you,” she whispered eventually. “I could risk it for myself, but I can’t risk leaving you There.”

Hot tears were leaking out of his eyes. They fell onto the floor near the edge of the blood. “Please, Mother, could we go to a doctor? They have bandages and things. They could fix your leg.”

She had collapsed into a sitting position. She seemed hardly able to keep her eyes open. She slid nearer, brushed his hair out of his face with her messy hands, and leaned close.

“I have only a few minutes. They’ll figure out where to follow me. It won’t take them very long.”

She buried her head in her hands, trying to think.

“Take the book over there,” she told him, pointing to a cabinet against one wall. “Look in the cupboard.”

With shaking hands, John removed the leather book from his waistband and crossed the room. In the bottom of the cupboard was a safe whose metal door stood open.

“Put it inside and shut the door. The red button locks it. He’ll be looking for it … Gives me something to bargain with …” She was fading.

John did as she’d said, locking the book inside the safe. He turned back to his mother. She was panting for breath. “I need you to do … exactly as I say. Quickly. Can you do that?”

He nodded mutely.

“Good boy. In that bench … there’s a door. I can’t touch it, or I’ll leave blood … You go open it. Wait—your shoes.” She examined his shoes, which were miraculously free of blood. “Good. Go open it.”

John walked to the long bench at the side of the living room and lifted the heavy panel that formed the seat. The space underneath was coffin-shaped, containing some odds and ends—a few pillows, a few tools, a blanket.

“You want me to go in here?” John asked.

“Not there … Underneath. Another door. You can feel … a tiny lever. It slides if you push it.”

John felt around the bottom of the space. His small fingers located the hidden lever. He pushed it, and the bottom of the coffin slid back several inches into the wall.

“Leave the things on top, if you can,” she said.

He climbed into the seat, then squeezed his way through the bottom door. There was another space beneath, big enough to hold an adult.

“Slide it shut now,” Catherine said.

John pushed the pillows and other items to one side so they wouldn’t be caught by the closing door. Then he ducked down and pulled the panel shut above him. He’d been worried it would leave him in darkness, but he found he could still see. There were small slots cut in the base of the bench, and through these he was able to look out into the living room.

His mother was lying on the floor several feet away. Her eyes were open but looked blank. Her chest heaved up and down, and after a few moments she closed her eyes, gathering her strength, and scooted herself a little closer to him. He could see her face through the slots.

“There’s a lever behind you,” she said. “It will shut the seat.”

John turned and felt along the wall. His fingers closed around a flat piece of metal, which he pushed down. There was a bang above him as the heavy seat swung shut.

Catherine took up the stone dagger from the floor and positioned it so John had a good view. She was breathing strangely now, like the air wouldn’t go all the way into her.

“Mother, can you please go to the doctor?” he asked. He was crying again, though he was trying to stop. “I’ll stay here, if that’s what you want.”

“I need you to listen to me very carefully.” A pause to breathe. “Do you see this dagger?”

“Yes, Mother.” Sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ (F)indNƟvᴇl.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“It’s called an athame. Say it … so you remember it. ‘ATH-uh-may.’ ”

“ ‘ATH-uh-may,’ ” he whispered.

“This is your birthright, John. It’s been in our family for … hundreds … maybe a thousand …” She stopped, trying to get her breath. It took a few moments.

“Maybe you can tell me after the doctor,” he suggested. There was quite a lot more blood on the floor around Catherine than there had been before he’d climbed into the hiding place. He moved closer to the slots in the wood of the bench and his foot bumped against something. Reaching down, John felt smooth, cool metal. There was a helmet of some kind on the floor of the hiding place. He pushed it aside so he could crouch as close as possible to the openings in the bench.

“We are an ancient family. Been betrayed … killed … robbed …” She stopped again. “No time, dammit … Maggie will have to tell you.” She tilted the stone dagger toward him. “This was stolen, was gone for a century … I got it back.” She extended the athame closer to him. “Do you see this?” She pointed to the pommel. There was a tiny animal carved into the stone.

“A fox,” John said, the word catching in his throat.

“A fox. Our symbol. With the athame … power over life and death.” She laughed quietly, which interfered with trying to breathe. “Except now … Now it’s death for me.”

“Mother, please—”

“You will have the power of life and death, John. You will choose. They have … betrayed me … They think we’re … small and weak and helpless … easy to kill … Are we easy to kill, John?”

“No,” he whispered.

“No. The athame will let you … decide … They are going to take it away, but you will get it back.”

“How will—”

“I will make them agree … bargain … Briac. Briac Kincaid. Say the name.”

“Briac Kincaid,” he said softly.

“He was with others just now, so I think there will be … witnesses. I’ll make him promise … educate you … if you ask. Once you take your oath, he must tell you … anything you want to know. Anything, John. But you must take your oath. And be strong enough to get it back.”

“What is my oath?”

“It will make sense. The book … I know more than they do … Both.” She was smiling. “As precious as the dagger in the right hands. I will have to give him this book now, but you must find it again, and also … We’ve written … A thousand years … I am so close …”

She had to stop. He could see her breathing, but it didn’t seem to be doing her any good. The puddle of blood was getting wider. He wondered how much blood one body could hold. Finally she continued, “Your oath and our athame, the one with the fox. Promise me …”

“I promise,” he said.

“Say it again, John.”

“I promise. My oath and our athame, the one with the fox.” His tears were coming freely now. He could hear them hitting the wood beneath him.

She let the athame settle on the floor next to her. Her chest was rising and falling quickly. “You mustn’t be scared to act.… Be willing to kill.…”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s necessary … to live … for money sometimes … as I did to get us Traveler … Those are small deaths … There will be bigger deaths … to repay them for this …” She gestured at the wide pool of blood spreading around her. “Do what has to be done. At no man’s mercy, do you understand?”

“Yes.” His voice was small.

“Our house will rise again, and the others will fall … as they should have done long ago.” Her voice was getting quieter. It was only a whisper as she said, “Close your eyes.”

“Can’t you go to hospital—”

A vibration started in the room, low and penetrating. John could feel it in his stomach.

“Coming now …” Catherine said, her own eyes closing. “No matter what you see … don’t make a sound. Tell Maggie what happened …” She trailed off, and it looked to John like she had fallen asleep. Then she stirred. “John, promise me. Not a sound.”

“I promise.” He whispered the words.

Catherine smiled.

John wiped his eyes with his hand, and he saw in the dim light coming through the slots that his sleeve was now red. His mother’s blood must be caked on his cheek.

The vibration grew steadily, filling the space around him. Then, from nowhere, there were voices. Several pairs of feet walked across the living room floor, though the front door had not opened. The vibration faded, allowing him to hear the voices of two men. One was strange and slow, the other rough and quick. He could not see their faces, but one stopped between the bench and Catherine, and John was treated to a view of the man’s boots—thick, old leather with heavy soles and metal tips. They were, he thought, the boots of a killer.

The other man’s legs and feet were across the room, hard for John to see. But there was a third pair of shoes nearby, much smaller, made of an old-fashioned soft leather. These shoes looked like they might belong to a girl, but the figure who owned them never said a word, only knelt on the floor, its back to John, and began to tie up his mother’s wounds. This small figure turned its head once, and John got a glimpse of two eyes beneath a leather helmet. He was worried those eyes had seen him, so he shut his own eyes tight, hoping that would make him invisible. He could not stop himself from crying. He wrapped an arm around his face to muffle the sound.

A man’s voice was demanding, “Where is it?”

His mother was answering. Her breathing was harsh, but otherwise her voice was gentle. “There. You can break into the safe, which will destroy it, or you can make me a promise … before these witnesses.”

John heard a new voice, another man’s voice, from across the room, low to the floor.

“I am your witness, Catherine,” the voice said. The words were strained, as though the speaker were in great pain.

John dared to open his eyes for one moment, in hopes of seeing who had spoken. He glimpsed a large figure with red hair lying on the floor, holding his chest as though badly injured. Then the smaller figure stepped directly in front of John. The girl again. He closed his eyes tightly and pressed himself against the back of the hiding place.

His mother spoke for a while, so softly John could not make out the words, and then there was a high-pitched whine, growing louder, and a crackling. The sound was terrible and he pressed his hands over his ears. After some time, John opened his eyes for a moment and saw colored light dancing around the room. Then he closed his eyes and tried to make himself as small and quiet as he could.

It was not until many hours later that he finally crawled out of the bench and out of the empty apartment with the bloody floor. From there he made his way back through London to Traveler, a seven-year-old boy without a mother and with a heavy promise weighing him down.

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