Impervious (City of Eldrich Book 1) (11 page)

He looked back at Meaghan, meeting her gaze. “When I got here, I was filthy, wearing untanned skins, matted greasy hair down my back. Your father and your brother had to teach me how to be human. How to sleep in a bed, bathe, use a toilet, eat at a table.” He looked down at his feet, his face flushed. The shame was back.

Meaghan gave him a few moments, then continued her questioning. “I assume you weren’t always called Jamie. How did you pick that?” She wanted to ask about John too, but he was obviously a sore topic, so she let it go.

“My Fahrayan name was . . . I can’t really pronounce it without the vocal cords. With a human voice it sounds something like ‘Zhu-may.’ It’s what Matthew called me that first day we met. So, Matthew and Russ started calling me Jamie. When I was ready to go to school and Matthew had to get paperwork forged, I wanted a normal human name.” He poured the last of the whiskey into his cup and drained it in one gulp. “Matthew had already gone with John Smith for my father—something to do with a friend of a friend dying and them being able to use his identity, so Matthew chose James Smith for me. I wanted Keele, but . . .” Jamie paused, staring past Meaghan’s shoulder and out the window. “I guess he figured my father had lost enough and he didn’t want him to lose me too.” He snorted in disgust. “Like he gives a shit.”

She knew how that felt, so she didn’t contradict him.
But I’m pretty sure you’re wrong
, she thought. “So,” she said, trying to lighten the mood, “how does the amulet work?”

Natalie jumped in before Jamie could answer. “It’s magic,” she said.

They all broke up laughing again.

Chapter 18

B
y five o’clock,
everyone was exhausted and Meaghan decided to call it a day. She planned on grilling Russ hard when she got home. She still couldn’t process how she felt about his involvement in bringing her to Eldrich.

Jamie had walked to work that morning, his standard practice on the mornings he didn’t take the kids to day care, and had used a city car to drive to court. He drank more of the whiskey than the others and was in obvious pain from the battering he’d given himself trying to escape the file room, so Meaghan drove him home.

“Do you want to come in and meet Patrice and the kids?” he asked as they turned onto his street.

“Okay, but only a quick visit. I have to get home and pummel my brother. I assume she knows about . . . you know?”

Jamie smiled and nodded. “She knows. She wants to meet you. Just for a minute.”

Meaghan parked the car in front of Jamie’s house. It had a picket fence. A white picket fence. The All-American guy. Except he wasn’t.

Meaghan grabbed his trench coat and briefcase from the backseat while he climbed out of the car. Patrice waited on the front porch, still wearing her blue scrubs from work. Small, no more than five foot two or so, with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, she was even lovelier in person than in her photo.

She had her arms folded across her chest, her lips pressed tightly together. As Meaghan got closer, she saw tears in Patrice’s eyes as she watched Jamie limp up the front walk.

“Hi, honey, I’m home,” he said with a weak smile. He had finally allowed Natalie to dab a vile-smelling salve on the cut on his cheek, and it looked better. But the salve hadn’t done anything to reduce the beginnings of an impressive shiner.

“Natalie called and told me what happened,” Patrice said. “Let me see your eye.”

He tried to wave her off the way he’d waved off Natalie.

“James,” she said. “Hold still.”

It was a command and Jamie obeyed. She probed the injured tissue with gentle fingers, scowling.

“Why didn’t you ice this?” she demanded.

“There was a lot going on,” Jamie said with a sheepish look.

Patrice snorted. “If I ever get my hands on that bitch Emily—”

“She’s dangerous,” Jamie said, his voice sharp. “Stay away from her.” He pointed over his shoulder. “This is Meaghan, by the way.”

Patrice gave her a warm smile. “Thank you. Natalie told me what you did. It’s . . . I know it’s a lot to take in.”

“Yes,” Meaghan said. “It is. I’m glad to meet you, but right now you need to take care of your husband. We can visit another time.”

“Where are the kids?” Jamie asked.

“Over at Annie’s,” Patrice said. Meaghan wondered if it was the same Annie who worked in city hall, the woman who just seemed to know when the mayor entered the building. Maybe she used a crystal ball, Meaghan thought. My deputy can fly and my office manager keeps hex bags around to protect us from the spell-casting city council director and the resident ghosts, so why not? She shivered and turned her attention back to Jamie and Patrice.

“I figured you might need a little quiet,” Patrice continued. “Come on, big guy. Let’s get you into a hot bath.” She pulled his arm over her shoulders and turned back to Meaghan. “We’ll have you over for dinner when the dust settles a little, okay?”

“Sounds great. I’ll see you then.” Meaghan started down the front walk to the car. She turned back to the house and said, “Jamie, if you need tomorrow off, take it, okay?”

He nodded and waved. Patrice led him into the house as Meaghan drove away.

She barely noticed the road, driving on autopilot while her mind churned. She intended to interrogate Russ when she got home. He, at the very least, owed her some answers. But the person Meaghan most wanted to talk with was her father. It was bad enough finding out that the fairy tales were true, in a dark horrible way, and the world really was full of monsters and magic. But Meaghan had also learned that she had a destiny. A big one. Protecting the world. And the one person who truly understood what lay before her no longer recognized her and slipped further out of reach every day.

When she got home, Russ was waiting on the back porch with a glass of white wine and a nervous look on his face. Natalie must have called Russ after she talked to Patrice.

“Hey, sis.” He held the wine glass out to her. “I thought you might need this. Weird day at the office?”

Meaghan glared at him, ignoring the offered wine as she walked past him into the house.

“Meg, I—”

She cut him off. “Back off. I need to change my clothes and I need a few minutes alone.”

“But, I—”

“I can’t deal with you right now,” she said, feeling her anger at Russ come roaring back. “You blew up my entire life. You didn’t trust me enough to even try to tell me the truth. You never gave me a chance to choose this life. You just dumped it on me. A glass of wine isn’t going to fix it.”

Meaghan stomped up the stairs to her bedroom. She pushed the door shut behind her, kicked off her shoes, and leaned against the door frame, her eyes shut. The flare of anger faded away and she felt numb again.

She pushed herself away from the door and dropped her bag on the bed. The black suit went back into the closet and she pulled on jeans and a T-shirt. She used the bathroom and washed her hands, unable to look at herself in the mirror.

Walking out of the bathroom, she noticed the cardboard boxes lined up along the base of the window seat. Five of them, old, battered, and dusty. These weren’t boxes she’d brought with her from Arizona.

She heard a quiet knock on the door. She squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath. Don’t rip his head off, she told herself.

“Come in, Russ.”

The door creaked open a few inches. Russ stuck his head in. “I’m sorry to bug you. You have every right to be angry with me. And we can talk about it whenever you’re ready. But in the meantime, do you want to come down for dinner? I can make you a tray if you’d rather be alone.”

Meaghan realized she didn’t want to be alone. If she had a Destiny with a capital D, she wanted to spread the burden around as much as she could. She turned to face him. “I’ll come down. I’m still really mad at you, but not as much as I thought I’d be.” She pointed behind her at the boxes. “What’s this?”

“Some of Dad’s stuff. Journals and photos and stuff. I brought them over from his office.”

“Office?” Meaghan asked. “In city hall?”

“No. The room over the garage. It’s been locked up since he got sick. He kept notes on everything and I thought since you can’t talk to him about it, this was the next best thing.”

Matthew could help her after all. She felt relief flood over her followed by the crushing wave of emotion she’d been pushing back all afternoon.

Here’s the freak-out, she thought, and then conscious thought left her and the tears turned into shaking sobs. Russ helped her to the edge of the bed and sat her down. He sat next to her, an arm around her shoulders. He didn’t try to tell her it would be okay or that she shouldn’t cry. He merely let her wail. It occurred to her, when the storm began to pass, that he’d been here himself, once upon a time, trying to come to terms with a rational world blown to pieces.

When the crying slowed to sniffles, Russ got up, grabbed the box of tissues from the bathroom, and handed it to her.

“I’ve cried more in the week I’ve been here than I have in years.” Meaghan blew her nose hard, several times. “Let’s go eat. I’ll look at Dad’s stuff later.” She looked up at her brother, at the worried look on his tired, lined face. She took Russ’s hand and squeezed it. “I haven’t forgiven you yet, you big doofus, but I will. And it’s not like I would have believed you if you’d tried to tell me. I’m scared and weirded out and I have a zillion questions, but right now I need some normal. For a little while at least.”

He smiled and nodded. “Okay. Not that things are ever very normal around here. C’mon. I made meatloaf. With bacon on top.”

“Bacon is good,” she said in a small voice. “It’s not magical bacon, is it?”

“No more magical than usual,” he replied.

Chapter 19

M
eaghan got through
dinner in a haze. Russ didn’t try to engage her in conversation, and Matthew still didn’t recognize her, so what little talk there was concerned Matthew’s weekly visit to his occupational therapist the next morning.

The food helped, though. Russ had made quintessential comfort food—meatloaf and mashed potatoes. The prosaic hominess of the heavy meal grounded her in a way the whiskey at her office hadn’t.

She offered to do the dishes, dreading the moment when she was alone with her thoughts again. The warm water and the clatter of the plates and cutlery as she rinsed them and loaded them into the dishwasher soothed her raw nerves.

Dishes done, she said goodnight to Matthew, who would be asleep before too long, and left her father and brother in the living room watching TV. She’d planned to grill Russ, but now she intended to go to the source—Matthew’s journals and files.

Meaghan flipped on the bedside lamps and the lamp next to the window seat and took a closer look at the boxes. They were dated. She picked the oldest box, dated from 1976, and opened it.

On top was a sealed envelope with her name on it in Matthew’s handwriting. She opened it with care. The paper was much newer than the stuff beneath it and it appeared to be added to the box much later.

January 1, 2011

Dearest
Meaghan,

If you’re reading this, Meg, it means I’m either dead or so far gone I may as well be. I’m sorry I can’t convey this story in person, that I can’t be there to help you. But considering our history, maybe that’s for the
best.

I’m sorry, so sorry, that I couldn’t be a better father to you. The distance between us breaks my heart, but I made it, I know that, and now I fear it’s too late to fix it. But please know how much I love your mother and you and Russ. I made so many mistakes, but the greatest sin of my life was pride. I believed myself alone with this burden, that I somehow stood above everyone, and had to bear it on my own. Meg, you aren’t alone. You are surrounded by people who will love you and help you if you let them. Don’t make the same blunder I did and try to lone wolf it.

I suppose the best thing I can do now is shut up and let you wade through these boxes. There’s more stuff in my office—ask Russ—but these journals and files are enough to get you started. I kept a regular journal and hung onto every photo, article, book, whatever. It’s all out in the garage. You’ll need to do the same thing for whomever succeeds you. People like us are out there. Do yourself a favor and start looking now for your replacement. Don’t make this job a life sentence like I
did.

Don’t ever doubt your abilities, Meg. Always trust your gut. And don’t let the crazy magical bastards grind you down, because they will certainly try. Russ knows all about this stuff. Let him handle the hospitality duties. You concentrate on kicking tail and taking names. They won’t know what hit ‘em.

All my
love,

Dad

Meaghan felt her eyes fill again with tears. She sniffed them back. Enough with the crying for one day. She had work to do. She set the letter aside, not sure whether to go through the boxes chronologically or dig in and look for stuff about Jamie and John.

Curiosity overcame organization and she tipped the box on its side and pulled the folders and notebooks onto the carpet.

Good old Matthew. Every folder was labeled, every notebook dated. She fanned the folders across the floor looking for references to Fahraya.

Nothing.

“Duh, dumbass,” she mumbled to herself. She did some mental math. John and Jamie hadn’t gotten here until at least 1995.

She shoved the files and journals from the seventies aside. Jamie first. Then she’d go back and figure out how Matthew got involved in the first place. She suspected there would be some painful memories in that box and she decided she wasn’t ready.

Mid nineties . . . the box right in the middle. She pulled it open. Bingo. There were several accordion files with “FAHRAYA” scrawled across the front in black marker.

Meaghan soon discovered that while Matthew had been good at dating his journals and getting stuff from the same general time grouped together, inside the individual manila folders, chaos reigned. Matthew’s meticulous record keeping had slipped over time. Some files were labeled, some weren’t. None had dates.

She grabbed an accordion file and pulled the folders out. She fanned them across the carpet. She spotted one labeled “Photos” and opened it.

Twelve-year-old Jamie scowled at her, standing on the back porch of the house in which she sat. He was wrapped in a blanket, but his hands were visible. The nails and fingertips were black with grime. Ugly red welts marked his wrists. His face was bruised and his upper lip swollen.

She could see the amulet around his neck, and wondered where his clothes were. This must have been taken right after he arrived. He said they got here with nothing. The size difference, she realized—his clothes wouldn’t have survived the change and any objects would be Barbie-doll sized.

There were several more photos of Jamie. His hair hung in matted dingy blond dreadlocks halfway down his back. More bruises covered his back, legs, and arms. He hadn’t come through his parents’ ordeal unscathed. He’d been restrained and beaten.

The only clean spots on his body were two strips of skin, each about an inch wide, running down his back next to his spine and along his shoulder blades. The wings, she thought. That’s where the wings would be attached if he still had them.

She pulled out another envelope of photos. These were Jamie, still young. The top one showed him clean, hair short, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, smiling shyly at the camera. Matthew, a broad grin on his face, stood next to Jamie, an arm draped across his shoulder.

Meaghan felt a stab of . . . grief? Jealousy? When she’d been that age, Matthew had been spiraling out of control, alternately terrifying his family and avoiding them.

Every photo in the folder included Jamie. Russ and teenaged Jamie showing off the fish they’d caught. Jamie playing with a dog she didn’t recognize. Jamie graduating from high school. Jamie living his life with Russ and Matthew, growing happier in each photo.

This wasn’t an historical record. It was a family photo album. Her father had no photos like this of her. She hated herself for being jealous of Jamie, and tried to remember the traumatized child in the earliest photos and how lucky he had been to find a loving family.

John wasn’t anywhere. He didn’t appear in any of these photos. He was as absent from Jamie’s life as Matthew had been from Meaghan’s.

At the bottom of the file, she found an envelope labeled “Fahraya—J’han.” With trembling hands she opened it.

The first photo showed a bleak, stony, utterly foreign landscape. And underneath that one, there was a photo of John. Pre-exile.

Matthew had called Jamie a prince. So, John must have been the king. Despite the grime, the skins he wore, and the matted dreadlocks, John looked like a king. He smiled regally, his wings extended to their full span. He stared into the camera looking strong and confident.

She felt a tingle in her gut and her face grew hot.

In the second photo, John, wings pulled in, stood with a protective arm draped over a young Jamie, who stood in front of him and wore a shy smile. Another young boy, a few years older, crouched next to them, looking up at John with a broad grin. She turned the photo over. On the back, she recognized Matthew’s uneven scrawl. “J’han with son (center) and nephew.”

In both photos, John looked a lot more like grown-up Jamie than he looked like the man she had met. Whatever they’d done to him must have been horrific to degrade this magnificent man into a sad, defeated wreck.

The next few photos confirmed it. John was still in Fahrayan form, but must have been in the human world. He was tiny, lying on a towel over someone’s knees. There was no part of him not cut or bruised or lashed. His wings were gone and in their place ran two ragged mounds of bloody flesh, following the same general line of the clean skin she’d seen in that first photo of Jamie.

They’d cut—hacked—his wings off.

The last photos showed him cleaned up, his hair cropped, wearing an amulet similar to Jamie’s. Matthew must have taken them soon after John’s arrival. The photos documenting his injuries showed barely faded bruises and stark red scars running along his spine where his wings had been. Unlike the photos taken in Fahraya, where he’d looked confidently into the camera, now he stared at the ground. The power he exuded in the earlier photos was gone.

No happy family pictures of John. He had slunk away into a bottle and let Matthew and Russ raise his traumatized son.

It was the wings, she thought. When they took away his ability to fly, they took away from him what made him a Fahrayan man. It wasn’t only his throne and his queen they’d stolen from him.

Meaghan’s brief jealousy over Jamie was long gone. Sad and exhausted, she left the files strewn across the floor and crawled into bed. She still had a day job and it was getting late.