Chapter 10

10

Farryn

Wonderful.

What I’d thought to be an apothecary store turned out to be an abandoned building tucked within a shady, East Garfield Park alley, adjacent to a meat packing factory.

Of course it did.

The apothecary had closed down, according the sign plastered out front.

Turn around.

Walk away.

After all, no one in their right mind would go through with a plan like that. The guy could’ve been a serial killer, for all I knew. And I could’ve easily ditched the idea without anyone even knowing I’d even considered something so stupid.

If not for the nagging feeling that I’d regret walking away.

An inexplicable and unrelenting pull that told me nothing in my life would ever make sense again, and that walking away would change everything.

And not for the better.

Still, I turned around and stepped into the opposite direction, toward my car, committing to the logical half of my brain. Like nails on a chalkboard, that sensation raked down my spine, and I shivered.

Didn’t help that the early morning rain had left a mist of fog on the ground, making it almost impossible to see down the alley, from where I stood at the mouth of it. Could’ve been a rabid dog hidden away somewhere in there, and I’d never know it. Even in broad daylight, the scowling gloom of winter-ready skies made everything darker. For the dozenth time, I swiped my hand over the lump in my khakis, where a pocket knife had been tucked, and exhaled a resigned breath. Not that it would inflict a whole lot of damage, but I was at least armed with something.

A few years back, I’d hired an investigator to track down my father. The guy had produced nothing, and I’d walked away a few hundred bucks poorer. I couldn’t let it go, though. Something about the whole thing had just sat on the fringes of my mind, always troubling me. Gnawing at me. Even my mother’s death, as strange and senseless as it had been, didn’t incite quite the same obsession to understand the truth. I’d tracked down a couple of his colleagues, professors he’d worked with at Yale, none of whom had heard from him in years.

This Xhiphias, whoever or whatever he was, happened to be the only concrete connection I had.

I stepped into the fog, making my way toward the entrance, mid-alley.

Something brushed my ankle, and a scream pounded inside my chest as I looked down to find a black figure sweeping past me. The chasing sound of a meow had me exhaling a shaky, but relieved, breath. More figures slipped through the fog, sauntering with the kind of aloof grace that could only belong to a cat. Dozens of them, all shapes and colors, meandered through the mist as if it were perfectly normal. Like a cat gang coming to inspect the outsider. None of them seemed aggressive, though, as they swiped past my ankles, purring.

I’d never seen so many congregated down one alley before.

A clanking sound, like the slam of a door reached my ears, and startled, I ducked beside a row of trash cans, flattening myself against the building’s damp bricks. I tugged out the knife I’d tucked into my side pocket, eyes scanning over the thick haze so dense I could hardly see my own shoes when I looked down. The way it moved, curling around me, felt like snakes swarming me, and the faint scent of sulphur had me wondering if I should’ve been breathing it in.

Voices drew my attention upward over the brick building beside me, to the roof, where two figures stood at the precipice. An older, dark-skinned man with long dreadlocks, and beside him, a man so pale, he almost glowed. From my distance, I couldn’t hear what either were saying, but the way they teetered around the treacherous edge turned my stomach.

In the next breath, the dark-skinned male pushed the white guy.

A scream escaped me as I watched the man flail his arms, before tumbling what had to be six stories toward the ground. The sound of spine-tingling fear that tore out of him twisted the knot in my gut.

“No!” I reached out in futility, as if my hands had the power to break his fall.

The fog whorled with his descent, and I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing my muscles for the nauseating sound of impact.

“Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.”

I opened my eyes.

The fog sat undisturbed.

An eerie silence clung to the air. The fiery sulfuric odor invaded my nose stronger than before.

Goaded by the thrum of fear and shock pulsing through me, I stepped cautiously toward where I suspected the man’s brains lay scattered across the ground, praying that I wouldn’t discover any grisly remains. Breath held, I searched through the thickest part of the fog but found nothing.

No trace of him anywhere. Not a single fleck of bone, or drop of blood, from what I could see.

Glancing upward showed the dark-skinned man still peering over the edge, staring down at me.

Wracked by disbelief, I scanned again. Surely, I’d seen him fall. I had seen him fall. Yet, not a speck of evidence proved it.

A creeping sensation of disturbance settled over me.?It hadn’t been a hallucination. I could still hear his screams echoing inside my head.

Swinging my attention back toward the roof, I searched for the man who’d pushed him and suddenly found no trace of him, either.

No, no, no.

He’d fallen.

I’d seen it.

And yet, he hadn’t left any physical body behind.

Like my father.

A heavy click echoed through the alley, and I lifted my gaze toward the wide, iron door across from me, which swung open on an obnoxious creak. The dark-skinned man with striking fiery eyes, stood in its frame, the sight of him sending a wave of terror through me.

Limbs locked, I stood paralyzed. I tightened my fingers around the small hilt of the pocketknife and tried to imagine what I’d have to stab first to incapacitate him, if he attacked. Probably those eyes. My hands trembled even harder at the thought.?Did I even have the balls to do such a thing?

Dressed in dark trousers, with boots, a black waistcoat with ruffles sticking out from its sleeves, and a white cravat with a blood red tie pin, he looked like something out of the regency era. With a haughty tip of his nose, he stared down at me. “What do you want?”

The words, so simple, stirred confusion inside my head, and I stood like an idiot, quiet and motionless. Still trying to process what the hell had just happened.

After a moment, I managed, “I’m … looking for … Xhiphias? Do you … know him?”

“That would depend on who is asking.” Every word arrived perfectly articulated, spoken with an air of nobility.

I’d given my name out a number of times throughout the years, to colleagues and classmates, without a thought. Yet, I hesitated right then. Even if he did have something to do with those murders, the chances of him confessing that to me were slim to non-existent. Which left me with one of two options: trusting that my delusional father wouldn’t have involved himself with a possible serial killer.

Or booking it out of that alley. I chose stupidity. Because again, the nagging feeling inside my head told me to.

“I’m … Farryn.” I could scarcely remember my own name, with my head spinning like a top. “The man … who jumped … I saw … he … hit the ...”

“And?” The boredom in his voice prompted me to get to the point.

“What happened to him?”

“What happened to him?” Chuckling, he tugged on the ruffles of his sleeve, straightening his cuff. “Why are you here, girl?”

“I need to know if he’s still alive.”

Brows winging up, he tipped his head. “Is that why you’re standing in this alley now?”

“No.” Swallowing a gulp, I scanned over the ground one more time. “You’re him, aren’t you? You’re Xhiphias.”

Though he didn’t bother to answer the question, the corner of his lips curved up to a half smile.

“You knew my father,” I added.

“I know lots of fathers.”

“Augustus Ravenshaw.”

Again, he chuckled. “Well, who could forget a name like that.”

“You remember him, then?”

“Of course. Augustus Ravenshaw. Expert in Ancient Christian Studies and aficionado of the otherworldly.”

“Good. Yes. That’s him.” Nodding, I stared him dead in the eyes, working up the courage to say what would surely sound crazy. “Then, you know I don’t entirely believe that man fell to his death just moments ago.”

Dubious eyes, the color of flames, stared back at me, challenging me to elaborate. “What do you think happened to him?”

“I’m not sure. That’s why I’m here. I want to know … what you know.”

Dimples appeared his cheeks when he smiled again, looking around as though words danced aimlessly through the air. “Know what I know,” he whispered. “What do I know?”

“Nightshade. You know about Nightshade.”

“Do you?”

“I know what my father taught me.”

“Then, you know enough.” Stepping back inside, he attempted to swing the door closed once more, and snapping out of my apprehensions from before, I pushed against it, wedging myself in the narrowing crack.

“No. It’s not enough. I need to know more.”

Sighing, he widened the crack in the door. “Take my advice, girl. You don’t. I can’t help you.”

“No. I need to know.”

He waved me on in a way that seemed almost patronizing. “Go home.”

“Please.”

Brows furrowed, he pursed his mouth shut and studied me, before shaking his head. “You’re like a child, asking for things you don’t understand.”

“It’s a place. And you know how to get there. You told my father about it.”

Eyes narrowed, he stared quietly for a moment. “There’s a part of you that doesn’t quite believe in that.”

He was right. A part of me had never believed my father entirely, as much as I’d wanted to. Given his knowledge and education, his background on ancient things, and the way he went about his obsessions so methodically, calculating and documenting, it could’ve been so easy to accept his theories. But there’d always been a niggling resentment, a barrier that left me feeling like I was on the inside, staring out at a madman.

“The man who fell off the building. I need to know if he’s dead.”

“You tell me.”

“How would I know?”

“You’re standing in a puddle of his remains right now, are you not?”

I didn’t even have to look through the lingering fog to answer. “There’s nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’m certain of it.”

“Then, what more do you need to know?”

From the satchel bag strapped across my chest, I pulled out the long black feather, which I’d tucked inside a plastic storage bag. After removing it from the bag, I held it up to him, watching his eyes widen and spark with intrigue. “I would love nothing more than to return to my perfectly boring life, but I can’t. Some things cannot be unseen. And now? I want to know more. I want to know everything. My father mentioned a man by the name of Van Croix. Do you know him?”

That flicker of intrigue from moments ago darkened. “Jericho Van Croix?”

“I don’t have a first name. Maybe?”

He reached out for the feather and twisted it around, running a finger over the plume. “Where did you get this?”

I could’ve lied and told him I’d found it on the ground, that it had somehow landed haphazardly in my path, but the intense look in his eyes told me he wouldn’t have believed me. “Does it belong to you?”

“I wish. But no.”

“It was left in my bedroom. Following a very creepy dream that warned me to seek out Van Croix in Nightshade.” With reluctance, I lifted the sleeve of my jacket and the shirt beneath, stretching the fabric up past my elbow. “Have you ever seen this symbol before?”

Something between intrigue and turmoil shined in his eyes as he stared down at it.

“What is it?” I had to push my sleeve back down in order to divert his attention.

Rolling his shoulders back, as if to compose himself, he resumed his haughty posture. “I’m afraid I can’t help you with that.”

“Then, help me understand Nightshade.”

“You should know, I don’t give such information freely.”

With a suspicious frown, I lowered my gaze. “What do you want?”

“What do you have?”

“I’m not …. I’m not sleeping with you. If that’s what you’re looking for.”

“No. I’m looking for something much more interesting than sex.”

“Like what? My soul?” I snorted at that, but when he didn’t so much as crack a smile, I frowned harder. It was then I noticed the subtle flash in his eyes, as if the fiery amber flickered like a flame. A tickle of fear bloomed in my chest. “Who are you, really?”

He rubbed a hand over his smooth, clean-shaven face. “Perhaps I’ll entertain your questions, after all.”

“You just said you needed … something for payment.”

“I can oblige this once.”

Nothing that fell from the man’s lips held any modicum of ease. Not a single clue that I might’ve been able to trust him. I should’ve walked away, but doing so meant no answers. A lifetime of always wondering. Always doubting my father and questioning his sanity.

I wanted to know more. I needed to know more.

“Well, then. Come in,” he said, using the feather to usher me inside.

He stepped aside, giving only a quick, downward glance toward my knife, and allowed me entrance without requesting that I put it away. As if he wasn’t threatened by it in the least. Fingers tightening around it, I passed him, eyes scanning the dimly-lit interior. The chipped and weathered bricks of the abandoned factory on the outside gave way to the bright green of vines climbing the ceiling and walls. A small stainless-steel kitchenette stood across from a matching rolling island, where a bowl of fruit added a splash of color. Sheer white curtains hung from the broken windows I’d noticed on the outside, their hems fluttering with the cool October breeze that should’ve made the place freezing, if not for a massive flame in the center of the room, where a steel pit housed a bonfire. Pots of plants lay about the open floor space in all varieties and sizes. Extravagant fabrics and prints covered the cushions that had been strewn about the floor, where Xhiphias directed me to sit.

With a quick examination for any strange substances in the fabric, I sat down on the plush cushion, while he took the one across the bonfire from me and tucked the black feather behind his ear.

From his coat pocket, he removed a small, golden box with intricate leaf patterns and beautiful iridescent pearl accents. He opened its lid and pinched up a small bit of its contents onto his hand, which he then snorted. The brownish tint of it led me to believe it was tobacco snuff, though I couldn’t be sure. Graceful in his movements, he reached for a gorgeous, black teapot painted with silver skulls wearing crowns from a tray beside him, and he poured its contents into a cup. When he hovered over a second cup and glanced my way, I shook my head to decline.

“Look, you were right when you said I didn’t quite believe in all of this.” Anxious to begin, I sat fidgeting, my head spinning with all the questions I wanted to ask. “I’m going to do my best to keep an open mind. I want to understand my father, what drove him, and it seems the only way to do that is to cast aside my skepticism. So, tell me. What is Nightshade?”

With his pinky pointed outward, he sipped the tea with more decorum than a royal, then set his cup on the tray and held out a hand in front of him. “You know that the universe creates balance by allowing darkness to exist alongside light.” His other hand came up until his palms flattened together. “Two equals, yes?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Nightshade is the darkness to the light of this world. Its shadow, so to speak. Where the dark ones dwell.”

“The dark ones. You’re talking about fallen angels, right?”

He removed the feather from behind his ear and smiled, dragging its plumes across his face. “And what does an innocent thing like yourself know of them?”

“My father believed that one watched me as a child.” Having perused his journals, and seen the drawing of the man I vaguely recalled from my childhood, I’d convinced myself that whoever had stalked me was not imaginary.

“The Fallen don’t watch little girls.” He fluttered the feather at me. “They steal them away and do very bad things. Unspeakable things.”

“My father watched me closely and was very protective of me. Perhaps there wasn’t an opportunity to steal me away.”

Stretching a hand out, he examined his nails, which I noticed were long, longer than mine, and painted a shiny black.? “Your father couldn’t watch you long enough, child. When the Fallen take a fancy to you, there isn’t a human in the world that can save you.”

“Then, this … being my father believed he saw, do you think he was something else?”

With a shrug, Xhiphias straightened his back, sitting perfectly upright. “You’re alive, so yes.”

“There were others my father mentioned, as well. Sentinels, he called them. Messengers.”

He stopped picking at his nails and casually leaned back onto a pillow with a smile. “Ah, yes. The watchmen.”

“What are they?”

“Are you familiar with angels and demons?”

“Fairly. My father studied them quite a bit.”

“Do you know what comes from an angel and a human?”

Oddly enough, I did. “Nephilim.”

“Very good. And what about a human and demon?”

“Cambion, right?”

Brows arched in surprise, he nodded. “I’m impressed, Miss Ravenshaw. Now then, a Sentinel is what happens when a demon falls in love with an angel.”

Perhaps it was only the heat of the bonfire that cast a chill down my spine at his words. “Is such a thing possible?”

“It is rare, but yes. It is possible.”

I was taken aback by how fluidly he spoke, how assuredly he described the beings as if they were as real as the flame that flickered between us. “And what about the Sentinel they produce? Is he good? Bad?”

“He has the propensity for both. His life is a trial, essentially. A series of tests to see which he chooses to side with. Good? Or evil.”

“So, this … watchman my father believed he saw. Do you think he might’ve been protecting me?”

“I wouldn’t know. And, might I add, your father would only have seen him because he wanted to be seen.” He shook the feather at me again, stirring the ruffles of his shirt at his wrist. “I suspect he was there for a reason.”

“For what reasons do they watch?”

Tipping his head, he smirked. “There is only one reason a Sentinel watches, at all.”

“The Fallen?”

“Yes. The heavens compel them to hunt the Fallen. It is their own personal demons which determine whether, or not, they do.”

Which would’ve suggested that a fallen angel had taken an interest in me at some point. Or at least stuck around the places I liked to play, because it seemed like I was always being watched. “And if that were the case, if he was watching over me … or simply watching, rather, it was likely due to the presence of the Fallen?”

“Perhaps. It’s hard to say what his motives might’ve been.”

“But he would’ve been the reason a fallen angel wouldn’t have taken me as a child?”

“He would be the only reason a fallen angel couldn’t have. The Fallen fear their kind, as they possess the powers of both Heaven and Hell.”

Pulling my knees up, I wrapped my arms around my legs, attempting to mentally absorb all of the new information I’d been fed while desperately searching my thoughts for any lingering questions. Who knew when I’d get to have such an open conversation with someone about these things again without sounding like I needed to be locked away?

“Have these Sentinels been around as long as any other angel?”

“Millennia.” Xhiphias held the feather over the flame, and I marveled at the way the silvery streaks glowed orange, even though the feather never caught fire. “Praecepsia was the birthplace of Sentinels.”

“Praecepsia! That was the name!” Forget that I was freaking out that the guy mentioned the name of a place from my premonitory murder nightmare.

His face lit with surprise at the same time orange embers drifted up from the flames he’d stoked and sparkled like gems of topaz and citrine. “You’ve heard of it?”

“Only recently. It seems many things have come to light only recently. I don’t know if it’s a coincidence, or if I’m losing my mind.”

“Nothing is coincidence, Farryn. Everything has meaning.” Those words again. The same words my father had said to me. Ones that had become a mantra throughout the course of my life. “I’m surprised you’re even aware of Praecepsia’s existence.”

“Why do you say that? Is it not a real place?”

“Depends on who you ask. Some say it never existed. And others believe it was burned to the ground by a Sentinel.” Sighing, he set the feather down, and what appeared to be a skull face in the flames wavered and floated up with the embers.

Blinking, I stared back at the fire again, but saw nothing more than the mesmerizing flame. Weird. “So … the Sentinel succumbed to evil, then.”

“Perhaps. We don’t really know the circumstances, as it was many centuries ago.”

“If Nightshade is where the Fallen walk freely, then why did my father insist on going there?”

“Because it is also the place where the lost go after death.”

“The lost?”

“Those who believe in neither Heaven, nor Hell.”

“But my father believed in both.”

“Yes. However, your mother did not.” The knowing gaze he shot back at me felt like an Xray looking right through me. It was true, my mother didn’t grow up religious. She attended church with my father for his sake, but never because she’d actually bought into any of it.

“These humans in Nightshade. How do they get there?”

“Some choose to be there. Others don’t have a choice, at all.”

With every question he answered, a dozen more blossomed inside my head. “Those who choose, how does it happen?”

“There are only two ways the living can traverse. They’re either stolen by the Fallen. Or they come to me.”

“And how do you traverse?”

“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.” He chuckled and reached for what had to be cold tea by that point, his comment setting my teeth on edge.

“Do you think my father is there? In Nightshade?”

“Hard to say.” An unpleasant scratching sound drew my eyes to where he circled the rim of the teacup with his nail.

“Will you show me how to get there?”

He nudged the tea tray aside and pushed to his feet. “I’m afraid this is where my charity ends, and you leave.”

“You showed my father, though.”

“Yes. And I do not expect that he will return.” Waving his hand, he ushered me to my feet, but I refused. I needed more answers.

“Then, it’s true! He’s there! Will he die? Will the Fallen kill him?” I asked urgently.

“The Fallen are certainly a threat to the poor uncorrupted souls who elect to go to Nightshade. But the most likely reason is that, in time, he will forget his life in this realm.”

“Forget? Everything?”

“Everything. You. Your mother. His purpose. That is how Nightshade works.”

“You’ve obviously been there before. And returned. How?”

“I come and go when necessary.” A grin stretched his lips at the same time a flicker in his eyes seized my attention, and I noticed as the ember-like colors of his irises turned obsidian black, before flicking back to their original color again.

On a gasp, I kicked backward, tumbling over a pillow, and quickly sat upright again. “What are you?”

“Relax. If I wanted to kill you, I certainly wouldn’t have entertained all these questions.”

“You’re not … you’re … what? What are you?”

“Cambion.”

“You were born half demon?”

“Not every cambion is born. Some are made.” He winked back at me. “Bad choices.”

Squeezing my eyes shut, I shook my head. “No. No, I don’t … I don’t believe …” I jumped to my feet and held the knife outward toward him. “I know I said I’d keep an open mind, but … I lied.”

His dark chuckle seemed to echo all around me, and I glanced over my shoulder, feeling like something was behind me. When I turned back to him, he was closer than before. Much closer.

“I just … want to leave. In one piece, okay?”

“Farryn, I am not troubled by you, and you should not be troubled by me. You walk amongst my kind every day without realizing it.”

My head spat images of the busy Chicago streets, and all the many people I’d often passed on campus.

“As I said. Relax. We tend to be a little more discriminating than you think.” Rolling his eyes, he spun around toward his kitchenette and plucked a small cluster of grapes from those in the bowl on the rolling island.

“You don’t want to kill me, then.”

“No. I’m not interested.”

“I’m glad. Really. But just out of curiosity, why?”

“Because your soul is … messy. I can’t really explain, but just know, I’ve no intention of killing you.”

Clearing my throat, I lowered my knife. “Okay, so … just … going back to the conversation.” Despite his assurance, I couldn’t relax my muscles, which still shook a little, poised for attack. “I need to help him. My father. If he’s there, I need to help him remember.”

“Nightshade is bigger than you imagine. You will never find him.”

“He went there to seek out a man named Van Croix. You seemed to recognize his name.”

“Who hasn’t heard of Van Croix.”

“Who is he? What’s so significant about him?”

“He resides in Nightshade. Something of a pariah.” He popped a grape into his mouth and closed his eyes, as if to focus on its flavor. “He keeps company with the Fallen, and there are rumors that he trades souls to them for favors. The locals are terrified of him.” He chuckled and tipped his head back, plucking another grape with his teeth. “They fear he’s Death, if you can believe that. Wretched little souls don’t even realize they’re already dead.”

Which was another question I would’ve asked. “Is he human?”

“I wouldn’t know. Not many know much about him, at all. For the most part, he remains withdrawn, reclusive. Living in a cathedral on Blackwater Cliff.”

“Did my father happen to tell you why he sought him out?”

“Nope.”

Eyes screwed shut, I let out a sharp exhale. “I need to go there. To Nightshade.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking. Go home. Go back to a life that makes sense. Forget about this.”

“My life never made sense before.”

“And nothing will make sense afterward. My answer is no.” He strode back to where the feather still lay beside the bonfire and swiped it up, handing it back to me. “We are done here. Go home, Farryn Ravenshaw. Pursue what makes you happy. Leave this alone.”