26. A Black Hole

"His girlfriend Maggie, a banshee, had been kidnapped and he came to me for help in locating her."

Nodding, he scribbled something and looked up. "Why you?"

Head tilted to the side, I stared back, confused by the question. "Because I'm a—"

Mom dropped something and came rushing over. "You can get back to work, darling. I'll drive you."

"Cassandra wicche," I finished.

Bracken blinked and then stood abruptly, expression stricken. He began to turn to my mother, seemed to remember the chaos, and turned back to me. "Sybil, a new Cassandra emerged, and no one told me? Was her existence hidden from everyone or just me?"

Furious, he glared at me, but I knew the anger was directed at Mom, at Gran, at whoever had kept yet another secret.

"Bracken, no one kept her existence from you. We were trying—"

His fist hit the table. "My child has been missing for twenty-two years. I have agonized for—and all this time you hid the one person who could have told me if he was dead or alive. The hole in me…" He swallowed and then stalked to the door, flung it open, causing more glass to shower the floor, and went around the side of the building.

Mom patted my shoulder. "I can ask John to drive you home. I need to wait for the appraiser."

"Mom." I gestured to the open door.

"I know. More glass, but I can explain that to the insurance person." Her phone rang and she answered it.

I, on the other hand, grabbed my backpack and went after Bracken. I found him pacing and muttering in the parking lot next to a fancy, streamline RV. "…and they wonder why there are so many sorcerers in this family when…"

"Can I ask you a question?" I shouldered the backpack.

The muttering wound down and he stopped his pacing, waiting for me.

"I was told a couple of weeks ago about your wife taking your son and leaving. Gran thought you might be willing to help us with Calliope if I talked your son into contacting you."

Face hardened, he stood silently.

"I told them I wouldn't because I'd been told you were an abusive drunk."

He blinked, the color draining from his face.

"I refused to talk a victim into reuniting with his abuser, no matter how much they said we needed you." My phone buzzed in my pocket, but I silenced it with a thought.

"I was never abusive," he finally said.

"Would your wife and son agree with that?"

Shoulders slumping, he walked back to the RV. "I loved them but—you see what I'm like. I tried to mask it, to shut myself away in my office when the chaos was too much. I tried explaining, but she didn't understand. She said she did, but she didn't. She thought it was a sign of weakness to lose control of my own mind. I agreed, but I couldn't fix myself. I spent more and more time locked away. I wasn't a drunk, but I did try using alcohol to numb my brain. I wanted to be with them, to sleep with my wife and play with my child, but the house was disordered. The alcohol didn't help me not see it, so that was a failed experiment."

He rubbed his forehead. "While they slept, I cleaned and put everything back to rights. If I could impose order, calm my thoughts, I hoped to spend time with my family, but then morning came and there were shouts and squeals and toys appearing and questions about food and pots and pans clanking and spilled drinks and…and I moved back into my study, into the quiet and order."

He took off his glasses and cleaned them with his handkerchief. "Did I ever yell? Yes. But never in anger. I was trying to talk over the screaming in my head. I hadn't realized I was yelling until I saw I'd frightened them, that they were clinging to each other, eyes big as they stared at me."

"I'm sorry." I knew exactly what it was like to desperately try to mask your true self.

Heartbroken, he nodded. "Me too."

I moved closer. "Would you like me to look for him?"

"Yes."

"Is this yours?" I pointed to the RV.

Nodding, he patted his pockets, unlocked the door, and held it open for me.

"Arwyn? Can you come back?" Mom called.

"Don't worry. I'm fine," I said, stepping up into his home on wheels. Neat as a pin, it looked like a demonstration model. "This is really nice." Granted, I'd never been in an RV before, but I hadn't expected them to look so cozy and apartment-ish.

There were two big leather captain chairs for the driver and copilot at the front, but the living area was beautiful. A wingback reading chair and ottoman in a tufted green leather sat under an antique lamp. There were compact coffee and side tables in a warm dark wood and under the window across from the chair, a matching green leather bench butted up against bookcases. All the way down the length of the RV on one side were glass-fronted mahogany bookcases with latches at the handles.

"Is that how you keep the books from falling when you drive?"

He nodded. "That and a spell." Floor to ceiling, the shelves were filled with books of every age and condition. In fact, he'd begun to double shelve.

"How do you keep track of which books are in back?" This collection was incredible.

He gave a barely perceptible shrug. "I remember."

I paused, worried I'd overstepped. "Is it okay that I'm looking around?"

He thought about it. "Yes. I normally don't like people in my space, but you don't seem to be setting off any alarms in my head."

There was a small galley kitchen that gleamed.

"Go ahead," he encouraged.

The bathroom was perfectly appointed with a decent-sized shower. At the far end of the RV, in what was probably intended to be a bedroom, was a study. Bookshelves continued, wrapping around the room. There was a sofa in the same green leather and a dark wood desk.

Turning in a circle, I grinned. "It's beautiful and perfect." There were benches under the windows on either side of the room. I sat and pointed at the couch. "Is that where you sleep?"

He nodded.

"I do that too. I'm a horrible sleeper."

He made a sound of agreement in the back of his throat.

"I understand why you don't do guest rooms. This is much better." I'd never thought of myself as an RV person, but being able to travel with your home was amazing.

"I tried to visit your grandmother once, but the sigils on her door and floor were overwhelming." He scratched his head, walked around the desk, and sat.

"The ward was?"

"Hmm? Oh, no. The sigils themselves. They were just enough off to make my neck itch. I need uniformity and pattern. The sizes were different. Some were straight lines and right angles. Others were loopy. I could have kept my back to the entry, but the pergola on the patio is settling. The left side is now about six degrees lower than the right. I tried to look out the window at the ocean but my eyes were drawn to the edge of the pergola visible on the left-hand side of her picture window."

I nodded. "I've noticed that too."

He opened a drawer, touched his perfectly organized pens and uniformly sharp pencils, and then closed it again. "The difference is that you can notice and let go. I cannot. And yes, I'm aware that this"—he gestured all around him—"is just making my world smaller and smaller." His eyes found mine. "I fear I'll soon be condemned to a single room for life because I can't handle the world."

Recognizing the naked truth of that statement, I shared my own truth. "I'm afraid the visions and nightmares will drive me insane, just like all the other Cassandras. I feel like I'm already on borrowed time. Most of us don't live long enough to make it to double digits."

He suddenly smiled, and it lit up his face, making him look twenty years younger. "Quite a pair, aren't we?

Grinning back, I said, "We are." I glanced around again. "Do you have anything of your son's?"

"Yes." The bookcases in this room had solid door cabinets at the bottom. He went to the one closest to his desk, unlocked it, and pulled out a pristine baby giraffe. He placed it on the bench beside me and then went back to his desk.

"Okay. Was your wife a wicche as well?"

He nodded. "She's a Booth."

They were another old, respected line of wicches. They didn't pack the power of a Corey, but neither did they have our propensity to produce black wicches and sorcerers. Which reminded me…

"Do you know why Gran—when she first mentioned you—told me you weren't a Corey?"

Confusion gave way to affront. He shook his head. "My sister believes in loyalty and duty above all else. I tried to live up to the expectations, but it was too much. I walked away and apparently in her mind that meant I was walking away from the family." He stared at his desk. "Her responsibilities haven't been easy, but neither does she make allowances for another's"—he shrugged—"capacities."

True. I loved her but true.

"Sometimes, when I'm reading family, it can get muddled," I said. "Hopefully, the Booth side is strong enough for me to see him as an adult." I slipped off a glove and picked up the toy.

"What is the matter with you? You said you were happy about the baby. I have to do this all myself and I'm exhausted! Do you hear me? I can't think straight. He's colicky and it's always me around the clock I'm on duty for feeding and changing and rocking. I need help!"

The poor woman is dressed in a stained t-shirt and sweats, her hair tied up, dark circles under her eyes, red blotches on her cheeks, as she paces with a crying baby and his giraffe.

A much younger Bracken, his dark hair beginning to gray at the temples, stands like a deer in headlights.

"Well? Can you at least take him so I can pee?"

Bracken stands frozen. I can see exactly what's happening, but she can't. Too bone weary to pick up on nuance, she interprets his lack of response as a lack of caring, when it's quite the opposite.

On a scream of frustration, she places the crying baby in his swing and stomps off to the bathroom. The door slam seems to startle the infant into momentary silence. Bracken approaches his son as though he's a highly unstable bomb.

Crouching, Bracken reaches out to touch Ben's hand. His son wraps his whole tiny fist around Bracken's finger and holds on.

"Hello," he whispers. "I'm sorry your tummy is so upset. I researched colic and it sounds dreadful."

The child stares wide-eyed, one hand still clutching Bracken while the other plucks at his giraffe.

"The good news is that it doesn't last forever. Of course, a baby probably has a different understanding of that word. As far as you're concerned, it has lasted forever. But, as someone who is much older than you, I can confirm that it will be of short duration. Unfortunately, you're still in the thick of it right now, so that's probably not of much comfort.

"You have Corey eyes. Did you know that? I thought perhaps you'd have your mother's Booth brown, but you have mine." He paused, studying his child. "It's quite odd to recognize my father's chin on a brand-new face. He's passed now, but I can tell you about him. He was a good man."

The flush of the toilet breaks the spell. Ben takes a breath and then resumes his squalling. When the door opens, Bracken is backing away to the door of his study. His wife won't look at him. She picks up Ben and resumes walking laps around the living room. Knowing he's failed miserably, Bracken retreats to his magically soundproofed study and his books that quietly wait for him.

The image goes dark and then…

Bracken opens his study door. Different day. Different clothes. His expression more worn. The house is quiet. He remembers a pediatrician appointment and wonders if that's where they are. He'd thought it was the following day, but perhaps he's gotten his days confused again. He walks into the kitchen to check the calendar and is surprised to find the usual mayhem of breakfast missing. It looks as it did when he finished cleaning last night.

He can't say why, but a stone begins to form in his gut. Feeling sick, he walks down the hall and looks in the baby's room. It's been stripped. The crib and changing table remain, but the toys are gone, save for the giraffe forgotten in the crib. He checks the closet and finds it empty.

White noise roars in his head as he walks to the bedroom he sometimes shares with his wife. The closet is empty. Suitcases are gone. His knees give out and he collapses onto the bed. He fumbles in his pocket for his phone, tapping his wife's contact. There is a high-pitched beep and then an electronic voice is telling him that the number has been disconnected.

Like a zombie with a black hole where his heart had been, he retraces his steps to his study and shuts the door.

When the image begins to go dark, I think, Show me Ben now.

A young man with dark hair and Bracken's eyes shelves books in a dim, quiet shop. A bell rings and he walks to the aisle and greets the man entering, asking if he can help him find what he's looking for. The man explains he's looking for a first edition of an American Renaissance writer for his grandfather. He doesn't know much about the topic and is looking for recommendations, so Ben walks him through the shop, explaining what they have that his grandfather might enjoy.

When the man leaves, he steps out onto a bustling street. The brass sign above the door reads Chadwick Sons, Rare Books.

Blinking, I found Bracken watching me, expression intent. "Is he all right?"