Airel (16 page)

Chapter VI

I know what you are.
The words reverberated through unconscious randomness inside of me. I had heard stories of comatose people having dreams, sometimes hearing what their loved ones were saying, but being unable to respond. That, to me, was hell, assuredly: to be trapped and screaming, “Hey! I’m alive, don’t give up on me!”

“I know what you are,” came the words again, voiced vaguely, the tone probably resembling my dad, but mixed with every memory I ever had and somehow, not Dad at all. Was someone speaking them? And if so, who?

There was a fight, a gun. But those things were wrapped in cotton, insulated against the touch of my awareness, and shifty. Every time I tried to come to rest on something concrete, it would vanish in smoke. Everything I had known to be real was a distant abstract world, and I was not a part of it anymore. I feared at any moment I would wake up, caged again in the dark, in a broken world, kept by my demonic jailor—and that was a nightmare I did not want to be having, not again. Certainly not for real.

My dreams turned hazy and soft. Michael was sitting in his truck and I was sliding close to him, looking out over the city lights from Table Rock, high up in the foothills, where other young lovers were parked in darkened cars. We sat in silence because there was nothing to say. The city lights twinkled below, becoming his beautiful blue eyes into which I poured myself like water. If perfection could be defined, this was it.

“I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE, AIREL.” 

I gasped in shock. I was instantly aware of cold metal straps around my wrists. The voice boomed off the empty canyon walls of my mind one last time, dissipating into nothingness. I realized that my eyes were open, trying to focus, to register what they beheld. 

I knew that the metal straps were real; I felt them against the skin of my wrists, cold and harsh. I was seated in a reclined position, strapped down to a hard chair, and when I tried to move my feet, I realized they were bound. 

I started to panic; I was defenseless. My eyes were swimming and reaching for the wall. I wanted desperately to know where I was, but knew I would regret knowing. 

Inches from my face, I felt something warm, something that tasted sweet. I turned toward it, begging my eyes to focus. Slowly taking shape in front of me in the dark were the important details. A car. I was inside a car. I could see the shape of the open door to my right and the yellow light of a streetlamp filtering in. I heard breathing to my left and knew it was Michael. It just sounded like him, like the way he spoke, the tone of his voice. 

My eyes went wide, filled with the horror of blankness, and grasped for sight desperately. I knew I was in the black Yukon, strapped to some chair for crazies that kept them from hurting themselves. That left one possibility. The man with the gun was standing over me, probably gloating over his fresh catch. But that wasn’t even half of it.

My eyes began to focus on two dark orbs set into the shape of a face. They were almost black, the surrounding skin fair, pale, stony. Crowning his head, I saw blond hair and heard him whisper to me, “I know what you are, Airel.” I gasped deeply and jaggedly, like my first time through a haunted house when I was 8—completely terrified. 

The killer. The theater. The stalker. The note in the mailbox. My weird dreams. I struggled frantically against the restraints, my breath ragged, throat dry, pulling myself away from him as much as I could, completely crazed. 

“If you keep quiet I will not gag you. It’s your decision.” His voice was firm, and could have commanded tens of thousands. Impossibly, it calmed me, if only a little bit. “If you insist on defying me, I will gag you as well as drug you. Do you understand?” In his voice was thick and pliable kindness that did not make any sense to me.

My response to his commanding voice surprised me. “I’ll be quiet, but if you touch me I
will
kill you—do you understand that?” I couldn’t believe my own words as they came from my lips. He didn’t look shocked or even amused at my threat. In fact he looked like he believed me, even though it was preposterous.  

“Trust me.” He said it simply, and within his words was the implicit understanding that he was as good as his word. Even more than that, I understood that he thought he had a reason for doing what he was doing and that he really
did
believe I would try to kill him. 

He turned and closed the door with a final thump. He climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine, which was unbelievably quiet. 

I looked at the blacked-out windows, seeing only my reflection. I turned to look out the front window, but the killer pressed a switch and a partition slid upward, separating us from him. I was surrounded with darkness and the soft sounds Michael made as he dreamed. I suppose it was then that I resigned myself to the obvious: I had to go along for the ride. The safety I felt before vanished like a vapor in a high wind. I wondered why I had awakened so fast when Michael was obviously out cold. I must have pulled the dart out pretty quickly.

We drove for a long time, a few hours, which gave me plenty of time to worry about my parents, my best friend Kim, my life, my dreams, prom, homecoming, my trusty little Civic, the paper that was due next week. Most of it was becoming completely worthless except my family and Kim. I alternated between tears of desperation and unbridled anger as my host, my stalker, drove tirelessly on.

I could feel the road winding, rising and falling, and figured we were north of town in the mountains. Eventually I could tell that we turned onto a dirt road.  After a brief section of very bumpy terrain and steep inclines we came to a stop. The Yukon still felt like it was moving and my head was swimming. The silence was deafening.

I had tried a few times to wriggle free but found that it was pointless. He was a professional, judging by everything I had seen so far. I figured even if I were able to free myself, it was pointless to make a break for it. What would I do, fight off a professional hitman, carry Michael on my back, and go—where? Up a creek?
That’s about the size of it.

The driver’s side door opened—Michael’s side. There, bathed in moonlight, the killer looked at me, expressionless. He began to free Michael from the restraints, checking his pulse. “He’ll be fine. Just a headache in the morning, that’s all.” 

I was taken aback by his gentleness. Why would he care if the two people he had kidnapped had a headache in the morning? Was this guy nuts? Was he just one of those creeps that thought he loved his victims, a tear running down his face as he killed them?

He slung Michael over his shoulder as if he weighed no more than a sack of feathers, and turned and walked away. He was gone for quite a while. I took the time to look through the open door, out into thick woods. 

Trees and ferns filled the landscape in shades of moonlit gray, the chilly mountain air refreshing and reviving me. I allowed myself to relax, taking it all in, trying not to think of werewolves or anything else otherworldly. I tried not to be anxious about the open door and the fact that I was defenselessly strapped to a chair. I tried not to think about what predators might be stalking the deep woods after midnight, and how I might smell to them.

Without warning, my door opened. I jumped in my restraints, jerking ungracefully. The blond man, unknown to me but awkwardly familiar because of all the times I had seen him, unhooked my restraints. I was free and looked at him dumbly. He backed away, allowing me to climb down out of the SUV by myself. 

He looked at me with curiosity and turned, expecting me to follow him. I did, not because I wanted to, but because as I looked around I saw that there was nowhere to run. No lights from nearby cabins or anything else to offer a glimmer of hope, so I followed my captor.

We came to a space in the forest. Not really a clearing, just a small space in the undergrowth, barely noticeable, carpeted in pine needles. In the center of it, as if discarded by some inconsiderate squatter, lay a wooden door with an old brass knob. It was decidedly out of place, but it blended into the forest floor, rotting, the paint peeling. Ahead of me my captor stopped by the door, turned to face me and squatted down, his hand resting on the doorknob.

With a light
snick,
the doorknob released from the catch and opened upward on silent hinges, standing wide open. Below, as if leading down into a storm cellar, were stone steps lit from within. I could not see the end. Lit by this shaft of light, the forest around us appeared surreal, with ghastly exaggerations of color and shadow. 

He moved aside, gesturing for me to go first. I
knew
that I was going to die down there. There was no debate about it in my mind, and
She
was remarkably silent, seeming to have abandoned me. The man with black eyes and blond hair was going to kill me down there. My body would never be found.

Chapter VII

I descended the steps carefully, leading the killer on.
What is this place, somebody’s grave?
I thought sometimes that he had left me, he was so quiet. Even the sound of my footsteps made at least a small noise, but his didn’t seem to make any. 

The light ahead swelled and brightened as we neared it. I saw that it was an honest to God torch, flame and all. It was hung in a bracket in the wall by a doorway, and was covered with an intricate web of engravings, twisting up the handle. I paused at the door and looked back at him. He didn’t offer me any clues as to what I should do.

I felt the need to reach out and open the door. I didn’t seem to have much choice anyway—cold-blooded killer behind me, strange door before me.
I guess I’ll be taking the door. 

It hit me that I didn’t feel afraid in that moment. I can’t explain it, but he didn’t scare me as much as he probably should have. It was as if he liked me, but in a weird-uncle sort of way. The door swung in smoothly, and beyond…it was not what I expected to see. All I could think about was Michael; where was he? Was he hurt?

“Where is Michael?” My voice sounded much louder than I intended. 

“Safe.”

“Where is he?” I said even more forcefully. 

He did not respond, but moved forward into a large circular room with smooth gleaming stone floors. It was much larger than a football field. And, far from looking like some subterranean lair, it was clean and airy. I couldn’t tell how the space was lit, but I could tell it wasn’t the same kind of light you’d get from electric bulbs. The ceiling was domed, supported by a few well-placed columns of marble. It was like the state capitol or something. 

I guess he’s not going to tell me anything. 

At one end was a wall of windows standing well over thirty feet tall, through which shone the ethereal moon. The windows were framed by spidery thin metal and strange-looking glass, reminding me of a massive old church. I don’t think there was a straight line in any of it—it was all curves and complex symmetry. 

The killer followed me in as I stared in shock. I turned to look back up the dark tunnel.
How in the world does this place even exist? 

I almost wanted to thank him and hand him my coat as if I was a guest. But he had hurt Michael, he had snatched both of us and brought us here against our will, and the thought of my parents looking for me, by now having the police involved, made my blood boil. I wanted to smack him right across the face and rattle his black eyes right out of his skull. “Do you know what they will do to you when they catch you? I will testify against you. I’ll even make up lies if it will put you away for the rest of your life.” But as my words echoed back to me, I could feel my own desperation and how pathetic it was. I was at his mercy. I could tell that
She
was not one-hundred percent on my side, either.
 

He smiled with his eyes at my tirade, hiding the slightest grin on his face. “I hate to sound arrogant or vain, but I will never be caught—it is not possible.” With a gentle turn of finality, he ambled over to the wall of windows, his hands behind his back, stopping there to gaze through them. I followed him meekly, lost and exasperated. 

I gasped when I saw what he was looking at. Though we were underground, we were looking out at a view that could only be seen from a mountaintop. Below, basking in cool moonlight, was a valley of trees crowding around a huge meadow. A stream babbled through it, winding its way to the other end. There, a mountain range scratched its way to the heavens, protecting the hidden valley. 

I could imagine wildflowers filling the valley in summer, but fall in the mountains was like winter in the valley. I doubted there could be flowers there—but then again—those things I had been taking for granted were turning out to be unreliable.

To my left I heard the roar of water. Most of the windows on that side, I noticed, were obscured by mist from a cascading waterfall that must have found its source farther up, above us. It reminded me of our family trip to Multnomah one summer; the long hike to the top, the dizzying view from where the stream bed released its charge into the atmosphere. I wondered how I would remember this particular wrinkle if this was really a dream.  

The killer said, “I selected this site to build my house many years ago. I thought living under a waterfall would be beautiful.” He looked like he was taking a nostalgic turn. 

“Sometimes in the mornings I sit here, watch the sunrise come over the mountains…and as it hits the water it makes millions of rainbows all across this room.” He looked at me. I felt unexpectedly bold, and wanted to ask his name for some reason, but I didn’t. Like a father beholding his beloved daughter, he said, “I want you to know: in time you’ll thank me for doing this.” 

He paused, and I could feel my anger begin to boil as he continued, “I don’t expect you to understand now, but one day you will love me as much as I love you.”

My jaw was scraping the floor. “Are you—
freaking—
kidding me?!” I couldn’t believe what he had just said. He was crazy. “You are a
sick
man.” I started to back away from him and the windows. I turned my back to him, hoping to provoke him. I wished he would just get it over with, whatever he had planned. I’d rather be dead than waste any more of my life in his presence. The way he looked at me made my skin crawl. 

Noiselessly, he strode by me at a brisk pace, leading me out of the ballroom. I followed, because what else could I do? I was starting to become aware of my exhaustion—it had been a long night—and what else was there? Would I curl up on the cold stone floor like a dog? That wasn’t an option. 

I figured I’d take my chances with whatever creepy  “hospitality” he had to offer me. If there’s one thing I had theorized about people, it’s that they used each other, whether they meant to or not. Whatever his use for me, I made a guess that I could barter his interest for something a little more practical—like somewhere to lie down and die, for instance. At least for the night. 

I looked around for any sign of Michael. I worried that my captor might have been lying about not harming him. 

We passed through a set of massive double doors that led through a large kitchen. There were no appliances; nothing modern. There was a huge wood-fired brick oven in one corner, and massive wooden tables for workspace that were crowded with huge earthenware bowls, full of fresh produce of every kind. 

Ornate cabinets lined the stone walls. Some of the cabinets stood like furniture and I imagined that they were stuffed to the gills with all kinds of things I had never seen.
I’m betting that there ain’t a bag o’ chips to be found in this place.
No fridge or microwave that I could see, either.
I’m so screwed.

I took mental notes of the layout of the place so that when I tried my escape I could remember which way to go. We passed through the kitchen, down a wide hallway, and up a flight of thickly carpeted stairs. He stopped at a pretty standard-looking door. The difference was this one was secured with a thick steel bolt mounted to the outside with a latch the size of my fist.

“This is your room,” he said.

“My cell, you mean.”

He ignored me. “Michael is in that room, next door. I warn you, there is no possibility of escape. Any attempt will result in punishment. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I said in a flat tone, ripping an imaginary hole through him with my eyes. I was so furious my hands were trembling. I clenched my fists open and shut to try to control it. I wanted to see Michael, to hold him and to make sure he was okay. Why was this man doing this to us?

He slid the bolt and flipped the latch open. The door opened with a slight nudge and I walked in. Before I could turn to face him, the door shut with a solid boom with an aftershock of the metallic sound of the latch being driven home. All was quiet. I had been planning on giving him the lecture of his life. I guess that didn’t work out.

All at once, the whole night overwhelmed me. I ran to the king-sized bed, fell face down, and cried. I wept so hard that my body ached. I was just trying to crawl through to the bottom of it, heaving in spasms of wretchedness until I was completely dry. My head felt bloated and achy. 

I was a captive. I kept going over in my head all the possible meanings of the word, taking it in, trying to deal. When my outburst of emotion was all over, I felt as if I had just run twenty miles. No sound came from the hall or the room where he had said Michael was. I wondered if he was really there, or if he was lying and Michael was somewhere else—or were the rooms soundproof?
So many questions. And so few answers.
 

My heart ached and bled for the comfort of my friends and family; especially my mom and dad.

There was a glass of water on the nightstand. I took a long drink to quench my thirst. It had been a long night and between fighting, crying and everything else, I was parched. 

She
whispered something but I couldn’t make it out. My vision clouded and the room began to spin. Oh, no. He drugged me, how could I have been so stupid? I fought the feeling but in the end the drug was stronger than my resolve. 

I dreamed. 

This time I was in the beautiful valley I had seen through the windows by the waterfall. I ran in the meadow of summertime wildflowers laughing like a little girl. The beautifully scented mountain air swept through me. The fragrance of honeysuckle was overwhelming. All of it—the meadow, the rushing waterfall behind me, the bluest skies I had ever seen—made me want to dance with joy. I twirled in a sun dress, ribbons in my hair, feeling as if my daddy was nearby admiring me.  

But Daddy wasn’t there. It was someone else—my mysterious stalker was watching me. His eyes were different, ice blue this time. Deep within, I saw a spark of light. It told me that he knew who I was, and what I was becoming. 

I heard pages turning again, like a book was being leafed through, fanned out.
She
stirred and sat up in the back of my mind as if
She
knew this man. I didn’t run, but looked at him as he walked toward me through the wildflowers. It was as if they sensed his coming, and parted to let him pass without crushing them. I stood on tiptoes to try to measure up and meet his gaze.

She
said,
“Do not be afraid. He will not hurt you. He has something you need. Look for it, and when the time is right, you will know.”
 

 “Who are you, and what do you want?”

She
answered,
“I am a friend.”

The killer moved like a predator, scanning subtly, aware of the wind. He stopped and stood a few feet from me and held out his hand. I took it. He led me to the edge of the clearing, where I looked up at the waterfall that hid part of his house underneath its beautiful cascading mantle. 

“High up on the side of the cliff you will see it—if you look closely.” He pointed toward the top, where the water began its fall over the edge, over a thousand feet up. I scanned the rocks and ferns that clung to the side, but didn’t see anything. 

I was about to give up when I saw a large nest made of twigs and branches, built in a very thin tree. He smiled when he saw that I did indeed see what he wanted me to see. “Now watch.”

I rubbed my eyes and took another look. This time I saw a skinny baby bald eagle scramble up the side and sit perched on the edge looking out at the valley—perhaps at us. He fluffed his baby feathers and opened up his new wings, testing them. This little bird was making me nervous. I hoped he wouldn’t fall over the edge—it was a long way to the bottom. I was sure from the way he moved that he had not yet learned to fly. 

The mother eagle swooped by the nest in a tuck and clipped the baby in the back, pushing him over the side. My hand flew to my mouth as I watched the baby eagle tumble in the air, flapping wildly, trying to recover, and not making much progress. “Oh, no…”

Then, just as he was about to hit the rocks, his wings finally got some traction. They bent, filled with air, lifting the young bird. He fluttered and flapped to a landing a few feet from the sharp rocks that would have crushed him. He threw back his head and let out a tiny warrior’s squawk, and then another.

I let my hand fall from my mouth, looking up at my captor. He still had my little hand in his. He smiled and said, “This is why you are here…” It shook me awake, his voice seeming to echo in my room.
My cell?
It was morning and the room was filled with rainbows dancing across my bed like butterflies as the light filtered in through the waterfall.