Call of the Raven (9 page)

“I remember Nixon,” she frowned. “Why do you
feel the need to fight with everyone including me? I’m just worried
about you.”

“Kennedy,” he firmly stated, looking straight
at her for emphasis, “my mom left me when I was a kid and I don’t
need another one.” He turned away then and opened his bedroom door.
When he went to shut it she put her body in the way. “Kennedy,
don’t do this now. Whatever your reasons are, your place is to
worry about Ari. I’ve got other things to deal with and the last
thing I want is to have to explain my behavior to you.”

“Fine,” she said hurt. “I won’t bother you
again.”

“Keni.” He used the name Grant had given her
and instantaneously her green eyes watered. He ran a hand along her
arm. “Look, I’m just an idiot that on occasion gets mad enough at
the world that I feel I need to vent, so just let me be. I’m sorry
that I upset you but right now let’s just concentrate on finding
Ari. Now, go away so I can change.”

Removing his tee-shirt he walked across the
room and in the reflection of the mirror, he saw Kennedy’s features
twist into sympathy. She always got that way whenever she witnessed
the damage his father left behind. The D in science had gotten him
a Louisville Slugger across his right shoulder. After several
surgeries to repair the shattered bones, the scars were still
visible.

He had been recovering in the pediatric wing
of Saint Francis Hospital watching the lights on the rides at the
county fair several miles away, when he heard someone enter his
room. But it wasn’t just anyone; it was Grant Lake, the Keeper of
the Union.

They had moved from Nashville Indiana to the
city of Beech Grove, located just minutes from downtown
Indianapolis, but it wasn’t until years later that Nixon had
learned through Asher, that Grant had actually banned his dad from
the Union, and that’s why they had moved.

Either way, that night as Grant stood over
his bed telling him not to be afraid, and that no one would ever
hurt him again, Nixon had hope. For the first time in his life, he
felt wanted but that went short lived when Grant was killed six
months later, and he quickly learned that his successor Asher
didn’t share the same sentiment.

Asher had never even gotten around to sealing
his adoption papers.

“I’m gonna drop my pants now Kennedy so you
really should go.”

Nixon pulled jeans off the hanger and out of
the corner of his eye, he noticed her wipe a tear from her right
cheek as she backed out the door. Only when she was gone, did he
realize that he had forgotten to explain to her about the urine
smell, but he guessed that didn’t matter. Dropping his pants to the
floor he heard a clunk and remembered the badge that Kennedy had
found.

Taking it out of his pocket he crossed the
room so that he could inspect it in the light of the lamp next to
his bed. The same odd sensation returned as he examined the emblem
once more. At first he couldn’t make it out, but after closer study
he recognized the head and body of the Raven. Two small red stones
were set for the eyes.

Nixon sat up straight.

He had seen it before and now he remembered
where.

“
You won’t feel anything. The memory
cleansing is a painless procedure.”

“
Will it make me forget him?”

“
No, I’m afraid not, for some things are
best left alone.”

“
Then what good will it do if I still
remember the pain?”

“
You will remember the pain because it
will only serve to protect you, just as I will.”

Something ran down Nixon’s cheeks. He was
crying without even realizing it. The thought was embarrassing so
he quickly wiped the tears away.

Nixon didn’t cry, not anymore.

He didn’t want to be caught blubbering like
some baby but he couldn’t help it. The memories came and he
couldn’t stop them from coming. He was standing on railroad tracks
and the five o’clock memory express was bearing down on him, and he
was powerless to stop it. Opening the drawer on the nightstand,
Nixon dropped the badge inside and got dressed.

Asher was waiting.

Chapter Six

Rebirthing

Asher quietly stood
, eyes taking in
the pitiful sight before him. The old log cabin, gone uncared for,
was indubitably a mess. A screen door hung on one hinge, and there
were enough broken down appliances and garbage strewn about in the
small yard to start a landfill.

Reaching for the handle on the gate, Asher
pushed against the buildup of snow on the other side only to have
the handle fall off in his hands. Frustrated, he threw it at an old
claw foot bathtub filled with frozen leaf covered water, and then
kicked the gate open.

Once inside he made his way over the snow
toward the front door, and knocked loudly. Asher guessed since the
old man was an owl, he didn’t feel the need to shovel the walk. In
the back of his mind, a small part of him wished he would have
waited for Nixon, but the part that distanced himself from everyone
was superior.

When the old man didn’t answer he tried the
handle. It was unlocked so he pushed it open. Other than a fire
burning in a fireplace, the cabin was dark. At the sound of a loud
screech, Asher stepped inside. He quickly spotted a barn owl on the
rafter above his head.

“Get down from there old man I need to have a
word with you.”

“Huh? Who’s there?” The old man peered around
a rocker situated before the fire, and slowly getting up as though
his joints protested the very thought, he started across the room.
Asher inhaled long and deep but he couldn’t sense the presence of
another shifter in the room, apart from the old man. And one good
whiff of him was enough. He wondered if the cabin even had running
water.

He looked again to the owl in the rafters. He
had heard how some animals were attracted to the inborn of shifters
in confusion. Yet, there weren’t any wolves traipsing around in the
woods of Brokenridge to further test that theory. Wolves had gone
extinct in the state of Indiana a long time ago.

“Oh that’s just Nick,” the old man said
noticing him looking at the owl. “He keeps me company. He’s been
hanging around here a week or two. I’d watch my head if I were you
though. I haven’t had this many guest in—?”

Pulling off his gloves, Asher walked around
to the opposite side of the table. He had forgotten this place—his
sessions until just moments before when he stood looking at the
cabin. The old man came to an abrupt stop when he recognized who he
was.

“Your eyes don’t deceive you Master Garret.
Not too many people would mistake me for someone else, not even
Ari, once they got a good look.” Asher dropped the hood of his coat
as the old man continued to stare, mouth agape.

Asher began to move about the room taking
everything in, shelves lined with dusty books, jars that contained
an array of roots, herbs and spices—the very essence of the old
healer which in the shifter world was one part herbology and one
part magic, before coming to a stop before a window, void of
curtain.

The window itself, nothing of great
importance, small in proportion to the other more decorative
picture window in the front section of the cabin, had been situated
in a corner cupboard, which in theory was an odd place for a
window. Asher stood there taking in the grey unattractive peeling
paint and musty scent of decaying wood, when his eyes moved to the
landscape just outside. The view was that of a side yard completely
concealed from the outside world by a tall archaic stone wall.

Flashes of memory, of unjust lessons and even
beatings, served well as a reminder that hidden under the snow was
a large circular brick courtyard. He saw himself as a boy collapsed
on the stone, trembling from exhaustion as a younger version of the
healer stood over him, whip in hand.

Closing his eyes Asher savored the memory,
the fragrant taste of hatred mixed with the sweat that burned his
swollen parched lips that no matter of licking could suffice. The
particular lesson had lasted nine hours in the heat of the summer
sun without water, food or rest. Even in his physical anguish, in
the brokenness of his body, he did not relent.

Determined that the matter of his mind, of
his heart belonged to him and him alone, Asher had laughed—laughed
instead of crying for mercy. That was before the master learned the
fallibility of his control.

How could he have ever forgotten?

But then how could he remember when the old
man had used the same memory erasing techniques on him that Asher
himself eventually learned. Returning to the old man, Asher began
to circle him.

“Wasn’t it you Master Garret that taught me
to be ready when someone recalled the memories I was forced to take
from them? What was it you called it…aah yes the matter of
recalling specific memory that has been erased is
called…rebirthing.”

Asher moved to the front of the old man and
then stood before him. “I applaud the technique. The ability to
remove memory, pain, and sorrow from one’s mind is a wonderful tool
of manipulation. So here is your applause…Bravo job well done!”

Asher clapped his hands loud enough that the
old man jolted with each clap and the sound resonated off the walls
of the quiet cabin. “As a matter of fact, I was sitting right there
in that same chair before the table when you had me test the method
on my brother, even though I didn’t want to.”

Sitting his gloves down on the table, Asher
picked up a black spell book and opened it to the first page. He
pretended to examine it but it was useless to him, the equivalent
of a first grade reader to an English professor.

The scrawled handwriting on the top of the
page drew his interest though. He recognized an r and the first
part of a last name that started with the letters n-o-r but he
couldn’t recall why it seemed familiar to him. He snapped the book
closed and the old man jerked.

“Ari didn’t have the same kind of
relationship with our mother as I did. She loved him very much and
the feeling was mutual. His destiny at birth was to protect me but
I couldn’t protect him, could I?”

“The Council insisted. The boy was a wreck
grieving the loss of her,” the old man sniveled. “Don’t look at me
that way. I had no choice but to do what they said.”

“The Council was afraid that he wouldn’t be
able to do his duty. They couldn’t let his grief distract him from
me. I hated what I was and they knew it. They used Ari against me,
claiming that if I didn’t succeed Grant, they would put both of us
to death. Not, that I cared about my own life but I couldn’t let
them kill Ari in spite of it.”

Asher replaced the book and examined a
pencil, curiously inspecting what appeared to be teeth marks gnawed
into the wood. Returning it as well he moved around the table so
that he was standing behind the old man.

“And now they’re afraid again, aren’t they?
They’re afraid that I won’t carry out my destiny?” Asher sent a
wave of magic into the old man’s back and when he shrieked out in
pain the owl flew from its perch and disappeared into the darkened
corner of the room. “I imagine your heart won’t last too long,” he
said dispassionately. “I’ll release you now, but my suggestion is
that you tell me all that you know. And if I were you, I wouldn’t
underestimate my power. After all you’re the one that taught me all
about magic.”

Asher released him and the old man fell
forward and gripped the back of the chair. Asher felt as though he
were having one of those out of body experiences. He could almost
see his young boy form sitting in the chair, hair falling forward
to hide a face that so clearly expressed his inner gloom. Asher
hated coming for the lessons.

Grant had insisted that the old man was
helping, but he had no idea what really went on inside the cabin.
The Pillar Council had convinced Grant that he needed psychiatric
help, but the only thing Asher truly learned was the art of
influence.

“
I wished you wouldn’t have come,
Arimus.”

“
I’m not going to let him hurt you again.
I feel bad that I didn’t notice before now. That’s why I really
came.”

“
You can’t stop them. No one can, not even
me.”

“
Asher what do you mean by them and what
are you doing…why are you crying?”

The memories flooded back, furthering Asher’s
torment. He recalled how he placed his hands on his brother’s head,
while he cried bitterly in both rage and sorrow. He wasn’t mad at
Ari, but instead at what they were making him do. The sadness was
for Ari. His brother was such a trusting soul and when he looked up
at him with his huge questioning eyes, Asher cried out in hatred of
what he had become.

All of a sudden the old man spun and struck
Asher in the neck breaking him out of the past. Stumbling backward,
shock washed over him. The old man could barely walk, yet the
Karate chop he just delivered clearly disputed that fact. Again he
came at him, but Asher blocked his attempt by sending a quick palm
strike to his nose. This time the old healer and martial arts
master fell back upon the table. Blood began to spill down his worn
face as dishes clattered to the floor along with Asher’s gloves,
and the book.

“So you still love to strike me when I least
expect it old man, but I will remind you that you also taught me to
be on guard for the second blow.”

“They’re in the hollow—the old logger’s
cabin.” The old man wiped blood from his lips with the sleeve of
his flannel shirt. “Don’t hit me again. You’re far too powerful for
me!” he groveled.

Pity was a despised and ugly thing. Reaching
forward Asher grabbed the old man’s shirt collar and pulled him
forward, until he was on his feet again, and inches from his
face.