Descendant (2 page)

“In a time when the world is stricken, there will arise a new generation of Gifted individuals on whose shoulders shall rest the fate of the civilization.”

~Prophecy of the Cairn Elen

We’re
  comfortable in Nevada. We have been for a few years. According to Gram, the problem with being comfortable is that comfortable people tend to get sloppy. Stuff happens. People get found and secrets discovered and women like us have to pack up and move on—or something like that.

One evening during winter break, my friends and I attend a show at one of the big hotels on the Strip. Halfway through, the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention, followed by the prickling sensation I’ve experienced so many times before, an inexplicable knowledge that someone is watching me. I turn my head, squinting into the gray space behind us as my pulse jumps with anxiety.

The eyes that light on mine are yellow with a hint of green so they resemble burning amber. He has a round face on a round head topped with auburn hair, attached to a round body dressed in the most awful brown tweed suit I’ve ever seen. The man watches from the back
corner of the room and nods when he sees me looking—as if I should know precisely who he is.

I feel like I
should
know, but I don’t have a clue.

Then a vision hits me with a force that knocks me off my chair and sends me sprawling to the ground.

I
t’s me, standing on a tall cliff overlooking a bubbling, steaming pool of muddyish goo and feeling more than seeing that someone important to me is in serious danger. I’m desperate to help and crazy with fear. Gram’s blue and white diamond ring pulses with heat on my hand—a detail that seems odd to me, since I’ve never been allowed to touch Gram’s most treasured possession. I’m surrounded on all sides by trees, grass, and mushy piles of snow, and wearing a beautiful silver evening gown but no shoes. The trees around me bend with the pressure of the wind, and the pool bubbles harder as I scream, and scream, and scream.

Patches of snow in the background melt and fade. The ground trembles.

T
hen the vision goes black.

I rasp in a mouthful of air and open my eyes. The world quivers. Several faces hover over me; my friends—and a few strangers.

My body shakes as one of the girls helps me to my feet and a security guard takes my elbow, guiding me through the doors at the back of the theater. As we pass, I scan the area where I saw the man with the amber eyes, but the table in the corner is empty.

He’s gone.

The guard takes me to a desk where I call my mom, grateful she’s close enough to come to my rescue.

S
omething’s very wrong. I’m anxious, so anxious to get home, and
yet as we pass through the bright lights of the Strip, nausea rolls around inside me until I nearly vomit in the car.

“Honey, are you sure you’re okay?” Wrinkles tug at the corners of Mom’s mouth as she pulls into our assigned parking stall.

I squeeze my lips together and close my eyes, fighting the dread, the burning in the pit of my stomach, but don’t answer.

“You must be coming down with something.” She opens the door and takes my elbow, and I let her help me. At the bottom of the stairs, I stop, bracing my palms on the building. A thick, black cloud of bad energy hovers in the stairwell, though I’m the only one who can see it. “Mom?”

“Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth.”

I take her advice and try again. “Mom, something’s wrong.”

“Do you need to see a doctor?”

I shake my head. “It’s not me. Something else. I don’t know—I can’t see it. It’s so black.”

“What’s black?”

“It’s just outside my line of vision, but there’s a black haze. Something ... something.” I look up, meeting her eyes. “It’s really bad.”

Mom wraps her arm around my shoulders and leads me to the stairs but I turn, bolt to the patch of grass, and fall on all fours to throw up everything I’ve eaten today. Gram’s face flashes in my mind—her gray-blue eyes surrounded by laugh-lines and the smile that says she’s far younger than seventy-three. “Gram!” The hazy edges of my conscious self sharpen and fear shoots a burst of energy through me.

Abby.

She’s calling my name.

“Gram!” I bolt up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

At the top, I pause, my heart racing in dread. The door to our apartment is unlocked. The sea-green sofa cushions are ripped to shreds, white stuffing strewn all over the carpet like fuzzy bits of snow. Knick-knacks Mom and Gram have collected over the years lie in pieces. Pictures have been torn from the walls, the ground littered with shards of glass from shattered mirrors, clothing scattered down the hall leading to the bedrooms. Our Christmas tree—so recently
surrounded by brightly wrapped packages—is on its side, branches broken, ornaments crushed.

“Gram?” I yell. “Gram!”

“Isabelle?” Mom calls. “Isabelle, are you here?” Together, Mom and I trip over the mess to Gram’s bedroom, the carpet crunching with every footfall.

“Gram!” I burst through the door, only to find the room empty. I’m vaguely aware that the bed has been stripped, the mattress pulled off, and the contents of Gram’s jewelry armoire scattered on the floor. Erda barks at the sound of my voice but doesn’t come running.

“Abby!” Mom calls. “She’s in here. Come quick!” I tear into the kitchen where Gram lies sprawled on the tile. Her face is ashen gray and a puddle of blood has collected beneath her head, matting her silver hair with a patch of purplish-black.

“Gram! Oh no.” I drop to my knees and place my rose quartz crystal over her heart. My own thumps like a drum.

“She’s breathing, but only just.” Mom stands, turns toward the herb cabinet, and opens it. “What do you need?”

“Um, I need ...” I run my hands over Gram’s arms, down her body—making note of some broken ribs—and stop over her heart. The beat is faint and I detect a struggle. My training kicks in gear. “Hawthorne and ... um, garlic.” I move my hand in a clockwise circular motion above Gram’s chest, spinning the energy in her heart chakra, the way she taught me. The crystal rises into the air and turns under my hand, but the rotation is slow. “Gram, you have to help me. I don’t know what to do.”

Gram rasps out a breath. “Don’t ...”

“Yeah, that’s it, Gram. Come back to me.”

Mom hands me two tiny glass bottles. I measure out a few drops of each herb and drip them into Gram’s mouth. Her head moves. She catches hold of my wrist. “No.”

“What, Gram? Am I doing it wrong? Help me!”

“Abby,” she croaks. “Stop.”

Ignoring Gram’s words, I hum the heart tones, calling the afflicted energy out of her and toward my strong heart where it can be mended. Louder and louder I hum, chanting, until orange light surrounds Gram and forms a tight ball that spins over her heart. I sing louder as the light moves toward me, preparing for the pain I’m about to feel.

But then the crystal falls lifelessly on Gram’s chest. The herbs I’ve administered dribble down the sides of her chin and the ball of light breaks into a thousand pieces that bounce around the room. “Gram!” I scream. This can’t be happening.

Gram’s eyes open, but the usually deep blue irises look gray. “Abby.” Her voice is weak. I expect her to tell me something, anything I can do to save the life I can feel slipping out of her body.

“Yes, Gram? Tell me.”

Mom kneels at my side and takes Gram’s hand. A tear rolls down her cheek as she bends to hear Gram’s raspy words. “Isa, it’s okay. You can go. I’ll take care of her.”

I jump in alarm. “No. Don’t say that. I’m going to Heal her. That’s why I have this Gift, so I can Heal the people I love. She told me so.”

Mom shakes her head as another tear falls. “Honey—”

“No!” I bend over my grandmother, wishing I could hug her. Wishing she could sit up and put her arms around me and tell me she’s going to be just fine. “Gram, tell her. Tell her I can do it. You know I can, don’t you? You taught me how—I just need to try it again.”

“Marian. The box. Get the box,” Gram wheezes. Mom nods as another breath whooshes out of Gram’s mouth and I lean closer so I can hear her instructions. “Last lesson. You can’t Heal ... someone—”

“Yes, I can,” I interrupt. “You’ve seen me do it before with Erda.”

“When ... it’s her time ... to go.”

“Right,” I say. Tears burn my eyes. “But it’s not your time, so I’m going to Heal you.”

Gram’s chin bobs. “No, baby. It is.”

I look at Mom and swallow a sob. “Tell her she’s wrong.”

Mom shakes her head and leans toward Gram. “Isabelle, Abby and I need you here. We need your guidance. I can’t teach Abby to Heal—she needs you for that.”

Gram closes her eyes as she struggles for breath. “You ... already know, Abby. Dig deep ... find the light inside you. It’s there.”

I pick up my crystal and reposition it over Gram’s heart, then spin her chakra again as the tears escape. No matter how hard I concentrate or how fast I spin, the crystal won’t rise. The energy won’t form. I want to scream in frustration, but I’m controlled. Instead, I hum the heart tones—direct them to Gram’s chest. To her heart.

Her breathing grows rapid and shallow, and for a minute I think she’s releasing her energy to me at last. Seconds later, her eyes grow wide. “Raina.” She says. Slowly, very slowly, her eyes close and her lips draw into a serene smile.

She doesn’t take another breath.

Gram
  once told me that every time the heart of a Healer bleeds, her powers become stronger. Each time we Heal another, we take on a portion of their burden, a portion of their pain, and a portion of their life energy.

But I don’t feel stronger. I don’t feel Gram’s life energy, either. I don’t feel anything.

Gripping my mother’s hand, I stare at a blank wall in the busy police station. The world revolves around me. People ask questions. I try to answer through the haze, but I’m not sure my words make sense. Everything whirls and swirls around in my head while I sit, unmoving.

Then a voice breaks through. “You’re free to go, ladies. Officer Stewart will drive you home.” Detective Connor hands Mom a business card. “If you remember anything else, anything at all, call me. Day or night.” We’re like zombies, both of us still in a state of shock. The detective clears his throat as he crouches in front of Mom. “Your landlord gathered a cleaning crew and they were in the door as soon as we cleared the crime scene.”

Mom squeezes my hand, hard. “Why did this happen?”

The detective shakes his head. “I don’t know, Marian. I really don’t. I’m sorry. We’re working on some leads, so maybe I’ll have a better answer soon. At this point, my best guess is that the perpetrator
picked your apartment at random, not expecting Isabelle to be home. It could have been anyone.”

A tear rolls down my cheek, but I hardly feel it. Gram believed that there is no such thing as random. Only now do I finally understand what she meant. I want to tell him, explain about my Gifts, but I can’t. I’m not sure which secrets should be kept anymore and which truths should be told. This didn’t happen to just anyone. It’s my gram. And Mom. And me. My body feels numb as I stand, as if I’ve been asleep for days. I wish I could wake up. This nightmare has lasted far too long.

A police officer in a tan uniform leads us through the station and out to his patrol car. I climb in the back, leaving the front seat for Mom.

“Marian?” Detective Connor says something about grief counseling. I turn away, knowing it doesn’t matter.

Words cannot bring my grandmother back.

Nothing will ever be the same.