Early August 2007,
Bloomfield Hills, near Detroit, Michigan.
Adele Groenwald paused in the white marble-paved foyer just short of the home's front entrance. What is it always with these tedious last-minute things! But then, that is what the help is for!
"Remember, Karen, Lizzy's school starts on the 28th, so we expect to return on the 25th. Do have everything cleaned up and aired out. Hire someone if you need to. I'm looking forward to there being nothing to distract my daughter from her academic progress this year."
"Very good, Madame. About young Mister Groenwald, any instructions?"
"As long as he's on that eastbound train on the 21st, I don't care what you do with it. I suppose you should make sure he has everything the school wants him to have. We're paying them far too much to be getting complaints about incomplete supplies."
"Understood."
"Good. Come on, Elizabeth, Paris awaits!"
The next few minutes were tangled up in a scramble to get nine-year-old Elizabeth disengaged from her game and out the door without letting any other creatures in or out. Forgotten luggage could be forwarded to the hotel at the Groenwalds' first or second stop. In fact, that could be tended to tomorrow if against hope eternal the aircraft failed to ditch in the Atlantic. Whichever way such matters evolved, Karen Rodebaugh had two to three good weeks to look forward to, free from Lizzie the Borden's tantrums, Madame's blackouts, and Mister Hal's paws. Who could have ever claimed that blondes have more fun after having met these people?
She still had her official charge, Matthew, to deal with. That one didn't call for high heels and, on further thought, likely never would. First things first: change shoes. Everyone else who'd care what she wore had either given notice or gone on vacation.
As she passed a linen closet on the first floor, Karen casually remarked, "Give them half an hour in case they double back again."
No giggling this time. Good. For the child, it's just a game.
Just a game.
If only she could believe that.
Lunch.
Sitting on stools in the kitchen was much better than eating in the dining room! Matthew swallowed a sticky chunk of his peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich. He washed it down with iced tea (Mother wasn't there to complain about sugar or propriety) before asking Miss Karen, "What happened to Miss Esme? I thought she was supposed to be cooking?"
"She found a different place where she could cook whatever she liked."
"Huh." Matthew took another bite of his sandwich, chewing carefully but then gulping hard to say, "She didn't look pregnant yet."
"That... Let's say that something like a pregnancy doesn't happen all at once."
"Oh. You're sure?"
"Pretty sure."
"Maybe if Father got me pregnant too, I could go away and never come back? Except, I can't cook."
"Let's worry more about getting you ready for school than about new ways to make yourself scarce, shall we?"
Allgood's Department Store.
Karen was reasonably sure that one of the reasons for the Groenwalds' European vacation had to do with not wanting to shop with Matthew. Fluorescent retail lighting highlighted the child's uncanny valley skin tone. Without sunglasses to hide behind, the black veins in his eyes weren't much easier to get used to. Matthew would have happily tried wearing sunglasses indoors. However, she wasn't in the mood for a repeat incident with an unguided, half-blind six-year-old on the loose. The stale smell of clothing pawed over by the unwashed added a funk of retail despair that cheap cleaning chemicals couldn't erase.
They'd gotten as far as check-out before the inevitable, "Oh my god! What is that thing doing in here?"
Hurrah for tactful customer service. Heaven only knows where it went to.
As if on cue, a young boy's voice behind her responded, "Miss Karen says we need to get t-shirts and briefs and D-O... deode something."
Karen turned and said to Matthew, "Deodorant, Matthew. It's something that young men need more than they think, but not as much as they use."
"Um, sure?"
"Later, Matthew." Karen peered at the distraught employee's name tag. She disregarded the poor attempt at a home dye job and an unfortunate misuse of eyeshadow to say, "Now. Jennifer, is it? What exactly is your problem?"
"I don't have a problem. That is the problem!"
"She doesn't like boys?"
"Bide a moment, please, Matthew. I very much doubt she's had the necessary experience with men to decide that."
"That's it! I'm calling the MCO! They know how to handle your kind!"
Matthew volunteered, "I can help. I know the number!"
Jennifer screeched, "Keep that thing away from me!"
"Matthew! This may not be the time for being helpful."
Half an hour dealing with mall security later.
The younger of the two plainclothes agents reported back to the other, "Place checks out so far as an isolated incident. This is our dangerous mutant, Sam? Guy looks a little short."
"Yeah, rookie, but I've seen some small ones turn out to be big problems. Warpers, shifters, holograms, magic, carnies, just to name a few."
That, apparently, was not the level of concern that Jessica of the Minimum Wage Employee Tribe was expecting in this Time of Crisis.
"What are you two doing? Do your job and arrest these people!"
Agent Sam Magraff asked, "Could you tell us exactly what they have done, ma'am?"
"They're here, scaring away our normal customers!"
As if her little meltdowns were such an attraction to the establishment?
"Shopping," Karen said. "Past tense now, I'm afraid. I'm Karen Rodebaugh, by the way, and this is my ward, Matthew Groenwald."
The Rookie leaned down to Matthew's level to ask, "Has this lady or anyone else asked to see your MID card?"
"Um, no? You wanna see?"
"Sure thing, sport."
While the Rookie proved that he could read, Sam asked, "Jennifer, is there a last name to go with that?"
"Ramsey."
"Miss Ramsey, then. Why didn't you ask for identification? Mutants are required to have proper identification, you know."
"Just look at the creature! I don't need to see its badge."
Behind Sam, the Rookie was saying, "... you, Mister Groenwald. Let me check this. Now, you didn't go and tell anyone you're a big, scary mutant, did you?"
"Mrs. McCurdy said it wasn't funny and that I shouldn't do it again."
"That's right, you shouldn't. You'll understand when you're older. Sam? ID's valid." Rookie smiled, "I think we all need to head back to the office to cool down."
Miss Jennifer Ramsey wasn't having that. "Not everyone, surely. You've already got the mutant and its accomplice."
Sam shook his head, "My partner, Agent Lascalle, is right. You're as much a part of this paperwork drill as the kid and his babysitter."
"Governess, actually."
"My apologies, Miss."
"But! No, this isn't right!"
"Miss, we're being as nice as we can be for a crank call. Given the chaos around us, I've half a mind to request that you be held for testing."
"What did I do wrong?"
"This could be a distraction for mutant-related criminal activities elsewhere, and that's just for starters. For the record? If a mutant manifested this young, you would have much bigger problems to deal with than shrieking for help. Today must be your lucky day, because Matthew here is only the victim of god-knows-what kind of crazy inventor shit."
"You know this ... er, kid?"
Oh, good. Maybe she can be taught.
"Since he was in diapers, young lady."
2010's New Year's Eve (another day, another what?)
Undisclosed suburban home near Detroit, Michigan.
Matthew and Father waited until after dark before leaving for the special "Boys Night Out" party. One of many things that Hal Groenwald had taught his toy was that other folks would get jealous of their special evenings if they saw who was and wasn't invited. That's why it would be really, really bad if anyone told about the parties. It left Mattie confused. The police were being paid to keep things quiet. If they got paid, didn't they know what they were being paid for?
Heck, the game systems, video players, special games furniture, and everything else inside the house must've cost more than those police ossifers Matthew never saw. That is, except for the dress-up police costumes. He'd seen those upstairs. He didn't like when they weren't cleaned up between parties, but he wasn't allowed to complain.
Anyway, they must've still gotten there early. Mattie couldn't hear more than a couple of other boys playing. After taking Matthew's and Father's coats and stuff, "Uncle Bob" came back with a cup of fruit punch and a unicorn pony plushie. Prince Blueblood or someone? It was okay and all. Back at school, they didn't see how showing "My Little Pony Friendship Is Magic" helped make boys into men.
Matthew chugged the punch. Just in case, because they might be playing one of those games later.
"Um, thank you?"
Hal reminded his boy, "Good Boys thank their father's friends properly for gifts."
"Yes, Father."
At least he hadn't forgotten who to call "Sir" or not (Father). That game changed too often to be sure.
Mattie didn't want to be a Good Boy any longer. But he couldn't think of a way out of it before "Uncle Bob" sat down and got comfortable. He got down on his knees like his father had taught him about Good Boys.
"Don't look so surprised, Mattie. I know your father has taught you how to put that pretty little tongue to use."
What if this game wasn't fun anymore?
Does it still count?
Maybe he wanted to be a Bad Boy? Bad boys got punished. Sometimes they didn't get to come back. Matthew remembered Miss Karen telling him, "Bad boys run from their problems. You had to be caught to be punished, right?"
He didn't have his clothes. They were put away first thing. Maybe he could hide better without them? A knock at the door and it was opened to let in more Fathers and their Good Boys.
Still holding on to that accursed unicorn toy, Matthew bolted through the door and out into the snowy Michigan night.
Early New Year's Day,
Detroit Medical Center.
Dr. Oswald looked up from his patient's chart to face the patient's so-called parent. There was a resemblance, but he wouldn't bet a paycheck on a paternity test coming back positive.
"Mr. Groenwald, I'm glad you were able to come in so quickly. There wasn't an answer at your home, so we were beginning to worry about whether we'd be able to contact next of kin."
"It's quite all right. My wife often goes to bed early, even on the holidays. How is it?"
"Serious but stable. Matthew's, er, unique situation?"
"The MCO has attested that whatever has been done to him in prenatal care, he remains as human as you or I."
If Dr. Oswald had to bet on any two of the three being human, Mr. Groenwald wouldn't be on that list.
"Yes, well. In any case, he's very lucky" to be alive "to not be suffering from severe frostbite. His body's resources are severely depleted, so we're keeping him in a medically induced coma while we slowly bring his core temperature back up. Can you think of anything that would have caused him to run out into the cold like that?"
"Matthew's... special," Hal said, leaving who or what he was special for unspoken. "We have to be careful to not accidentally encourage him to act on his impulses. I suspect one of the other youngsters dared him to play with his new unicorn toy outside. Before we knew it, he was gone."
"Were any of the other children naked?"
Dr. Oswald knew the answer, but he didn't believe it.
"Of course not! Like I said, Matthew's special. We've enrolled him in a school that offers a structured environment. We thought that it had been having an effect! And, now, this setback. I fear that you may need to place him in restraints before he wakes up. A hospital is such a scary place for a child."
"Yes. I understand" that an investigation won't turn up anything conclusive.
"This might sound harsh, but when will Matthew be released? Aside from this incident, he's been doing better than when we tried public schools. Classes start back up soon."
"We're short-staffed as it is. So, we may discharge him by the day after tomorrow."
"Very good. Do keep us informed."
Outside.
Before Hal reached his car, his cell phone rang. It was too early in the week for Adele to be up and about, so he might as well take the call.
"Hey, Hal! I hear our prodigal child has been found."
"Found, but not yet returned, Bob. I informed the staff that Matthew's a special needs child. When he wakes up, they won't believe half the things coming out of its mouth. Like they could prove any of it."
"Sure, sure. Loose lips sink ships and all that. That explanation might not hold up when he gets older."
"Adele's been ready to sign involuntary commitment papers for the last couple of years. That school isn't cheap, but psych care is out for blood."
"You don't have to tell me! Anyway, the reason I called is that I've heard of a place that takes in damaged goods and manages to get some use out of them, no questions asked."
"How much is that going to cost us?"
"That's the best part! They pay a finder's fee and take over from there. Minimum age is twelve, give or take, so I'm figuring that you're only out two years tuition to trim one loose end."
"Best news I've had in days, Bob. Fax me the details when you get a chance."
"Will do. Oh, by the way, Happy New Year!"
A Happy New Year for some of us!
Sure, a couple of the guys might be sad to see Matthew go, but they'll get over it. They always do. There's always new meat if you know where to look.
June 2010,
Amtrak Rail Station, Detroit, Michigan.
Matthew's shout, "Miss Karen!" carried well across the noise and bustle of passengers unboarding or rushing to board the train for the remainder of its route. Of course, it did. Shouldn't a military boarding school be expected to teach that?
Karen Rodebaugh turned to see her uncharacteristically animated summer charge waving for attention. The shorter boy with Matthew Groenwald wore a similar khaki polo shirt and dark slacks. That Matthew had made a friend was a surprise, but not one she couldn't work with. Her remit only required her to limit the boy's familial attachments whilst avoiding psychological collapse. That latter part was becoming more uncertain. She'd have to get to the bottom of that before unacceptable damage could be incurred. She caught Matthew's eye and nodded her acknowledgment. Hired professional as she was, it wouldn't do to encourage rowdy behavior while he remained under his parents' roof.
The other boy had been her responsibility for the first one or two winters that Matthew had been away at boarding school. If Albert Miller was here, he couldn't be alone, could he? Of course not. Some parents are actually responsible. The retired Colonel maintained a certain uprightness to his bearing, even in casual wear. Karen might have resented it back when she was the childrens' age, but the world had its ways of bringing the high and mighty back down to earth. The Millers' youngest son had been born with a cleft palate and harelip. Thank whatever gods there were that surgery is available for that!
"Miss Rodebaugh. Surprising to see you here!"
"Colonel Miller, Mrs. Miller, a pleasure to see you – and unless I miss my guess, Albert – again. As to Damian?"
"He's delayed his return to take advantage of... 'Cultural opportunities' is what I believe they're calling it these days."
"In the company of Miss Evers?"
"Er, yes. She has a certain staying power with regard to the boy. Be that as it may, how does Bertie's friend know you?"
"I served as governess for that household when he was younger. Since then, he's been what you might call my summer appointment."
"So, he will not be left alone with..."
Mrs. Miller interrupted, "John! Not in front of the children."
"I wasn't going to spell it out. Bertie and Matthew have gotten on well enough that we, my wife and I, have considered inviting him to spend the summer break with us."
"That, I trust, will not be necessary."
"You have concerns as well, then. After last Christmas break, the school certainly has."
More than concerns.
"Some, which I am not in a position to discuss." As if there were enough evidence for an inquiry. The bastard and his cronies were too good at cleaning up after themselves. "However, there is no reason to keep the two young friends separated. If desired, I can make arrangements?"
"If you would be so kind, please do so. You have our numbers."
Matthew came up to the adults, winded, with his olive-drab duffel bag and the younger Miller in tow.
"Miss Karen? Do you think it would be alright if Bertie comes over sometime?"
Judging by their postures, certainly not with Bertie's parents! But there was no need to throw them under the bus.
"I can take it up with your parents," Karen paused before saying, "Your father might enjoy—"
Matthew's words tumbled out, "Or maybe I could go over to Bertie's? I mean, Father has his own things! And Bertie's sure to be tired of seeing my face. So, could we forget I said anything?"
Karen pursed her lips at the near-confession. "Well, then. Let me know if you change your mind." Along with exactly who makes you change it. "Colonel, Mrs. Miller, Albert, it has been a pleasure seeing you and your family again. I'm sure I can find something age-appropriate to engage young minds before the summer's over."
As she led her charge away from his chance of a safe harbor, Karen began planning for the balancing act between supporting the boy's socialization and culling him from the pack. She had no doubt that she'd strike that unhappy medium. Bertie was poised to rise socially; Matthew was not. Come the following summer, there'd be less interest as the boys necessarily drifted apart. One more summer after that, it wouldn't be her problem to sort out.
Be all of that as it may, Karen had her own job to do. Assess damages now, costs as they come. Once she and her charge arrived at the empty (for the moment) family home, she gestured for him to set down his luggage and follow her to the guest restroom.
Cutting off his escape routes, she ordered, "Take the washcloth and acetone from the vanity. Once you have, I want you to use those to remove any concealer or foundation you may be using."
As if Matthew's tears weren't evidence enough, his sharp hiss when the solvent hit a new laceration cinched the deal.
"Do continue. When I'm satisfied you are no longer hiding facts from me, we are going to have a long talk. Do you understand, Matthew?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"No, you don't. However, we can work with that."
Years earlier,
Geneva, Switzerland.
Irene Savatier sat motionless in the leather chair afforded her before M'sieur's desk. The polished oak panels and leather-bound books on the shelves on either side of the room spoke of power and of silence. From the single strand of seed pearls encircling her neck to the leather pumps adorning legs crossed at her ankles, she presented herself as one accustomed to standing close to but apart from such power. A valued employee she may be – owing in part to few of her peers caring at all for her specialties – this was as much an interview as the one that brought her to this point.
"As I understand it, you remain very highly recommended for future work. That is to say that the Compte's family will be feeling the repercussions of your departure for some time to come."
"One is only as good as their next job. I take it there is an opening elsewhere?"
"There is. I am forced to admit that it is well suited to a graduate of a certain program formerly offered in Berlin."
Irene's eyes narrowed slightly. Whatever this task was, it either was not to M'sieur's liking, or there was a deeper reason for him to play the part of a grudging provider of services. Either way, Irene took the pause as a cue to redouble her attention.
"Such things happen in business. You were saying?"
"A certain Holger Groenwald's wife has been having issues with their second child. Unknown to them, this child is the product of a research lineage. It'll be useless to its sponsors dead. Nor should it be rendered nonfunctional for lack of skills and training. Indeed, it should be primed for training by such handlers as may be assigned. The daughter is of little concern. So long as the subject and family remain unaware of the nature of your work, do as you see fit there."
"When do I start?"
"The child should be released from hospital care before the Monday after next. My assistant will have the necessary briefing materials ready for you on the way out."
"There's something else?"
"Although Mr. Groenwald has German ancestry, it would be foolish to assume anything stemming from that."
"It rarely pays to be a fool."
"Words to live by, Karen. Do remember to pick up that briefing packet on your way out."
August 2010,
Michigan, under a full summer's moon.
Summer days in the North American interior were too long and too hot for comfort. The nights were too short for rest. Karen, formerly Irene (formerly many other names), sighed and reminded herself that one does what one can and then retires as best one can.
There were times when Karen almost enjoyed cock-blocking Groenwald. If her position hadn't required a certain deft touch, she'd have taken joy in doing something far more pointed to the sick bastard. She had maybe two years to fit together the broken pieces before her sponsors repossessed Matthew. She still didn't know what had been introduced into the germline to cause the kid to be born with two hearts, blackened blood, and too much intelligence for comfort. However, she wasn't paid to pry into matters beyond her remit! Whatever the reason, he took to her special lessons like fire to gasoline. Hal likely does not recall the last time he tried using handcuffs without barring the door against escape. His awfully wedded hellspawn of a wife recalls even fewer of her evenings. Even with her training, she hadn't discovered where or how Matthew was getting whatever he'd added to the liquor cabinet.
The boy's dreams were growing unsettling to match the trauma and stress in his life. Tonight, so far, they'd both been quiet. Time to light a candle, drink some untampered wine, and break out the cards. A couple of Celtic Cross spreads to settle her mind, and then she'd get down to business. DeVille had taught her not to put any stock in any powers that she didn't control. And yet, she still found reading the cards to be an effective way to relax and review her mental state. It was also a fine way to pull in some drinking money off the marks.
"Perhaps, cherie. Beware, though, that someone seeks to make a mark out of you."
Karen startled awake. Who was this? How'd they get in without setting off an alarm or waking her up? Damn, she was getting rusty.
"This could be a dream, n'est-ce pas?"
The red-haired woman seated across the table from Karen was pale as death, her cheeks rouged with sin, and her sportscar red lips painted like temptation. She picked up Karen's wine glass, swirled the liquid within, and inhaled the aroma before taking a swallow. Candlelight danced in the glass after she set it back down and smiled faintly.
"Fine for its vintage, but it lacks the fire to satisfy. Toujours la vie."
"The master of the house purchased it more for the cachet than the palate."
"You give him entirely too much credit, Marie Brigid."
No one could know that name!
"No one living may remember your name, but the dead? They have a long, hard time forgetting."
The woman turned over a card. The Empress's throne was carved from bone and ebony, her mouldering courtyard laid out in stone and wrought iron. "This one covers them, non?"
Marie Brigid's mouth was too dry to answer. She smiled, nodded, and tried to remember her rosary.
"Oh, and this one? He crosses them." The Devil laughed while he improvised tortures for those huddled at his feet, chained by their own sins. But locks can be picked and chains broken. "But they cross him too, should they dare to. Once in a great long while, they come to an agreement."
"But a trump? The conflict extends beyond the here and now."
The pale woman said, "Toujours. Let's look further."
The next card was worse. Beneath it all: Debauchery. A champagne fountain of seven cups overflowed with blood, tears, and other souring or decaying fluids. "Why must it always fall to the children to pay for the evil done them? Who will put them back together when the party's over and it's time to clean up?"
Marie Brigid had no answer. That was just the way the world had always worked. Give it a chance, and you'd be drowned, buried, blasted to pieces, and burned alive.
The Three of Swords now sat to the left. "Behind them always Sorrow... *tch*."
At the head of the unfolding spread, the Prince of Wands was shown from above. The Hanged Man's cross was now the handlebars and frame of the man's ride. The spear he carried looked ready to catch on something and throw him off. Marie Brigid would have bet he'd already lost one eye from battle or by accident. "Above them is one headstrong young man."
To the immediate right, and finishing the cross, was the Worrying Five of Disks. This time, it showed five stacks of six silver coins on its face. "Troubles going to get bad. There's a tithe to be paid if anyone is to move forward."
Another turn of the cards and the Fool dallied on a precipice. This time, he wore a field pack that looked too heavy for the narrow ledge he stood on. Was the dog at his feet leading him or tripping him? "The Fool is some powerful magic. Just ask Old Man Nancy about roots. Everything lies in front of the Fool because he's gone and lost everything behind him. People who would go searching for power should learn from that. They rarely do."
The next card set down in the hanged man's tree showed two towers lit by the balefire from dead stars reflected in a tarnished scythe of a copper moon. "The path of the Wise always runs through the Vale of The Shadow. Whatever them shadows hold, it's something they need to face. No way out but to keep going through."
"What they want? Oh my, your cards are feeling their oats tonight, aren't they?" Who wouldn't recognize the twin piers of the Brooklyn Bridge or the awful sight of people falling to their death, caught between battling egos? "Love, there are times I've wanted to watch it all burn down too, but this ain't no time for that. Now, let's stop this foolishness. Cut the deck, dear, and let's see what its hiding."
Marie Brigid did so. The cards felt as real in this dream as ever. The top card now? Nine rusted swords dripped blood under a poison rain. There's a Cruelty, setting mind against body.
"When someone's been poisoned in the heart, soul, and mind, giving them bandages and bindings only prolong the suffering. All that evil has to bleed itself out 'til the water runs clear, or everyone falls."
"Next: what's to come? That's the sixty-four thousand krugerrand question." The final card to be laid down showed a seated woman holding a gossamer swath of fabric, or was it netting or lace? Either way, it hung between her beautifully gnarled, outstretched hands. It hid nothing. It obscured everything. The visitor smiled through teeth stained from coffee or pipe tobacco or a hasty bayou burial... but the candlelight reflected off her eyes like sharp steel pins. "Them's as won't see what they're doing aren't likely to understand just whose attention they've drawn. That don't balance the scales, but it's a start."
Karen's visitor took a long, hard pull on a silver flask she'd brought along before staring deep into her host's eyes. "And what about me, you're thinking? Sometimes, the only way to set a bone so that it heals right is to break it again. The only way to let creation's light shine is to break the beautiful spheres set around it. Patience, Marie Brigid, patience."
Karen woke up stiff, having dozed off in the middle of preparing for her reading. Just another sign she wasn't getting any younger. Her wine glass was empty. A lingering scent of pipe tobacco smoke drifted past her. Ten tarot cards lay on the table, each with its preferred symbols and scenes. She rose to check on her charge.
I hope someone got kissed, because we are so getting screwed.
Morning, August 20, 2012,
Groenwald Residence, Bloomfield Hills, Michigan.
Back from dropping Matthew off at the train station, Karen double-checked the time by the kitchen's wall clock before retrieving a second-hand cell phone from under a drawer. She could have just as well as left it on the tasteful-for-the-season granite counter for all the likelihood of Madame stumbling upon it in this room of this house in her usual morning condition. The girl was off enjoying the last week of summer vacation with her ill-bred and ill-mannered pack of friends after "reassuring" her young brother that "Mommy only drinks because Daddy likes to fuck you, not her." Karen couldn't be free of this damned place soon enough.
"Speak."
"The trash is out by the curb. Do have someone pick it up before ten."
"The pickup's been scheduled. Any other complaints? Ma'am?"
"There's nothing that cannot keep."
Karen placed the phone into her purse. Like herself, it still had a few more stops to make before being retired.
Her single concession to sentiment was the deck of cards tucked in the bottom of her purse. Everything else was meticulously staged window dressing. She could be wearing muddy jump boots, and most bystanders would still only notice her lavender off-shoulder blouse or how her black miniskirt swayed in time with each step. It would be disgusting if it weren't simply how the average person sees things.
Leaving the sterile brushed steel, black enamel, and polished stone kitchen, she was reminded of the first time Mattie had opened up to her. He'd just happened to go walkabout on the morning of her day off and confirmed Karen's suspicion that the four-year-old caught on to more than others realized. That would prove a useful lever on future behavior. That day, she'd found him in the kitchen, back to the wall, staring at the bright metal appliances. Four bloody years old, and already he couldn't bear sitting with his back to a door.
Mattie looked up at her through watery eyes and said, "I can't see me." He yanked his head back down, expecting to be slapped again for speaking out of turn.
The mother had started getting worse around that time, hadn't she?
"Beg pardon?"
"I can't see me. It's all shiny like mirrors, but I can't see me! Miss Queta says you can't see ghosts in mirrors either." The child looked up, damp hazel eyes searching for something secure to hold on to, "Miss Karen, am I supposed to be dead like Mommy says?"
Karen knelt down beside him and stared at that same cold steel.
"I don't see me either. Imagine that!"
"I, I know."
"Then it must be all right, mustn't it?"
Mattie pulled his knees up to wrap his arms around his shins, "We're both ghosts."
"Aren't we all?"
Karen left the house. She didn't look back.
Some nights, she'd pray she'd learn how to look back.
Well before sunrise, January 12, 2017,
The Village, Whateley Academy.
Maire Brigid walked down a roadway illuminated by the flicking candlelight from her lantern. She gave no thought to the risk of tripping on an unseen stone or pothole; she'd learned to bypass mundane traps as a child. Two towers ahead and above her held greater dangers. Beacons atop the towers enticed the eye away from searching out roadmarks. Each darkened the shadows to either side of the road as if each sought to deprive travelers of finding any safety on the other tower's side. The only lights left in the sky by which to navigate were dead stars shining malevolently with actinic balefire. The ruddy sickle of a moon refused to take either side or to cede even a moment of its time to the day.
"The path of the Wise always runs through the Vale of The Shadow. Whatever their shadows hold, it's something needed, rarely wanted. They must pursue whatever that may be, whatever the cost."
Turning to either side, I lose the opposite tower's light. I cannot know which is correct until after I've chosen, but no one said life was fair, save idiots.
As Byron said, "He'd... turn'd his coat — and would've turn'd his skin."
Break room, Doyle Medical Center.
Maire Brigid Delacroix paid little attention to the bright winter sunlight piercing the break room windows. The crumbs of an excellent pastry lingered on a paper plate pushed to the side while she updated her journal. The black coffee to the side was a bitter reminder that this was still a hospital.
One of the many problems with dream work was that one couldn't entirely trust one's memory of a past pattern no matter how often or how exactly it repeats. The dreamer now isn't the dreamer then. On the one hand, last night's dream could be a subconscious warning against chasing shadows and losing her way. On the other, it could be a warning against relying on false dichotomies or on safe middle grounds. Chart my own course, and the devil take the hindmost? That was the first and last lesson taught to the human weapons honed at DeVille Academy.
That road had led her to the gates of Whateley Academy. Her last interview with M'sieur left no doubt that this open-ended assignment would be her last and the most difficult. Over the years, her best talents were hired to mold her charges for leadership. In other cases, her job was to permanently clip the wings of fledglings who neither would nor could be allowed to fly with the eagles. This time, she was hired to guide her charges neither into nor away from power but in whichever direction their own best interests lay.
As if a teenager knows what's best for them! Back then, she'd thought she'd known what was best, but she'd been wrong many times since.
Dr. Wyatt Cody's deep, throaty voice interrupted Maire's meditations on dream-clouds in her coffee.
"Second-guessing yourself again, Doctor?"
Maire closed the journal. It was something that was hers, not something to share out at the going rate. Speaking of such, according to some accounts, she couldn't even afford her colleague's rates.
"Always, Doctor. 'Know thyself. Nothing to excess. Surety brings ruin.' Curious that the Oracle makes no attempt to exempt herself from her own statements, isn't it?"
"The Bear marks its own territory."
"Is that observation your own or your mentor's?"
"Yes."
Perhaps it was best that Wyatt's roguish smile wasn't meant to win his way into Maire's pants. She wouldn't mind that, but balancing work relationships with personal relationships was treacherous, even on a good night. Maybe in a few years, he'd grow a real personality to replace twenty-something attitudes?
He fiddled with something under the table (Maybe she did need to get laid if she was going to be that easily distracted!), then continued, "Now that we've established that each of us is nominally awake and breathing, how about telling me what's on your mind?"
"My one o'clock. The one you dumped on me. Remember?" Maire hid a half-mocking smile behind her coffee mug.
"No choice in the matter. With me, he'd be spending the entire session on guard against any sort of induction or relaxation script. Baloo worries that the rock stuck in his head has some tricks the boy hasn't learned about yet."
"Let the new girl defuse the primed explosive?"
"Actually, it's more like let the employee hired to help this kid do her job."
Maire shook her head.
"That would be much easier to believe if access to his records weren't blocked. I need to know what I'm getting into."
"All I can comfortably say is that there are ways to sabotage a patient's records such that the counselor becomes a danger to the patient. Magic and psychological manipulation are two broad but subtle methods that come to mind. Both have been used here and at ARC over the years, and the results have not been pretty."
"What can you tell me about my case?"
Dr. Cody said, "I can tell you that I'll be next door, fully clothed and ready to call Security at the first sign of unusual trouble. On the bright side, at least it opens up some breathing space in my schedule."
Dr. Delacroix's Office.
Whateley's IT security was good, but in addition to her own training, Maire had decades of dealing with bright but troubled youths who'd been handed top-of-the-line gear by Mum and Da. Screw this withholding of information she needed to do her job properly! Mazarin would probably claim it was good for her cerebral circulation or some such crap. On the other hand, Maire didn't expect there to be so many interests focused on the boy's records. What the Hell had he managed to do? She also didn't expect to be interrupted by a heavily-encrypted telephone call on her personal telephone.
"Doctor Delacroix speaking, might I ask who's calling?"
The female voice sounded amused. "I'd say you just did. I go by Colombine."
It was odd to hear the theatrical pronunciation in this day and age. Maire would bet hard currency that this Colombine was not so much a pigeon as she might be the only sane person in a Harlequinade.
"Colombine, then. Are you calling about obtaining an appointment?"
"Not for myself, no, although you're the second person today to suggest I do so. I'm calling in regard to the sudden interest in records pertaining to one Benjamin Xiáng Keeling."
"All that I may say to you is that he is currently my patient, and I will be rather cross if anyone should interfere with today's appointment." The doctor disliked making thinly-veiled threats, but too many of the children attending school here mistook power for license. Too many schoolchildren, period.
Colombine laughed, "No, no. I wouldn't dream of doing that. In fact, he's right outside your office. See you soon!"
Of all the childish, time-wasting pranks! Worst of all, it had worked.
Someone knocked on the door. The sound filled the office without rattling the lock in the doorjamb, as would have come from someone pounding at the door.
Maire called out, "Come in." Much like the case with vampires, it was important that the client takes the first steps of their own choosing.
The young man entering was physically older than a freshman would normally be. One rarely saw a right-hand dominant switch to a left-hand hold on the door, which he did so he could turn right to check for anyone behind him. Once the door clicked shut, he continued into the office, right hand out for a handshake. He only met her eyes with his own right eye, leaving the impression he was looking to the left of her.
The boy was blind in his left eye. No one thought to mention a functional disability?
"Hello, I'm Benjamin Keeling."
"Doctor Delacroix. Where would you prefer to sit?"
Benjamin's composure slipped a little. He didn't enjoy sitting with his back to windows, but this wasn't a ground floor, nor were they in an urban downtown. He pointed to her desk chair, eyebrows arched as if to ask if that was an option. A test of trust?
There were too many students and staff with PTSD here. Casually forcing them to choose between having the windows or the door behind them was inexcusable.
Dr. Delacroix nodded and said, "I'll take the couch then. I assure you it's quite comfortable, and the windows are reinforced to meet hurricane-force winds."
"That... makes sense. I just don't like having my back to doors."
"Or having doors on your blind side?"
Benjamin's shoulders slumped by millimeters, but not into a teenaged slouch. Someone had taught the boy well.
"Or that, yes." He favored her with a half-smile, "Is there a sign over my head reading 'half-off on damaged goods'?"
Deflection.
"That might explain the four out of five lights."
None of this explained the creeping suspicion that she knew this young man from somewhere. For one thing, she would have remembered those jade-green eyes. There was no mention of a shapeshifting or exemplar trait, so he might have come by his slender build by genetics. Street memories told her she was actually looking at neglect. The young man's skin tone had been masked by a skillful use of cosmetics. If she mentally subtracted the makeup and a few years and added hazel contacts ... but that child was long lost with no hope of return... This child was far too alert (hypervigilance? And what would be the reasons for that?) to allow her time for woolgathering.
While she'd been jotting notes, Benjamin had shifted in the chair, placing some of his weight on the forearm resting on his left leg. The forward-leaning posture suggested intentional attentiveness. Was he studying her?
"Is there something wrong, Doctor?"
"I'm sorry," Maire said. "I was in the process of reviewing records when you arrived, so I may be missing some details. A pity about your transcripts going walkabout. Shall we start with where you were born, grew up, that sort of thing?"
"Are you asking as my doctor or on behalf of someone else?"
Hypervigilant. Suspicious. Calculating. At sixteen, Keeling can't possibly have recovered from whatever happened during the gaps in his records without help. Was his attitude over-compensation for being isolated from other children his age? Even then, where could it have come from?
"As one of your doctors. I should warn you against any attempts to play one side against the other. Also, I need you to know that I take confidentiality very seriously."
"We'll see, won't we? I was born in Detroit, though I'm told I don't sound like it. Go figure. The matching birth certificate should read October twenty-ninth. The fewer reminders in my life of that time and those people, the better. I consider November fifth my birthday and Kapalangpur my home now."
"When you say 'those people', are you referring to your birth parents, or were you already in the foster system?"
Acid dripped from Benjamin's voice. "Holger Groenwald and Adelheid Jensen, a.k.a. Hal and Adele Groenwald, both of whom can and should burn in Hell for what they have done and what they have failed to do. Oh. And Lizzie. She can fuck the Hell right off this Earth too."
The names attached to the cursing were far too familiar. Hal and Adele Groenwald? Detroit? Maire would almost have preferred to learn of Leonides Daibliku or Celestina Valocco being the boy's parents. But, of course not. They cared for their children.
He's watching my reactions. Well, then. If this is someone's idea of a trap, they're about to sit in on a master class.
"Benjamin, have you told anyone else about this? Or, perhaps, this is something you've heard recently?"
The image of a young woman with spiky purple hair rezzed into a sitting position on the leather chair's armrest. Her voice matched that of the earlier caller. Interesting.
"My suggestion would have been to tell the couple to find a safe place far away with strong locks and big dogs. Oh, and never, ever turn out the lights! Our employer has other ideas."
"It's the lawyers that have other ideas, Cee."
Maire interrupted, saying, "Hold on. I know for a fact that the couple you two are referring to only had one son, and he has been missing since 2012."
"You think? The newspapers that ignored my abduction reported that you were murdered that same day in August, Miss Karen. One can turn up ever so much with the modern internet."
Dr. Cody's Office
Dr. Mazarin's office was, by far, too far a walk in her rage. Too many students to get in the way, not enough necks to snap to sate the anger. To his credit and self-preservation, Wyatt Cody acknowledged and yielded to the blazing fire in Maire's eyes. He didn't attempt to dodge the incoming slap. Instead, he rolled with it to keep Dr. Delacroix from breaking her hand.
Delacroix screamed in Cody's face, "How dare you?"
* Well, boy, you knew the child was one of her cubs. *
The Kodiak wasn't wrong. Right or wrong, they still had a job to do here.
Wyatt said, "Would you prefer the truth, or would a convenient lie work better for now?"
"The truth."
"Done. As I've told him already, I'll expect the same in return from you. The truth is that there is damned little that I, or the staff of this school, won't do to give these kids a better chance of walking out of here as whole human beings than they arrived with. Sometimes, that requires us to take a shortcut or two through the mud."
Maire looked ready to say something, but Wyatt held up a hand. Wait.
"Some of them arrive here like me: one half chock-full of myself, the other half nothing but insecurities, and the rest nothing like a person I'd want existing around my children. Others arrive in shock from the trauma of manifesting as a mutant and the bewildering changes that that brings. Then there are those who have been hurt badly, barely patched together again, and sent back out in the cold to see what new injuries they could collect. But do you know who are the saddest cases? Hell, they don't even know that they've been hurt!" Cody snarled the rest, "And why? Because life has always been that way for them. They've never known better."
"Ma— Belfry fits that bill. Why hide his records from me?"
"Even those records provided to us in good faith have gaps and potholes in them. We took a chance on the possibility that you might know him. If we were wrong, we'd still have a practiced expert on child and adolescent development on hand to work with him. Him, and too many others. Did you know that we have a child – on this campus – whose own government can't allow him to talk about what was done to him? I'm not sure they even know."
Maire took a deep breath to compose her thoughts and emotions and sat down.
She said, "The answer to one of the questions you should want answered is that yes, Benjamin Keeling was once Matthew Groenwald."
"Please go on."
"My professional and personal opinion is that not much of Matthew's personality is left. When I last saw him alive, he was... defeated, for lack of a better word. Defeated by life at the age of eleven-going-on-twelve." Maire wiped away a tear that threatened to give her away. For once, she was grateful that her reputation would have that chalked up to method acting.
Wyatt asked, point-blank, "What condition was he supposed to be in when he disappeared?"
"Better than you might think." Maire waved away the expected objection. "He was supposed to be educated to the extent that could be provided, left flexible in matters of ethics, alienated from the parents, and primed to break under minimal psychological pressure. The fact of the matter is that I was the only person in that house making any effort to raise him for the better part of eight years. The boarding school he attended provided the remaining structure and socialization in his life. Remove those two linchpins, and everything falls apart without resorting to more extreme measures."
"What do you think happened?"
"My gut feeling is that extreme measures were used, regardless of need or utility."
"Do you think you can work with him – the person he is now – despite your shared past? Professional ethics or not, I did say we would do just about anything here to help these kids heal."
She heard a voice, as if from a dream: Do you believe in second chances, ma chérie?
"Yes."
"But it's not a crime that you're here tonight
It's not some pilgrim who claims to have seen the Light
No, it's a cold and it's a very broken Hallelujah."
— Leonard Cohen, "Hallelujah"
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