Eric Quinn Knowles

The Magi are coming, the witch had warned her. She thought she had lost them somewhere near Boise, and if it were not for the witch, the monsters would have taken her by surprise and killed her. She had struck her bargain and fled over the mountains, taking only a light meal first; one just sprinkled with terror, for the doomed child had been willing. But nothing in her life had prepared her for the rigors of crossing snow-capped mountains on foot. If she had still been human, the journey would have killed her. That had been weeks ago, and even now, in the lush, green land on the west side of the Cascades, where food was plentiful, she dared not drink until she found what she was looking for. The pain of hunger in her belly numbed her thoughts, and her flesh had grown dry and brittle as old parchment. But the faint smell of salt in the breeze told her she was close.

Lamplight beckoned from across the park, drawing her from the woods onto manicured grass where dewy blades squished between her toes and cooled her parched, raw heels. But her thirst required something more, and she dared not drink until she knew where she was. She gasped as a pair of shadows broke through the lights. Knowing how the strangers would see her, she disguised her appearance with the hood of her jacket and approached them slowly, limping from the ache in her bones that ravished her body like a fever.

“Right as I was falling back, I threw,” a boy was saying. “I didn’t even know where Stevie was—just the general direction—and I just threw the ball.”

“How far?” a girl said, walking with her arm in his.

She drew closer.

“Sixty yards,” the boy said. “It was a bomb! Stevie had to run over two players to make a leaping catch in the end zone. The coach was stunned!” He laughed.

Football, she thought. Probably high school students. The girl was fawning over him in a way she understood. She remembered that life, the life she was chasing. They saw her then and stopped, the boy growing protectively rigid. In her state, he would be a challenge.

“Help me,” she croaked, hurting from the dryness in her throat.

“Is that a homeless person?” the girl said to her boyfriend, showing genuine concern.

She drew closer.

“What do you want?” the boy said as she drew within a few feet and stopped. She tried to speak again, but her tongue was swollen. Her fangs ached and her heart fluttered, anticipating blood. “What do you want!” the boy shouted.

“Lenny,” the girl chided him as she stepped cautiously around her boyfriend’s outstretched hand. “Are you okay?”

“Town?” She managed, straining to speak. “Where?”

The girl caught a glimpse of her face and winced. “Oh, dear. Lenny, we need to get her to the hospital.”

“Where?” She croaked with a final, desperate effort.

“Are you lost?” the girl said. “You’re in Reynald. Reynald.” The girl said it slowly, as if she were dense.

She swayed with the news, letting out a low moan of relief, then stumbled forward and fell conveniently into the girl’s reluctant embrace. It had to be Reynald. How could she have gone on, if it were not? I probably smell, she thought in a spontaneous flash of pity as the girl helped her to her feet.

“Meliah…” The boy meant to caution her, but too late.

Reaching the soft flesh of the girl’s throat was easy, made simpler by shoving the girl’s chin up and back. A sharp click followed the release of her fangs, which she plunged into the girl’s neck with the mad, impassioned fury of the starved. The girl shrieked and pushed, but the clasp of her bite hardened as blood sprayed the back of her throat en route to her belly. It was her first hot meal in two weeks. The boyfriend grasped her by the shoulders and pulled, shouting. When she wouldn’t let go, he hit her, but by then she had enough strength to deal with the ham-fisted youth.

She dropped the girl—a meal unfinished—and leapt onto the boy, bringing him down onto his back with her weight. Handsome, she thought as shoved his jaw aside to expose his neck. He screamed as she bit, surprised by her renewed strength. While the girl bled out onto the grass beside them—in her haste, she had used her full fangs and torn out the girl’s throat—she slaked thirst until he was on the verge of losing consciousness.

“The ring!” she demanded then, pinning the boy by the shoulder and forcing him to stare into her eyes, to see the blood and flesh of his girlfriend dripping from her fanged maw. The boy observed her mummified flesh softening, felt her strength becoming an iron anvil, and was hysterical with terror. “The Ring of Destiny. Where is it?”

“Why?” the boy cried, seemingly oblivious to her question.

“Where!”

“I don’t know!”

“You’ll tell me.” She smiled her bloody promise. “I have until the full moon, but you’ll tell me before dawn!” She cracked a fist across his jaw so that he would stop blubbering. After bemoaning the loss of her other meal, she took a single fistful of the boy’s hair and then dragged his bulky frame easily into the woods, towards the cave she had found on her way into town.

Reynald, she thought, elated by the life coursing through her veins. I made it!

***

Wednesday morning, Jared Wasson spent his free period munching absently on an apple at the Reynald Library. Other than home, the sleepy little library was the only place Jared felt comfortable, the only place where he welcomed anonymity. In the halls of Reynald High, where Jared transferred to just over a month past, he was much like a ghost, moving unnoticed from class to class; even the teachers ignored him at times, unless his was the only hand raised, calling on him reluctantly. Jared often felt as though the people around him were holding their breath while he passed them, anticipating trouble. In Gainesville, he had friends, he had been a successful athlete—until the accident. But in Reynald, it was like he was cursed.

Jared rolled the apple in his mouth, biting off a large, sour chunk. Perhaps he was a ghost; perhaps he had died and not known it, slipped in the tub, or been hit by a car while crossing the street; perhaps no one saw him because he wasn’t really there, walking amongst the living as if he were one of them. He had managed a few friends, like Dave and Trevor, but Jared felt like they only tolerated him.

I don’t belong here, he thought. He belonged at home, competing for State, for a scholarship or, in a few years, the Olympics. But all that had changed before Reynald. Jared rubbed his right thigh over the poorly mended break. I don’t belong here, he thought again, considering just how his destiny had been diverted. But here, I am.

He shifted on the stone bench in the library’s foyer, staring at the prized exhibit of the town founder, Jeremiah Reynald; a resin statue of the fabled frontiersman in his trademark deerskin suit, with arms and chest covered in archaic tattoos. Around the statue’s neck was a necklace, a broad ring of polished silver engraved with runes. Each finger was adorned with one—sometimes two—ornate rings of silver and copper. Probably bought those at a dollar star. It was an underwhelming presentation, if not for the medieval breast plate and square helm that stood behind and to the side of the statue. ‘The Armor of Reynald,’ a plaque read, ‘an exact replica of the chest plate and helm worn by Jeremiah Reynald in his war with the Indians.’

Jared checked his watch and sighed. This town sucks, he thought as he bit his apple, then synched his backpack over his right shoulder and limped back to Reynald High with time to spare before his next period. As usual, no one minded his presence. For a moment, Jared actually wondered if he was indeed dead. He stopped in the middle of a bustling hall just to see if anyone would notice, but the crowd merely flowed around him. Slowly, Jared found himself raising his arms out from his sides, but the crowd merely expanded around him mindlessly in an ever broadening arc. Only when the angle of his arms reached about thirty degrees did Jared notice an occasional nasty glance thrown his way. Mostly, the other kids carried on as if navigating a new boulder in the stream.

Jared’s arms continued to rise, even as he saw that he was forming a bottleneck. He had not considered just how far he would go with the experiment when a tall, pale boy wearing a trench coat and a yellow-striped black scarf stopped directly in front of Jared.

“You’re in my way,” said Charles Sheridan Helms.

Jared blinked in surprise, arms frozen in the air. “You see me?”

Sheridan observed Jared from head to toe with a quizzical look. “You might try theater.”

“What?”

“If you’re craving attention.” When Jared failed either to respond or to lower his arms, the boy said in what sounded faintly like an English accent, “as much as I loathe to sit in these dreary rooms, and to absorb the mindless prattle of my so-called peers, I have a Sociology paper to hand in. Do you mind?”

Jared dropped his arms, feeling stupid, and turned to let the boy pass.

“If you’re auditioning for a job, most of the corn fields are on the other side of the Cascades, thought you may need some makeup to look more authentic. The crows will never believe it, as you are,” Sheridan said as he slipped past.

Jared watched Sheridan until the tall boy disappeared around a corner, then continued on to his class.

***

By the end of the period, Reynald High was abuzz with the news that spread like wildfire in a windstorm; the body of Meliah Jones, a popular cheerleader, had been found mutilated and bloodless on the rocks below the Lookout. Jared picked up snippets of macabre gossip as he made his way to his locker. He knew Meliah by proximity, though she had never spoken to him. She was cheerful and popular. Lenny was just a douche bag, but Jared felt sorry for his parents and friends.

As news spread, some of the girls broke into tears, to be lead off to the counselor’s office by a comforting friend. The guys mostly stared at each other, disbelieving. The story, however, spread, and Jared had little difficulty catching the rumors.

“I hear Lenny killed her in some kind of sex-magic ritual,” he heard Sabrina Dorman tell a wide-eyed collection of attentive freshman. “They were drinking each other’s blood and he became possessed by a demon and threw her over the Lookout. And when he came to his senses and saw what he’d done, Lenny jumped over the cliff and killed himself. They’re waiting for the tide to bring in his body.”

“There’s no way he’d hurt Meliah,” Thomas Bukowski was agonizing with a group of fellow football players. “Yeah, he could have a temper when he drank, and he’d play rough a bit, but he’s not a killer.”

“It was a suicide pact. He killed Meliah, but then couldn’t do it himself. He left a note for his mom and ran away to Canada,” gossiped a pimple-faced kid Jared had never seen before.

“They deserved it,” a voice chortled, and was joined by others.

Jared turned to see who had spoken the latter. Albina Bronn and a trio of pale, gothic friends shared smirks beside the water fountain. She turned to Jared—who was staring, expecting anonymity—and sneered before returning to her gossip, as if he were beneath her concern. Distracted, Jared bumped into a passing student who complained loudly. “Sorry,” Jared said, and continued on for the cafeteria, shaking off Albina’s naked cruelty by turning his mind towards food.

His friends were at their usual table, near the back of the cafeteria. After waiting in line for his pizza bread and tater tots, Jared’s arrival was greeted with tacit approval. Jared ate his lunch quietly, listening with faint interest while Dave and John gossiped about Meliah’s murder and the disappearance of Lenny, but they offered nothing new. As usual, Nick and Trevor were in their own world, huddling over a book of world war two naval ships. Two months at Jeremiah Reynald High, and this was the best Jared had managed for friends. Still, they were a decent enough group of guys, and Jared always had a place at their table, or at least there was always an empty seat. And they were normal, which Jared knew would please his father. After his troubles in Gainesville, Jared needed normal.

Once his initial hunger was abated, Jared noticed Sheridan—the schools most notorious loner—who sat rigidly straight a few tables away, alone, nibbling on a cheese sandwich while staring down at a book. The seats directly around the notorious recluse—all prime, social real estate at the heart of the cafeteria—were empty. He didn’t have any trouble noticing me, Jared thought, remembering that he had made an ass out of himself earlier.

Rumors abounded about Charles Sheridan Helms: arrogant child of aristocratic parents; a boy whose genius tested in the top one percent of the world; serial killer; homosexual. No one talked to Sheridan, who did not seem to mind in the least. For all the world it seemed as if Sheridan Helms was content in his aloneness, which made him interesting. Shaking the thought from his mind, Jared refocused on his friends, but after a few minutes of being marginalized he turned back to stare at the pale boy, who closed his book and stared off in his thoughts, as if pondering what he had just read.

The boredom of the past month caught up with Jared. He was up and moving, lunch tray in hand and half way to Sheridan’s table before he realized what he was doing. He’s a trouble-maker, Jared thought, channeling his father’s voice, but it was too late to turn back and he was willing to take a chance. He sat on the same side of the table, leaving a single stool between them. Sheridan was raising his cheese sandwich when he realized he had company and stopped, sandwich halfway to his mouth, to offer Jared a cool, somewhat bewildered look.

“Hey—“ Jared started, then cleared his throat. He was more nervous than he expected. “Hey. I’m Jared.” The pale boy’s eyes lowered to appraise Jared’s outstretched hand with a look of curious disdain. After a painfully long silence, Sheridan returned to his book, opening the red-covered hardback to a page marked with a red silk ribbon. Jared tensed, embarrassed. What had he expected? Still, here he was, and now that he had committed himself, Jared was not about to fail. He licked his lips and tried again. “How’s it going?”

Sheridan’s chin snapped up. He slapped the book closed—The Murder Room, Jared noted—paused as if in prayer, then turned on his unwelcome visitor. With deliberate coolness, the boy scanned the cafeteria behind and around Jared, who turned to see what Sheridan was drawn to—nothing, near as he could tell. Finally, Sheridan settled on Jared. His eyes narrowed. “My dear boy, as you can clearly see, I am going nowhere—at least until that dreaded bell rings and I am forced to endure another period of wretchedly informed lectures.”

Jared had no idea how to respond. “I, uh… I’m having pizza bread.” He raised the cheese-covered wedge as proof and hated himself on the spot. “Sorry. I don’t know what the hell I’m saying. I noticed you were alone and I thought… ‘what the hell.’”

“Just so. I have sixteen more minutes to enjoy my cold, toasted cheese sandwich. To be followed closely by my customary libation.” He gestured toward an unopened can of Coke. “Both enjoyed best in the quiet solitude of contemplation.”

Jared noticed Charlotte, one of a group of cheerleaders at a nearby table, watching them, her dark eyes disapproving. Sheridan noticed as well. The look seemed to amuse him. “I thought a libation was an alcoholic beverage,” Jared said. Sheridan cocked his head slightly toward his visitor. The corner of his lips twisted into a wry grin.

At that moment, the new girl entered the cafeteria. Jared’s head was one of many that turned like a compass to find true north. Her skin was golden. She had long, straight black hair that dangled lazily to the middle of her back. She had warm, green eyes, perfectly full lips and gleaming white teeth. Her name was Sarah and she had a gift: when she talked to you, she knew you; you were her oldest, closest friend, and you would do or say anything to keep her near you, to continue basking in presence. Sarah had only just arrived and already her name was spoken kindly by almost every social click. Her popularity was uncanny.

While many of the students at Jeremiah Reynald High were cold and aloof, Sarah was kind, friendly; For Jared, she was a chance for a fresh start. He sat next to her in geometry class and he felt drawn to her in that moony, dizzying way that Jared knew could only lead to trouble, and he couldn’t care less. It was a sickness, really; a palpable longing that made Jared stupid; he felt it with some girls, and not always the prettiest or the most hospitable. It was an indiscriminant, consumptive sickness.

Sarah noticed Jared’s attention from across the crowded cafeteria and waved before being distracted by her growing entourage of admirers. Boys and girls were staring, some waving or beckoning, while a much bolder few jumped from their seats and attempted to join her, hoping to spark a bit of conversation. Through them all, Sarah waded towards Jared like a queen, causing his heart to flutter. He wasn’t used to fear, but in Reynald, Jared had no reputation to support him, no true friends to get his back. He straightened in anticipation, drawing Sheridan’s amusement.

“The new girl,” the pale boy said, smirking. “She makes quite an impression.”

“She does.” Jared gulped, the twisting web of anxiety and excitement wrapping around his chest as Sarah drew closer, slogging through her admirers. Was she actually coming to sit with him? They had only talked in brief spurts in geometry, and how many jokes could a boy make about obtuse angles and the hypotenuse? What would they to talk about?

Sheridan continued, his tone suggestive. “One might say: an unearthly charm.”

“She’s… perfect. You don’t like her?”

“Like is not part of the equation. I see. What I see at times will keep you awake at night.”

Jared’s smile broadened and then died as he saw Sarah turn to join the welcoming group of cheerleaders. Charlotte gave Sheridan a rueful look before putting on the charm and joining her friends as they greeted the newcomer with gossip, smiles and laughter.

“She talks to everyone,” Jared said with a sigh, poorly masking his disappointment. “Nerds, jocks, the generically unpopular, me—and yes, I put myself below the unpopular.”

“Open your eyes. You’re missing the details.”

Jared turned his frustration towards Sheridan. “And you are so observant, right?”

The pale boy’s nose raised slightly, his eyes scanning Jared. “Observation is the key, Wasson—yes, I know your name. For example, I can deduce by your attire that you are a recent arrival—“

“How?”

Sheridan smiled thinly, enjoying the challenge. “Despite the meager size of this town, its proximity to Seattle lends the local population to certain ambitions—style, as relates to our discussion. You’re wearing not just a tee shirt, but a simple one at that. Who are the Gators, anyway?”

Jared looked down at the faded emblem over his chest, dumbfounded. “They’re a football team, from my—“

“Home town. Of course. No one notices you, Wasson, because you don’t know your brands; Nike, Adidas. Perhaps you should try the Banana Republic.”

“Really,” Jared said as a warning.

“Partly. I suspect you don’t even own a proper brand. No. For you, it’s comfort; familiarity governs your choices. You’re from a small town in Florida—where else would one find a gator—but you don’t fit in here.” Sheridan’s eyes flitted towards the table behind Jared. “You’ve chosen the company of the socially inane, but why? These days it’s better to be a geek or nerd. I grant you, it took some nerve to come over here, and more to stay; given your general confidence, I’d say you were a jock in your previous location. You probably play a number of sports, but your obvious upper body strength reveals you as a wrestler.” His eyes drifted down to Jared’s thigh. “But I suppose that ended with your broken femur—it’s the nature of your limp that gives the location away. An accident?”

Jared stewed, grinding his teeth.

“The jocks are your rightful crowd. You have their look, speak their language. Yet you show a preference for the banal company of the inconsequential, who have yet to notice your departure, I might add. Shall I observe further?”

Jared’s jaw clenched. “And you’re alone because you’re a cold, callous, righteous bastard.” He stood.

“Just so.” Sheridan beamed. The smug boy waited triumphantly while blood rushed anger and humiliation to color Jared’s cheeks. His mind lost to emotion, Jared turned and walked away, cursing his limp as he left the cafeteria. Behind him, Sheridan watched, smirking slightly until he caught a frosty look from Charlotte.