Chapter Twenty-Four

Before her eyes had changed color, it was as if Nicolle was living with a blindfold impairing her, seeing only darkness. After developing her Artistry and joining the Chess Club, it was as if the blindfold had been removed and she was allowed to at last look out the window and see the splendor of creation. With the arrival of those from Kincaid Gardens �" with the arrival of their revelations and words �" that window was able to be opened; Nicolle crawled out of it and never looked back.

            For every one million people on the planet, there is one Artist, Ian Erlander told them. Natalia did the math in her head for them: an estimated seven thousand Artists walked the planet. One thousand Artists for each Artistry, she continued. And the number only grows.

            Who knew that such a world existed behind the monotony of everyday life? It was the type of thing that Nicolle and Adam would have written a story about as children: a city of superhumans, a place of refuge from the wiles of Fire Woman, a place where they belonged. Nicolle continually experienced pinch me moments throughout the following week, moments where she had to remind herself that this was actually happening. She was an Artist of the Black, and come graduation time, she was accepted to “study the science and secrets of your Artistry”, as Hugo Reid put it, at Kincaid Gardens.

            The Kincaid Garden trio made their temporary home at Riverlove Run, a campground on the outskirts of Savannah. Nicolle recalled the place, having camped there once as a child with her family, a failed experiment that resulted in her mother and father fist fighting. Their idiocy didn’t ruin the beauty of the grounds, though; high-dollar cabins decorated the forest, each built in a well-chosen location, some by small waterfalls, others atop breathtaking bluffs. The one Natalia and Ian selected was situated in the middle of a fork in the river; a bridge rose over the rushing water, leading to the front door, a bridge Nicolle and the others traversed every day after school.

            “Could we not get in trouble for being here?” Elyse had asked once.

            “The grounds are closed for part of the year,” Ian said. “No one will mind us here, or find us.”

            “I took the time to… secure permission… from the park administrator before our arrival,” Natalia said. “He was most agreeable.”

            “I bet he was,” Ian smiled. “What did he think of your Yellow Eyes, Nat?”

            Natalia’s grin was small. “He said they were lovely.”

            Learning had never been so much fun. Things they had only suspected as novice Artists were confirmed, and some things they’d never even thought of blew them away. Nicolle couldn’t follow some of the more scientific explanations that the older Artists gave, but Elijah and Dominic drank it up without tiring; Nicolle thought painfully that were Maria still alive she would follow Natalia around constantly for information, that look of excitement in her eyes.

             “How could the absorption of oxygen possibly affect space-time?” Dominic asked them one day, unable to keep from smiling. “I don’t understand!”

            “And yet you inhale and hold your breath the make time slow,” Ian told him, smiling as well. The teacher and the student, both loving their roles. “Much of Artistry is still unknown, even to our scientists, but it is clear that oxygen absorption is the fuel by which the Artist of the Green is capable of folding space and time.”

             “Theoretically, then, I could use my White Artistry to maximize Dom’s bodily capabilities and strengthen his management of his Green Artistry,” Elijah said. “Is that correct?”

            Ian turned to Natalia and grinned.

            “Listen to this,” he said.

            She shrugged. “Their Roland’s boys, what did you expect?”

            Roland’s boys spent a good chunk of their time with Ian Erlander, asking about his military service in Kincaid Gardens, or about the history of Artists; mostly their questions revolved around Roland himself. Information was scarce on the attractive man Nicolle had seen in the hanging picture a week ago; he arrived at Kincaid Gardens years ago, was considered a prodigy, grew in rank with the Gardens, grew in favor with others, and eventually vanished from public view. Both Eli and Dom were of the impression that he would likely return to the Gardens one day. They were resolved to meet him there, though the different looks she saw in the brother’s eyes when they voiced this sent a foreboding chill through Nicolle’s heart.

            She and Vee were with Natalia Hawthorne most of the time. A sisterhood had already sprouted up among them. There was really no other way to describe her: Natalia was groovy in a way that Nicolle was not, with her beautiful arm tattoos and the too-cool-for-school way she carried herself. Vee and Nicolle �" or rather, ‘Vee and Enn’ �" were interestingly exempt from the frosty way she regarded most others; this exemption made Nicolle feel cool herself, accepted by such a powerful, independent woman as Natalia.

            Elyse and Peter were around some days, but their families needed them at home more than the others. The Evil Three didn’t really seem attached to Ian, Natalia, or Hugo, but were still required to appear at times.

            “Required by law,” Natalia reminded Brooklyn one day after the girl complained. “Or don’t come… you’ll stand amazed by how little I care. We’ll tell your parents you contracted a rare virus and by tomorrow morning you’ll be in Artist prison.”

            “Without your phone,” Vee tossed in with a snarky smile. Brooklyn had the look of wanting to fight back, but her eyes returned to Natalia and she shrunk away. Behind the Artist of the Yellow Nicolle and Vee grinned at each other in triumph.

            Timmy, though… Timmy was there, but not with them. Hugo Reid stayed in a separate cabin down the river a mile or so; it was there that Timmy spent his days. Nicolle texted from time to time, curious of how he was taking this new life, or if he was okay. His replies were short and sparsely detailed, and sometimes he didn’t respond at all. Nicolle reflected that she should have been happy the boy was finally giving her space, and she was… but still. Something was unnatural. She didn’t really want to be his friend, nor did she miss him, but that did not mean that she wished him ill or pain. Given the opportunity, Nicolle would have liked to soften the hard expression on his face with a simple “hey Timmy”; that usually cured him of anything. But that opportunity did not come; she never saw him anymore.

            Everything was changing.

 

Twilight covered the woods; the sky was indigo up high, pink lower to the horizon, and the trees were dark as ink. Just outside the window was the stream; the sound of trickling water provided the backdrop to the conversation.

            Elijah sat in front of the lit fireplace, and Nicolle sat next to him. They were close enough so that shifting or moving at all allowed her to touch him. Vee was in the kitchen fixing something hot to drink; Dominic, unable to sit still for seven happy days, paced the floor.

            “Explain what you mean,” Ian said, stroking his stubbled chin.

            “It’s like… I can see the lights in my mind, I guess,” Dom said. “I’ve always called it my Up-and-Coming Artistry.”

            “Sounds to me like Green Mark: Foresight,” Ian said. “There’s various versions of it, though I’ve never heard one function quite like this one, with incoming lights.”

            Dominic nodded. “As the lights get closer, so does the event.”

            “And the more lights there are, the bigger the event,” Eli said; the rumble of his nearby voice, coupled with the warmth of the fire, had the effect of a cozy bed on Nicolle, comforting her spirit. Vee reentered the room with three mugs of steaming something, handing one off to Natalia and another to Nicolle before taking a seat in a recliner.

            “Hm,” Ian said.

            Natalia sipped her hot chocolate; when she resurfaced she said: “I’ll call it in tomorrow.”

            “Call it in?” Vee asked, blowing the steam off her mug.

            “Anytime an Artist of the Green makes use of Green Mark: Foresight, whatever it’s variation, they’re required by law to register it with the Gardens,” Ian said. “Just in case.”

            “How close are these lights?” Natalia asked.

            Dom shrugged. “A week or two. It’s hard to tell.”

            Nicolle wondered if she should reveal Adam’s Intuition as well. She ultimately decided against it; anything to do with her brother was quite personal to her, and also Natalia had told her that the Black Artistry (especially in dealings with spirits) was among the most mysterious of Artistries. It was possible they didn’t know about Intuition anyway. Regardless, what Adam was intuiting was the same as what Dom was foreseeing; there was no need to warm them twice.

            … she remembered suddenly that Adam was due to appear to her soon, today or the next day. She couldn’t wait to see him.

            “A Green Mark: Foresight like that one isn’t unheard of,” Natalia said after a silence. “According to records Newton possessed a similar way of foretelling.”

            “Newton?” Vee asked.

            “Sir Issac Newton,” Ian said, smiling at the look of shock on everyone’s faces. “He was an Artist of the Green, history tells us.”

            “I don’t recall that from history class,” Vee said.

            “He means our histories,” Natalia said. “There’s an entire class for that at the Gardens, the Revealed Histories course. It always comes as a shock to some that Ben Franklin was an Artist.” She took a long sip from her mug. “Seemed fairly obvious to me. Who could possibly believe that absurd story of him flying a kite to discover electricity? The story reeks of a Red Mark: Discharge.”

            “Have there been any famous Artists of the Black?” Nicolle asked.

            Natalia nodded during a sip; Ian said: “Adolf Hitler was an Artist of the Black. He hid it well, but he actually had a small group of Artists around him. He performed some very inhumane experiments in the name of Artistry study.”

            “And that bothersome psychic on television, I forget her name,” Natalia said. “She had a Black Artistry, as it turned out. She could sense the dead somewhat, but she still saw fit to lie to those that came to her about their deceased loved ones.” She inhaled, exhaled, and looked to one of the high windows absentmindedly. “We arrested her eventually. A pity the days of corporeal punishment in the C.A.C. are behind us.”

            Vee’s head popped up suddenly, looking troubled. “I hear thoughts outside.”

            “Reid,” Natalia said. After a moment there was a knock on the door.

            “Enter, the door’s unlocked,” Ian yelled out.

            Hugo Reid’s perpetual smile came through the doorway; even out in Riverlove Run, away from most others, he wore a suit and tie, his salt-and-pepper hair combed as expected of a proper gentleman.

            … behind him Timmy entered the cabin. His face did not say happy, sad, glad, or mad; with his hands stuffed into the pockets of that trench coat of his, his freakishly Yellow Eyes roamed the room, the floor, the ceiling, the walls, never once looking in anyone’s direction. Especially in the direction of herself or Eli, she noticed.

            “Evening, evening, evening!” Reid clapped his hands in front of him and rubbed them together; the leather gloves he wore made an odd sound. “Beautiful light outside, friends, have you seen?”

            No one answered him; most tried to not even look at him. His unending buoyant attitude was exhausting to be around. In the past week Nicolle had seen him several times, and not once did he seem tired or mellow; it was always the same smile, the same bounce, the same glimmer in those Purple Eyes.

            “How is the process coming along for you, Mr. Reid?” Ian asked politely. “Could I offer you something to drink?”

            “No thank you, Sir Erlander, no thank you. And it’s going splendidly�"”

            He turned to Timmy, nodding. Timmy didn’t even look at him.

            “�"we’ve probed into the wonders of Timothy’s Artistry, and I say, it’s remarkable. He’s a unique specimen. Very unique. I imagine my superiors will be most pleased when I introduce him. What of your lot, hm? I trust everything is delightful here?”

            “Mmhm,” Natalia said.

            “Yes, sir,” Ian said. “Everyone has been passed preliminary inspections. Now we’re simply adding onto our existing profiles.” After this there was a pause; the crackle of the fire filled the silence. “Would you like to sit and join us?”

            Natalia gave Ian a look of barely hidden contempt that he ignored.

            “I’d truly love to, as I trust young Timothy would as well�"”

            Once again he looked to Timmy, as if wanting his input. Timmy said nothing. Reid turned back to the rest.

            “�"but I just wanted to check in and let you know that tomorrow I’ll be filing my first report with the Gardens. I’ll need copies of your profiles, if you’d be so kind.”

            “Who are you filing with? The Holders?” Natalia stared at Reid with an unhappy scowl; he stared at her with a blissful shine. “Only Sir Erlander and I hold recruiting rights, only we can file reports.”

            “I file with my own,” Reid said. The smile was still ear-to-ear, but it was absent from his eyes. “Let it not trouble you, Lady Hawthorne.”

            “I’m not handing over anything until the recruiting office tells me otherwise,” she said.

            “Shall I phone them for you?” That smile.

            “I’ll get them,” Ian said, laying a hand on Natalia’s wrist. “They’ll okay it regardless… no point in holding up the process.” Ian perused through a folder that had been on the table beside him, withdrawing files on the Chess Club. Reid bounced on his heels gleefully. Natalia looked at him with open disapproval. After a moment Ian handed the papers over to Reid, who accepted them with plentiful thanks.

            “Well then… I bid you all adieu and goodnight!” Reid said, opening the door. At last Timmy looked to Nicolle. She tried to smile at him. He did not smile back; Reid twisted the door handle and Timmy stepped out first. With a silly little flourish and bow, Reid followed him out and closed the door.

            “Is he the court jester back where you come from?” Vee asked with a giggle. Natalia huffed and puffed.

            “He’s a Holder, a political organization that is famously hush-hush,” Natalia said, still glowering at the door. “Ian, I’m not comfortable with him having those files.”

            “The recruitment office would have told us to do it anyway,” he said, though he didn’t look thrilled either. “No harm will come of it. The Holders are a reputable group.”

            Nicolle wasn’t hearing much of this. In her mind she saw that last moment again, the moment before he walked out. She saw it in his eyes; she wasn’t sure when it had occurred or what had happened to cause it, but Timmy Stoker hated her. Such longing in those eyes. Such anger.

            “Excuse me,” Nicolle said, rising to her feet and running to the door. She twisted the doorknob and was outside before anyone could say a word.

            Reid’s Lincoln was parked in the leafy drive across the bridge, the motor running; she could see Timmy sitting in the passenger’s seat. Hugo Reid himself was just then opening the driver’s side door to climb inside; he saw Nicolle walk out and stalled, looking at her. Then he smiled and closed the door back.

            “Missus… Darling?” He smiled the question, hoping he got the name right.

            “Yes, sir,” Nicolle said softly. Timmy turned in his seat to see what was holding up his driver; he spotted Nicolle, stared for a moment, and turned back around. Nicolle stopped on the bridge and Reid walked over to her.

            “I haven’t had the pleasure of getting to know you very well in this past week,” he said, the light from the cabin behind her shining in his Purple Eyes. “I regret to say, without a license to recruit, Sir Erlander and Lady Hawthorne keep most of you to themselves. Only those that willingly come to me, like young Timothy, I am allowed to work with.”

            Nicolle nodded and said nothing. She didn’t know what to say anyway; she hadn’t come out to talk with Hugo Reid… in truth, talking to an Artist of the Purple intimidated her. Maria had been okay, because Nicolle knew and trusted her, but Nicolle did not know this man, and with the supreme intellect he undoubtedly possessed, she was hesitant to converse with him and potentially be outsmarted.

            “How are you adjusting to things, dear? I can imagine it is rather overwhelming, learning as much as you undoubtedly have in such short time.”

            Nicolle nodded again. “I’m… I’m okay.” She looked to the car again. Timmy wasn’t paying her any attention; she didn’t think she was going to get to talk to him tonight. “I won’t hold you up, I just wanted to…” She nodded in Timmy’s direction, almost apologetically.

            “No, dear, no, you’re not holding me up in the slightest… I’m here to serve,” he chortled. “Tell me, if you’d be so kind, my dear… do you crave a life of conscience? Of meaning?”

            He tilted his head and regarded her with the softest, friendliest eyes, waiting for her reply with all of his attention. It was unnerving.

            “I suppose so,” she said, shrugging and smiling. “Yeah.”

            He smiled softly at this, happy with her answer, as if anyone would ever say no to that. “I believed so. You awoke that divine Artistry of yours for a reason, Nicolle. Clearly fate has selected you for wonderful things. Grand things, even. Would you agree with that?”

            Nicolle swallowed and looked off to the side. “I… I think so.”

            He chuckled. “No need to be shy, young Nicolle… we all have destinies, yet some are larger than others. I believe yours is among those that�"”

            Suddenly light filled the area. Nicolle turned to see Natalia standing in the open doorway. She could see Elijah where she had left him behind her, leaning in concern to see out the door.

            “Nicolle, your chocolate’s getting cold,” she said.

            “Okay,” Nicolle called back, relieved. Thankfully Natalia didn’t walk back in, but stood with the door open, waiting. Nicolle turned back to Reid; he was looking at Natalia carefully, his smile sliding from his face.

            “We’ll talk again soon, my dear,” Reid said. His smile returned. “Until then…”

            He began to walk back to the car, Ian’s papers in his hand. Nicolle did not wait for him to reach his destination; she turned and walked back to Natalia, who stood aside and held open the door for her.

            “Everything alright?”

            “Yeah,” Nicolle said, remembering that look in Timmy’s eyes. “I hope.”

           

            That night Nicolle and Vee didn’t go home. A guest room existed on the top floor, complete with two beds and a large window situated near the ceiling where the roof made an upside down V. With a belly full of hot chocolate, a face pained from laughter (they’d watched some movie that Vee brought about a chicken with an anger management problem), and a comfortable place to stay that wasn’t her home, Nicolle should have been happy. But she wasn’t.

            Things were going almost too good. It was as she told Elijah: her life had a way of smothering whatever goodness it found. The thought kept her from sleep for hours; eventually, thirsty and needing to pee, Nicolle slipped from the bedroom and walked downstairs, careful not to wake the older Artists sleeping elsewhere.

            As she walked through the living room to the kitchen a shadow said: “No dreams tonight?”

            Nicolle jumped high enough to embarrass herself; she turned, hand on her chest in shock, and found Natalia �" still fully dressed, still wearing those guns �" sitting on the recliner alone in the dark. The midnight light coming through the windows did something spooky to her amber eyes, giving her the appearance of a she-wolf.

            “Lady Natalia,” Nicolle said in one, rushed breath. “You frightened me.”

            “I saw,” she said, amused.

            Nicolle composed herself as best she could (there really wasn’t a way to look respectable after leaping out of your skin like that). “I was just going for water,” she said.

            “Unable to sleep,” Natalia said. At first it sounded like a question… but it wasn’t.

            “You knew?”

            “Oh, the better question, Enn, is how I knew,” she responded. “Yellow Mark: World of Dreams is an Artistry used mostly for espionage, but I thought also to use it to complete the psychological review portion of your profile. It allows me to walk in your dreams with you… see what your subconscious sees. Vee’s been asleep for a while; I know all about what… and who… she dreams of. You’re still a mystery, though.”

            “Sorry,” Nicolle said. “I can go back and try…?”

            Natalia chortled. It was a smoky sound. “No, that’s fine. Why not bring your water in here? Sit with me?”

            “Um… okay,” Nicolle said. It was unexpected; she liked Natalia, but they’d only known one another for a week or so. What would she say to her? She poured a glass of cold water and returned to the moonlit living room. Natalia had moved from her recliner to the couch.

            “Here beside me,” Natalia said; Nicolle sat down, holding her glass with both hands and staring into her lap. Natalia went on: “I don’t suppose it matters much that I’ve missed your dreams… I’m fairly sure I know what would be in them.”

            “You do?”

            “Oh yes. Roland Beaumont’s son, with the White Artistry. Elijah,” she said, crossing her legs and turning sideways to face Nicolle. “Am I wrong?”

            Nicolle’s face was probably red; she couldn’t look up. “Elyse says we’re more likely to dream of things that scare us than things we like.”

            “Ms. Robinson is correct. We dream of fears more than anything. That was the main reason I wanted inside your dreams tonight… often knowing what a person fears will tell you the kind of person they are.”

            “What do you fear?” Nicolle asked. Had she thought about this question for just one more second she probably wouldn’t have asked it.

            “Nothing,” Natalia said. There was no boasting in this statement, just clean truth.

            “Nothing at all?”

            “Not anymore,” she said.

            “How is that even possible?” Nicolle asked.

            Natalia took a moment to answer. It occurred to Nicolle that this wasn’t a topic Natalia wanted to speak about. She stared at the window for several seconds before speaking, caressing the gun at her side.

            “I see it this way… as if a large bottle was filled to the brim with fear and was intended by my demons to be slowly poured out in small increments throughout my life. That’s the way it is with everyone else. But there was a mistake somewhere, and the large bottle of fear tipped over, and instead of getting small doses over the years, I got it all at once during my childhood.” She looked back to Nicolle now. Emotionless. “Now there’s no fear left.”

            My word, Nicolle thought. What could possibly have happened to her as a child to warrant such a terrible illustration?

            “What�"?”

            “And you, love?” Natalia asked, a pinch louder than before. “What do you fear?”

            Nicolle also took a moment to answer. “I fear everything.”

            Natalia smiled. “Lies.”

            “It feels that way sometimes, though,” Nicolle said. She had yet to taste her water. “Happiness doesn’t survive for me… if something good happens, it dies eventually. Always.”

            “You fear loss…?” Natalia said. “In the end that’s all fear is… the loss of what we care most about.”

            Nicolle now did as Natalia had done, crossing her legs and turning sideways on the couch so that they were face to face. When she spoke her voice took on the soft tender tenor of a secret being revealed. “When I was eight my brother died. He was my sole guardian in an abusive household. I grew up being emotionally, verbally, and physically abused. My father left home without a goodbye or anything. My grandparents loved me, but my grandmother passed away, and my grandfather is both tired and old, so I tried not to bother him with it. I grew up without friends… only when I got my Artistry did I join the Chess Club and learn what it was to be happy again. But then Maria died so fast… and the Chess Club broke apart, and Dominic is predicting something terrible to happen soon…”

            There really wasn’t an ending to Nicolle’s words, she just stopped. She felt a little stupid afterwards; who said that Natalia would care to hear all that?

            “Nicolle,” Natalia said. The tone of her voice made Nicolle look up; it was the same whisper of a secret being spoken that she herself had used before. “When I was a little girl I had a sister that you remind me of. A lot, actually. I was a weak child, and very innocent… and afraid of nearly all things. We were all each other had. My father left home eventually, and my mother slid into an unforgivably irresponsible life. She began doing drugs and drinking excessively. She married someone with similar sins, and… he took to raping and beating my sister and me.”

            Nicolle’s breath locked in her throat. This powerful lady sitting across from her… how could anyone even think to do that to her…?

            “I was so weak, so weak, that I did nothing but cower when he appeared. Noelle, my sister, would attempt to stand up to him sometimes, but not me. One day she hit him with a wrench and he beat her nearly to death. The memory for me is sharp almost to the point of total recall. He backed her into a corner in our bedroom, into a corner with all our stuffed animals and things, and pointed his hunting rifle at her. What he didn’t know was that I had taken a pistol from his open gun cabinet after he’d left it open… as he held his gun on Noelle, I stood behind him and held my gun on him. But I was scared. And weak.” She said these words with anger, anger at her young self so many years passed. “I waited too long to act. He shot Noelle in the chest and killed her.”

            “No,” Nicolle whispered.

            Natalia sat quiet for a second. “I swore I would never be weak again.”

            She had never seen Natalia’s soft side before, not like this. There was a connection between them… Nicolle doubted Natalia had told very many people that story.

            “Do you know where Tybee Lighthouse is?” Nicolle asked.

            “I do,” Natalia answered.

            “I’m going there one day,” Nicolle said, but what both she and Natalia heard was I’m going to survive… and this time I’m keeping my happiness.

            Natalia nodded. “Please do. If anything gets in your way, tell me and I’ll shoot it.”

           

            Nicolle awoke in the hour before dawn. She didn’t immediately open her eyes, instead choosing to lie in the warmth of her bed, her face pressed cozily into her pillow. She’d been having an odd dream; the only thing she recalled from it was being chased by a hippopotamus named Vinny that really wanted to eat her shoes. She hoped Natalia didn’t take away too much about her subconscious from it.

            … in the slits of her barely open eyes, Nicolle saw a flicker in the light in the room. A window-shaped beam of morning sunlight imposed on the wall, and in it, a shadow moved. Something was outside the window.

            Her interest piqued, Nicolle raised up �" a movement that morphed into a slow, satisfying stretch �" and looked outside. She let out a small gasp; she hadn’t been expecting to see such a large, beautiful hawk sitting just outside the window. She’d awoken to tiny bird flittering around outside her window before, but never one like this.

            The room was nearly silent. Then that silence died as the hawk let loose a piercing, raspy cry. Nicolle jumped back, startled, and pressed her hands to her ears; Vee launched from her bed as if going to the moon itself. Once she found her bearings she stared around, eyes wide with shock.

            “What in the thinny was that?!” Vee asked, a hand clutching a wad of shirt at her chest.

            “It’s that bird!” Nicolle said, pointing with a disgruntled wave at the window. “Trying to scare the crap out of us!”

            “Well, he!...” Vee broke off. She was looking at the hawk with an expression of concentrated awe, as if the sky had just peeled back and she was looking Heaven itself.

            “What’s wrong?”

            Vee didn’t answer at first; her eyes never left the hawk. The hawk that, if Nicolle saw correctly, had just tapped on the window with its beak.

            “I can hear its thoughts,” Vee said softly.

            Nicolle jerked. “How?”

            Vee’s head shook slowly. “I have no clue… he’s thinking in English, Nicolle, that bird knows English! And… and he knows your name!”

            Vee didn’t sound in awe anymore; now she sounded spooked. Nicolle felt goosebumps rolling across her skin. Was she still dreaming? First hippos, now hawks…?

            A glowing, ethereal image appeared over the hawk, the shape of a human body. Once the spirit was completely formed, the hawk flew away.

            “It’s a spirit, Vee… a spirit was possessing the bird,” Nicolle said, stepping off onto the floor, still looking up at the window. The face outside the window looked down at her and she smiled. “It’s Adam!”

            Adam moved through the wall, softly gliding down to the floor the room to stand in front of Nicolle.

            “That was your brother??” Vee asked; Nicolle noted that her friend was pulling her bed covers around herself… Vee wasn’t very comfortable around spirits, she recalled. “He’s here??”

            “Sorry I scared you,” Adam said, his voice echoing. “Didn’t intend it.”

            “How did you do that?” Nicolle asked, smiling. “You were inside that bird!”

            Adam did not smile back. Something was different; he wasn’t acting his usual, lighthearted self. Nicolle felt a piece of ice form inside her, a knot of worry in her belly.

            “Animal Possession,” he said. The white garments he wore ruffled lightly by a nonexistent wind… or perhaps there was wind, just not on this side of the life. “Something I’ve been working on for a while… haven’t quite mastered it. It’s difficult to do. It’s nice to see you again, Nicky.”

            “What’s wrong? Something’s wrong,” Nicolle said. He would normally be elated at pulling off such a sublimely cool move as “animal possession”, but he looked more like he was in mourning.

            “It’s Granddaddy,” Adam said. “Perhaps you should get dressed. I’ll be waiting.”

 

            He wasn’t dead. He was dying.

            Adam, fully rested and prepared for a day with his sister, had merely dropped by Granddaddy Longleg’s house before seeking Nicolle out, he told her. As it turned out, Granddaddy had called an ambulance during the night. He was experiencing chest pains, from what Adam overheard. He was taken to the nearest hospital and had been there for a few hours. Nicolle drove quickly.

            It should have been a nice occasion: it was the very first time Nicolle had ever driven Adam anyway, brother and sister on the road; in their heyday this would have called for blaring music, windows rolled down, arms and legs hanging out of said windows. Instead neither of them said much. Nicolle wasn’t unaware of the strangeness of the situation; she was chauffeuring her dead brother, his glowing body ever present in her peripheral.

            “He’s not going to die,” Nicolle said.

            “What if he does?” Adam asked. “Death isn’t that bad… I’d know.”

            “He’s not going to die,” Nicolle repeated. Adam said nothing this time. “We have a trip planned, our last trip together. We’re going to the lighthouse.”

            “Nicky,” Adam said and stopped. She had a rough idea of what he was going to say: he was going to gently explain to her why death was natural, that she was in denial, that it wasn’t healthy. She’d heard it her entire life, mostly from Granddaddy Longlegs himself. Those were words she’d never really absorbed.

            “Where’s Isley?” Nicolle asked, wanting to change the subject.

            “She’s resting,” he said. “Her stamina isn’t as good as my own. We both worked pretty tirelessly seeking out the secret of Possession.”

            “How come?” Nicolle asked. They were in the city now. The hospital would be fairly close. Her heart raced.

            “To help you, of course,” he said. “Things have seemingly picked up for you lately… but you can’t forget that my Intuition is still sensing something coming. You have to be vigilant, Nicolle.”

            “I know,” she said.

            “And I will protect you regardless,” he added.

            For now, Nicolle wasn’t too concerned with herself or Intuition or anything. She was concerned about losing the person who had loved her the longest. When Adam had been in the hospital she was helpless to do anything but watch. No longer. Now… now she could cheat death.

            “He’s not going to die,” Nicolle said, mostly to herself, as she pulled into the hospital’s parking lot.

 

            Nicolle rounded the corner, heading towards “room E-11, the last one of the right”, the desk nurse had said, and saw her mother and stepfather. Looking unhappy, unbathed, and uneducated, they watched Nicolle’s approach with eyes of mistrust. It suddenly occurred to Nicolle that she wasn’t wearing her sunglasses. She didn’t care; let them see.

            “There she is,” Sylvia said, as if they’d been talking about her right before she’d appeared. They likely had been. “Miss priss. Waltzing in here, queen of the world, too good to stay home anymore, of whoring around, prolly, while her grandfather dies…”

            “God above,” Adam said, looking at his mother without affection. “She’s worsened. I’d have thought it impossible.”

            “He’s in here?” Nicolle asked her stepfather, ignoring her mother entirely. He nodded, exhaustion deep in his eyes, a man robbed of a night’s sleep. “Why didn’t I hear anything? Why wasn’t I called?”

            “We figured you’d come home when you was ready,” Sylvia said, chin held high. “Off feeling sorry for yourself, was what you were doing, telling everybody you can find how stupid and hateful your mama is. You was the same exact way when Adam passed, all mopey and selfish. What if he could see you now, huh? See you all high falootin’, wearing them nice clothes and pretendin’ your something you’re not.”

            “Wench,” Adam said through gritted teeth. “What a disgrace.”

            “Whatever you say,” Nicolle said, walking to the room E-11.

            “Can’t go in,” Sylvia spat loudly. “He don’t wanna see your w***e face anyway.”

            Nicolle turned and looked at Sylvia. She noticed her mother staring at her Black Eyes, noticed how she shrank at the sight of them. Or perhaps it wasn’t the eyes; perhaps it was the expression on Nicolle’s face.

            “Shut up, mother,” Nicolle said, and walked inside.

 

            Nicolle looked down on him.

            Granddaddy Longlegs wasn’t awake. The machine beside the bed beeped every few seconds; she’d seen them on TV before, she knew what it was. His heart beat was slow as he slept.

            He looked so old and weak. Nicolle reached out and took his hand in hers.

            “It always was the four of us,” Adam said with a soft smile. “Me, you, Grandmother, and Grandfather.”

            “He’s not going to die,” Nicolle said. This flew in the face of what the doctor exiting the room had told her, of course: he’d apparently had pneumonia for some time and, at his age… the prospects weren’t good.

            This doctor did not know what an Artistry was, though.

            “Adam,” Nicolle whispered. “Do you believe in angels?”

            “Why do you ask…?”

            “Please just tell me,” she said, her eyes still on Granddaddy Longlegs.

            “Yeah,” he answered. “I do.”

            Adam rested his warm hand on her shoulder. They watched him and waited, Nicolle’s mind going to hot chocolates and creaking chairs, to the smell of raspberry candles and cigars. To a conversation a long, long time ago.