Dark Rooms
“Aw, hell. I’m done!” Nike shoves back from the countertop and stalks across the room to a fancy liquor cabinet. She returns seconds later with a bottle of dark rum. “Fucking weather,” she mumbles as she plugs the electric kettle into the outlet again.
Holding my breath, I stretch my senses to feel for other presences in the house. The kitchen is quiet, too quiet, until the low simmer of the kettle begins again on the countertop between us. Finally, I exhale.
“Weather? You’re sure? There wasn’t a cloud in the sky when we were at the lab.”
Nike pours a shot of rum into her mug and offers a shot for mine, but I shake my head.
“Yeah,” she says. “That’s the problem with Huntsville. You don’t notice the storms until they pop up over the mountains around here. The mountains may not be enormous, but they do hide incoming weather. You think you’re clear and then a storm is right on top of you.”
I consider telling her that The Shift will make the weather in Huntsville even worse in a few years. More tornados, more hurricanes, stronger squalls. Every weather catastrophe that might have been considered a once-in-a-century event will become the new norm. Her father’s bunker is well-equipped, but the forces of nature will be more formidable. In a few years, this entire house will be leveled to its foundation, with only the underground bunker remaining.
Nike dumps a scoop of cocoa into her mug and another scoop into mine. She gives me extra marshmallows. “More hot chocolate?”
“Please!”
I’m less sure that the weather is causing the static in the air around us. If it is, then what are the chances of all these bright spaces in this house turning into dark rooms?
“Nike, is there a generator in case the lights go out?”
Her eyes widen before she shrugs. “I’m not sure, but let me see what else I can find. My father isn’t big on candles.” Understanding dawns in Nike’s eyes, but there’s a steely determination there, a mirror of my own desperation. Nervously, she rushes off to a closet at the corner of the kitchen.
She returns with an armload of battery-powered lanterns and sets them on the countertop near the stove. Its clock glows blue numerals: 11:11 PM—a whole forty-nine minutes before I have to worry about dark rooms. She flicks on each lantern to check the battery life and leaves one on.
“No worries, Zephyr. You’re not going to get stuck in a dark room tonight. Not if I can help it.” She stalks back to the closet. “But just in case, I’ll make sure we have extra lights.”
“Hey,” I call after her, “while you’re in there, would you see if there’s a bucket and mop? I made a mess in the hall that I need to clean up.” I’m not going to give Dr. Jung a chance to use any DNA I might leave behind. “Oh, and bleach, too.”
She stops and, holding onto the closet handles for leverage, leans out to study me. “Bleach? Really?” She raises one eyebrow. We are both aware that while I’m freshly showered, she still reeks of chemicals.
I laugh but can’t shake the tension in my throat. “Yes, really. No ammonia this time, please.”
“Oh, sorry, I forgot: you said you had an idea.” Nike digs through the closet, pulling out first a mop and then a red bucket. She glances up at me through flyaway strands of dirty hair as I formulate my plan.
“You could lie low in Nashville,” I propose. My calm voice belies the worry tightening my spine like slack being tuned out of guitar strings. “It’s less than two hours by car from here. Longer if we take back roads. Virgil’s there, visiting his ailing mom. And me, well, with a little help from Drusilla, I can still make my date in Vail.”
“I’ll think about it.” My accomplice pauses, a jug of bleach in one hand and a lantern in the other. She flicks on the lantern to check the battery. Slowly, Nike nods, then drops the spare lantern into the bucket. “Keep this with you, just in case. I’m going to grab that hot shower now, but I’ll be out before that kettle is ready. We’ll talk more then.”
Frozen on the kitchen stool, holding my breath, I listen intently as Nike disappears down a corridor I’ve yet to explore. No sound at all as she pads away on bare tiptoes. Nothing but the kettle starting to bubble and finally, after another minute, the sound of running water from Nike’s shower. The jittery energy still hovers in the air like fog.
Only now am I realizing how much of my life I’ve relied on memories of the future to feel safe.
I check the display on my phone. Three calls so far tonight to Virgil’s burner puts me in dangerous territory if anyone is tracking me—or cell tower traffic in this area. Risky as it may be, I’ll try once more, but I dare not try a fifth time on this phone.
My heart aches for Virgil’s mother, but the urgency of my predicament drowns it out. With trembling hands, I dial his number, hoping against hope that he answers this time.
One ring…two…three.
Each second that passes is a knife of anxiety, until finally, Virgil’s voice crackles through. “Hello?”
“It’s me.”
“Zephyr! I’m sorry I missed your calls.” His voice cracks from exhaustion and worry. “At least, I assume you’re the one who’s been calling me. I’ve been keeping vigil at Mama’s bedside. No phones allowed in ICU. I just got back to her house.”
“Aw, sweetie.” I want to reach through the phone and hug him. He sounds so tired that he can barely string together a few sentences. “How’s your mom?”
The line goes almost silent as Virgil inhales sharply and exhales a slow, long breath. I can feel his struggle to compose himself on the other end of the phone. It wasn’t so long ago that he lost Kimber. The helplessness of his mother’s situation is bound to dredge up barely stale feelings from losing his beloved wife.
He sighs heavily. “We’re not sure. The cancer has spread. We’ll know tomorrow if her doctors think surgery is the best option or…or what her quality of life will be if she prolongs her life by a few months.”
Poor Virgil. He can’t bring himself to say how long before he deathwalks his own mother to her next travels. “Walking them home,” he calls it when he guides a soul from one incarnation to the next. Maybe if she were one of Aoife’s favorites, Aoife would resurrect his mom, but there’s nothing special enough, useful enough, about her—to Aoife—to warrant that kind of expenditure of energy.
Sympathy floods me, and a strange déjà vu washes over me. I recall a similar conversation with Virgil in a different timeline, a day or two before my first encounter with Shelby. I’d been in Vail for that phone call, not Huntsville, but the choices had been the same for Virgil’s mom. The surgery had taken place the same day as my time in Vail when I’d been watching over Terre’s mother-to-be to ensure the priesthood’s assistance with the pregnancy was welcome. Virgil’s mom had been in surgery the moment I met—will meet—my sweet Shelby.
The memory ignites a connection to a path I’m destined to tread. My feelings are conflicted over Virgil’s sad situation but at the same time, hopeful. All is not lost. Even with the glitches, this timeline is now moving back to normal. My memory isn’t spotty like a few days ago. Whatever quantum fluctuations Aoife has caused by manipulating events in my life are evening out.
My destiny is reasserting itself!
“I’m so sorry about your mother,” I say, my voice heavy with empathy. The kettle boils loudly behind me as I stand and pace the room, looking for a quieter spot to talk. “I won’t keep you, but something’s happened. Nike is going to stay a few days with you. She’ll fill you in when she gets there.”
“You’re not coming, too?”
“No, I have a date with destiny.”
In my memories, I know I’ll spend time with Virgil after his mom is home, recovering. Or not recovering, but home. Nike wasn’t part of that in the timeline I remember, so I have no idea what happens now, but maybe she’ll be back in Ireland with Raven by the time I see Virgil again.
“Destiny—” Virgil gasps. “Shit, Zephyr. I forgot the glimpses we’ve had of the future. I’m so sorry—I’ve had a lot on my mind with my mom’s situation. Where are you now? Please tell me you’re not calling to tell me goodbye.”
“Never, sweetie. I’m safe.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. Everything is returning to normal.”
“Um, okay.” The timbre of his voice doesn’t match his words.
“Really, Virgil. I’m fine. I’m safe. No dark rooms for me.”
I don’t tell him my plan. Nike can explain tomorrow after I’m on a plane to Denver. At midnight, Nike and I will lock ourselves into one of the bedrooms, all lights on, several lanterns on, and I won’t go gently or suddenly into any good night. I’ll travel tomorrow during daylight, and from sunset until midnight, I’ll stay safely in some other room with all the lights on.
“Don’t worry, Virgil. I’m taking back my destiny.”
Silence. Then, finally, “You’ve done more scrying?”
“Er, no.”
“More astrology charts to check your death date? Oh, my God, Zephyr! It’s today, isn’t it?”
“Tomorrow. And no, it’s not going to happen.”
“Tomorrow? You’re sure? Hang on—”
The line goes silent again, this time for a full minute while I listen to the bubbling kettle. I punch at the red button on its side until it goes dark, and the rush of heat inside starts to wane until I can once again hear Nike’s shower in the distance.
I glance at the stove: 11:20 PM. I still need to get the footprints washed away before I lock down for the night.
“Zephyr? I’m sorry. I have to go. My brother just got here, and I need to talk to him about our mom so we can make decisions.”
I start to wish him luck with his mom, but I already know that doing so would be a pointless nicety. “I’ll be thinking about you, sweetie. Sending you all my love.”
But the connection is already dead. I pull the SIM from my phone, drop the card down the garbage disposal, and pulse the blades before I wash away the evidence.
I’ll call Drusilla as soon as we pick up our next care package of phones, money, and anything else Drusilla has anticipated. The road ahead is murky, but one thing is certain: I must meet Shelby in Vail, come what may. We’ve veered off course, thanks to Aoife’s playing with timelines, but with the news of Virgil’s mother exactly how I remember it, except in a different city, I still have plenty of time to fly to Denver and drive over to Vail. Surely, that alone is a sign that everything is being set right.
Not only that, but I have control over my destiny, more than I might have thought. I’ve never had to consider it before. I’ve always known my future with the certainty of knowing my past. Now I have to rely on my astrological charts and scrying as regular witches do. I’ve always had the benefit of knowing I wouldn’t die for many decades yet, so I could act bravely, even foolishly.
But I’ve also never realized how much power I have over my future. That I do have some choices.
I unplug the kettle and fill Nike’s cup with boiling water, then mine. I stare at our drinks.
Choice.
I could choose to drink mine now, scalding as it is. Or I could pour it down the drain. Or I could pick it up and dash it against the wall. Any of those things is a different path to the future, and possibly a different outcome. Any of those choices leads to a different situation five minutes from now, and an irrevocable new timeline, however insignificant the event of disposing of a cup of hot chocolate might be.
My choice tonight will be to keep the lights on and prevent the future I’ve seen. Such a small decision. All I have to do to change the course of my life—and prevent my death—is to light up this mansion and wait for dawn.
No dark rooms.
“I have more control over my life than I’ve ever realized,” I murmur. Yet, there’s nothing I wouldn’t change about how I remember it.
Somewhere in the distance, the sound of rushing water ceases. I sigh. I have less than forty minutes to clean up the mess I left in the corridor. Ideally, I’ll give myself a ten-minute buffer to lock ourselves into a bright room for the night. I reach for a sip of my drink but nearly burn my lips before I push it away.
Grabbing the red bucket with the lantern inside it glowing softly, I scoop up the jug of bleach and the mop. Then, frowning at the steaming mug, I choose a different future for it, once it cools down. Hooking a spare finger through its handle, I carry it with me.
Cautious, so I don’t drop the jug or slosh my hot beverage onto my hand, I pad barefoot across the smooth floor to the main foyer with the multitude of statues of biblical interpretations of Archangel Michael. The cold marble tiles feel soothing to my sore feet. The house is eerily quiet as I reach the side entrance Nike and I had used little more than an hour ago. My boots still slump haphazardly on the floor where I left them, at the beginning of a trail of my bloody footprints to the guest room and bathroom at the end of the corridor.
Popping the lid of the bleach and setting it on the floor next to my boots, I place the lantern and hot mug on one of the small display tables.
Was there something there before?
Dragging the mop behind me, I stalk toward the bathroom to fill the bucket with water.
Something catches my attention and freezes my blood.
A smeared shoe print superimposed on one of my own footprints.
And it’s neither Nike’s nor mine.
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