Haven: Elixir of Life, page 13
part #3 of Haven Series Series
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence before Sam asked, “So, should we go in or …”
Relieved, Tim stood at attention again.
“Why yes! Yes, by all means, do come in! After all, it is your home,” he said, laughing at his own wit.
Tim turned and began to walk back through the arbor as Sam, Travis, and Demetrius followed.
“Now, I will have you know, sir, everything was left as is. Well, except for the garden, of course, you know, trimming and all. But nothing,” he said, adamantly holding a finger in the air, “has moved out of its original place. I have done all the gardening personally as well as all the minor repairs. I can assure you, Mr. Dalcome, Ashaway Cottage is in tip top shape!”
Travis looked over at Sam and rolled his eyes, but Sam shrugged it off. Sure, Tim was a little overzealous, but it seemed as if his heart was in the right place. He cared about the cottage and the preservation of Alisa’s memories. That was admirable, he thought.
Sam walked into the courtyard, still admiring Tim’s work; he was careful to remain on the small cobblestone path that led to the front door. “Well, it looks awesome, Tim, thank you,” he said.
Tim stopped abruptly and turned to Sam. He looked concerned. “Awesome?” he asked in an uncertain tone. “Is that a … good thing, sir?”
Sam grinned. Perhaps awesome was not the best choice of words.
“Better add that to the list, buddy, along with cool,” Travis said smugly.
Travis was right; their apparent slang was getting lost in translation. First Rhea and now Tim. Sam hadn’t thought of trivial things like slang words here on Haven. He would have to remember that.
“Yes,” he said, “it’s a very good thing.”
Tim seemed relieved and smiled. He quickly turned and opened the front door of the cottage.
“Welcome home, Mr. Dalcome!” he said loudly, as if he was announcing this to all of Haven, and took a small bow.
Sam stood, staring at the dark opening of the cottage. There was a lightness in his chest, and his heart began beating so fast that he could feel his pulse in the tips of his fingers.
Travis nudged him from behind. “Well, go on, buddy,” he said.
Sam took in a deep breath, exhaled slowly, then stepped inside.
It took a minute for his eyes to adjust; the curtains were drawn, and the room was dim. A stone fireplace served as the heart of the living room, flanked by two almond brown sofas, and a large reading chair next to the bay window. The decor was tastefully done in burgundies, browns, and dark woods. Large area rugs separated the living and dining area.
Sam could not believe it, it looked so normal; it looked like … home. A part of him had been afraid that this house would be nothing like his home on Earth, that he had never seen the real Alisa Dalcome, that the person she had been on Earth was nothing more than an act, something she needed to be for the sake of her children. But that was obviously not the case; this cottage was everything he had ever known about his mother. It was warm, inviting, and, most of all, it gave Sam the feeling that he was safe.
“It’s perfect,” Sam said, looking over at Demetrius. “I mean, really, it’s perfect.”
This brought a smile to Demetrius's face. “It is, isn’t it?” he said.
“Excellent,” Tim said and crossed his arms proudly. “Come, let’s get you settled. Let me show you to your room.” He walked toward the hallway near the back of the living room.
“This place is great, Sam,” Travis boasted and patted Sam on the back. “Sure beats the old place, and best of all, there’s no garage to clean.” He winked.
Sam laughed. “Yeah, but there’s one heck of a yard.”
Travis turned and looked back out the door. “Man, no kidding. Did I mention I’m terrible at lawn care?”
“Did I mention you have no choice?” Sam said.
Travis raised his eyebrows. “Touché.”
The three of them turned and headed down the hallway where Tim was waiting.
“Sam, this is your room,” he said and pointed to the door on the right. “There are two additional guest bedrooms upstairs, one for each of you,” he added to Travis and Demetrius. “The room here on the left is Sarah’s, and the one at the end of the hallway belonged to your parents.”
“Whoa,” Travis said, peering through the doorway on the left. “That looks nothing like Sarah’s room back home. It looks so … girly.”
Sam looked inside Sarah’s old room to see what Travis was talking about. The walls were a light lilac, accented with pinks and whites. There was a small white-framed bed, a matching toy chest, and a nightstand in the room. Various toys and stuffed animals were gathered on top of the chest.
Sure, the room was nothing like Sarah's bedroom back home now, but it was exactly the way it used to be when they were younger. Sam couldn’t help but smile, thinking back. Sarah had still been as bossy back then as she was now, even at her tea parties, which Sam always had to attend. But that was the deal, he went to the stupid tea parties and she played racecars with him.
“She was only three back then,” Sam said, still looking at the room. “I’m pretty sure my mother had a lot to do with the way it looks.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s right,” Travis said, “I forgot how young she would have been."
“Yes, delightful room,” Tim said and clasped his hands in front of himself. Then he turned his attention to Demetrius. “Oh, to be young again, Demetrius?”
Demetrius narrowed his eyes. “You said our rooms were upstairs, yes?”
“Oh, um, right, yes … right this way.”
Sam and Travis moved aside to let the two men pass while trying to hide their smiles, but it was too late. Demetrius caught them.
“Travis,” he said sharply. Travis's grin immediately faded. “Perhaps you should relieve yourself of that incredibly large backpack.”
Travis looked up at Demetrius and smiled awkwardly. “Okay … sure,” he said, then pursed his lips, not knowing what else to say.
Sam watched Travis trudge up the stairs and disappear around the corner. Then he turned to his sister's room again. As he gazed around, he couldn't help thinking that even though he was home, he had never felt more alone. The cottage looked like a home, but without his family it didn’t feel like one. Thinking of Sarah just made things worse. His sister had no idea about the outcome of the battle that took their mother’s life. When Sarah did finally wake, not only would she have to adjust to a strange new world, but she would have to come to terms with the fact that they were both orphans now, something Sam feared they would struggle with for a long time to come.
Sam turned and faced his room. He could see twin beds, a brown wooden dresser, and a nightstand. In the corner was a small blue and white crib. His heart sank just a little as he made his way across the room to the crib. Soft pillow toys lay neatly piled at one end of the bed, the sheets were pulled tight, and something that looked like a pacifier lay were a pillow should be.
“I wasn’t sure what to do with it, sir,” Tim said from behind Sam. He stood in the doorway with his hands clasped in front of him again.
Sam stared down at the crib and nodded. He really didn’t know what to say. Tim had done his best to make sure things remained the same, the way his mother had left them, hoping one day she would return home, but that day was never going to come.
“That’s okay,” he said finally and looked around the room. “I guess she was in the middle of painting, huh?” he said and pointed to a half-painted blue wall.
Tim stepped into the room and surveyed the unfinished wall. “Yes, Mr. Dalcome, it looks that way.” Sam could tell Tim was uncomfortable by the way he kept fidgeting with his hands.
“Perhaps, well, now that you are home, we can, or … I mean, you can finish the project,” he suggested, scratching his head. “Or not,” he shrugged and looked down at his hands.
“Yeah,” Sam said, “maybe.” He wasn’t sure about changing anything in the house, not till Sarah came home. Changing it now would be like erasing his mother’s memory. It just didn’t feel right to try and make it their own, not yet.
Sam moved closer to the bed, slid off his backpack, and placed it on the floor. He could feel the muscles in his back relax, and he sighed in relief. Slowly, he lowered himself, stiff muscles and all, onto the bed.
“Oh … that feels …” he said, closing his eyes as he placed his head on the soft mattress. But couldn’t finish his sentence. All he could do was smile.
“Awesome?” Tim said.
Sam opened one eye and smiled wider. “Yeah, Tim … awesome.”
“Excellent. Well, I’m sure you’re exhausted, Mr. Dalcome. I will take my leave,” he said with a bow. “But before I do, I would like to add that the lavatory is to the right behind that door, and should you need anything else, please do not hesitate to ask.”
Tim turned to walk away as Sam opened his other eye to get a better look at him. “Tim?” he asked.
Tim stopped and turned. “Yes, Mr. Dalcome?”
“Call me Sam, okay?” Sam said softly. “That’s what my friends call me.”
Tim stood motionless for a moment, as if maybe he didn’t quite understand, then he smiled as the meaning sunk in.
“I would be honored, Sam.”
Chapter 16
“Boris Cove,” Atamar sneered, “I hate this wretched place.” He leaned back into the plush seat of his private transport and glared out the window.
“Vox, are we almost there?” he asked.
The driver looked into the monitor from the front cabin. “Yes sir, in two minutes,” he said in a deadpan tone.
Atamar narrowed his eyes in disgust. The town was an abysmal sight, war-torn and desolate. The once paved roads were nothing more than gravel now, and the former buildings had been reduced to half-structures that clung to life with crumbling walls and broken foundations. In the distance, small fires could be seen that burned at ground level and on upper landings. Most likely vagrants, Atamar thought, probably trying to keep themselves warm.
It was like the city had been burned from the inside out, leaving nothing more that its skeletal remains.
“Of all the damn places in Haven, why here?” Atamar grumbled. “You know, Vox, if it weren't for a handful of transients this town would be deserted.” Atamar turned and reached for his glass on the console.
Vox looked at the monitor again and gave a grim twist of the mouth before answering, “Yes, sir.”
Atamar took a drink of the green liquor and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “I think a few choice missiles in the center of town should do the trick. Maybe …” he said, putting his finger to his chin, “negator missiles, yes …” He looked down into the monitor and smiled at his revelation. “I think that would do it. What do you think, Vox?”
Vox craned his bald head back into view; his features were smooth and expressionless. “Yes, sir.”
Atamar took another drink as the transport slowed and came to a stop. The monitors on the side doors went dark and the interior light came on.
“We have reached our destination, Minister,” Vox said.
Atamar swallowed and looked back out the window. The foreboding facade of the abandoned orphanage stood in plain sight. Most of the outer walls had been destroyed, windows were missing, and support beams protruded from the abandoned structure.
Atamar almost choked. “Good God, man, are you sure this is the right place?”
Vox looked directly into the monitor, and his dark eyes met Atamar’s. “I’m quite sure, sir,” he said.
Atamar shook his head. “The damn building looks like a sanitarium! Why the hell would he want to meet here?”
“I don’t know, sir. Would you like me to get the door?”
Atamar glared at the ruins, thinking surely there must be some kind of mistake. But deep down he knew there wasn’t. He knew the lunatic he was dealing with, and this was exactly like something he’d do.
“Sir?” Vox asked again.
“No!” Atamar shouted and gulped down the rest of his drink. “I’ve got it from here.” He placed the glass back on the console and opened the door.
The hiss of the airtight seal resonated into the night as it opened, and Atamar stepped from the transport.
He stared up at the building and then gazed at his surroundings. The abandoned village was a ghost town. The whole region was barely habitable. This was a perfect example of the destruction the Great War had caused. Devastated communities like these near the Dark Lands were left to rot as the entire region imploded around them.
This is what happens when you fight for the wrong side, he thought. Most of Boris Cove had sided with Kan when the Great War began. They had been promised riches beyond their wildest dreams if they fought for his cause. But they were sadly mistaken; their lack of judgment had cost them their lives and, unfortunately, the lives of the innocent women and children as well.
“Wait here,” Atamar said and pulled the hood of his traveling cloak over his head. “And keep the transport running. I won’t be long.”
He turned and began walking toward the building. There was a chill in the air, and visibility was poor. He had to squint to see past the falling mist. This made Atamar uncomfortable, and he quickened his pace.
As he made his way up the walkway, he looked cautiously from side to side. The city was known for its scoundrels, and the last thing he wanted was to be blindsided by some half-witted lowlife. As a precaution, he unsheathed his wand and held in firmly in his grasp.
The walkway to the dilapidated building was uneven and littered with cracks. Directly ahead he could see the remains of two statues that sat on either side of the walkway. Only the legs of what looked like small children remained. When he was close enough, Atamar came to a stop and read the inscription on the pedestal.
BORIS COVE ORPHANAGE
Sacred are the children.
Bless them, guide them, and protect them.
Atamar scoffed at this and began walking again. “That didn’t work out so well, did it?” he muttered.
As he neared the end of the walkway he stopped again. Something had caught his attention; something was out of place. Looking down, he noticed a hairline crack in the walkway. In that crack was a small sprig of lavender grass that had managed to break through. Atamar stared at the sprig, and the longer he did the angrier he became. It was as if Cyrus Kan himself was laughing at him from beyond the grave. Despite all the Realm’s might, there was still life left in this godforsaken place. Atamar withdrew his wand and gave it a swift swish. The small sprig burst into flames and quickly turned to ash.
“Not on my watch,” he grumbled.
Satisfied, Atamar began walking again. He stepped down on the gravel where the walkway had been completely obliterated. It was then that he heard footsteps approaching from the shadows to his left. Quickly, he spun around and pointed his wand in that general direction.
“Who’s there? Show yourself, now!” he commanded.
A bearded man, who looked barely alive, emerged from the darkness. He was dressed in tattered robes, which hardly covered his filthy, emaciated body.
“Please, good sir,” he said with his trembling hands outstretched. “I mean you no harm.”
Atamar raised his wand so that it was parallel with the man’s head. “Back, you mongrel!” he growled.
“Food, good sir. I is starving,” the man said in a dry, quavering voice.
Atamar held his ground. “I’m warning you, back!”
The man’s hair was matted to his scalp and fell down around his eyes, which were dark and lifeless, but it was the man’s skin that concerned Atamar the most. At first he thought it was pulsating, but on closer inspection he saw that it was actually becoming transparent. Atamar’s wand hand began to shake when he caught a glimpse of his own stunned reflection in the vagrant’s face. Then, all at once, it came to him. He wasn’t becoming transparent—he was blending light. This is no man, he thought, it's a Cipher.
He had heard of them before but had never seen one. Past intel suggested that Ciphers could blend light to the point where they were practically invisible. Cyrus Kan had used the Ciphers as spies in the Great War, and they were known to be extremely deadly.
With the Cipher still approaching, Atamar regained his focus and lunged forward with his wand outstretched. There was a resounding BANG, and a jet of white light shot from his wand, striking the Cipher directly in the face. The Cipher’s head exploded, sending fragments of bone into the air, clattering onto the pavement behind it. Its torso wobbled at first, then stumbled backward into a pile of debris.
Atamar stood frozen with his hand outstretched, still shaking. He had meant to blind the man, not kill him. Clearly his wanding had become sloppy from lack of use. He had not killed someone since the Great War, and when he had, he had meant to do it. Atamar stared at the wand in disbelief and lowered his hand. The dead body lay there, twitching, fading randomly in and out of focus.
“Well, well,” said a voice from behind him.
Startled, Atamar spun on his heels and raised his wand once again, pointing it into the shadows. He scanned the area but saw nothing except the faint silhouettes of broken fences and tattered trees.
“Who's there?” he asked, sweeping the wand in front of him.
Violet eyes materialized to his right. “Easy, Minister,” the voice said. “You wouldn’t want to hurt someone again.”
Atamar flicked the wand, and tiny sparks spewed from its tip, illuminating everything in front of him. But to his surprise there was nothing there but more debris.
“Careful,” the voice said in his ear. Atamar almost jumped out of his skin. He turned as fast as he could and there, standing just inches away, was the prelate to Lord Valteen, the Vampire King.
“Bloody hell, man!” Atamar gasped! “I could have killed you, Kellen!”
The Vampire narrowed his eyes into a menacing stare. “I truly doubt that, Minister,” he said in an even tone.
Eying the Vampire, Atamar stowed his wand and then straightened himself up. He hated Vampires, most of all smug, arrogant, bloodsuckers like Kellen Doru. But who was he kidding, they were all like that; they were all animals.
