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  Silver to the Heart

  Light of Adua, Book I

  Brien Feathers

  Brien Feathers

  Copyright © 2021 by Brien Feathers

  All rights reserved.

  No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

  Contents

  Dedication

  1. Stay Safe

  2. Sugar Rock

  3. Call It Clairvoyance

  4. Guidelines Not to Be Followed

  5. Everything Is Wood

  6. Demon Mersik

  7. Don’t Be Crazy

  8. Tiny Cups

  9. Telepathic Conduct

  10. Very Fine Indeed

  11. A Brick House with Two Trees Outside

  12. Bad Weather

  13. Necromancers Don’t Have Friends

  14. Prelude

  15. A Sad Tune

  16. Gone

  17. Home

  18. Light Bender, Coward, Pedophile

  19. Silver to the Heart

  20. Be Good

  21. Too Heavy a Burden

  22. Not Bora Bora

  23. Farewell, Father

  24. Not an Easy End At All

  25. We’re Not Doing That

  26. The Quandary of the Missing Hat

  27. Breath of Malice

  28. Light of Adua

  29. Feodor’s Cellar

  30. A Walk Through the Darkest Valley

  31. Ignite

  32. Kasa

  33. Grace

  34. Boy Scout Thing

  35. What a Wonderful Dream That Was

  "Prophecy for the Warlord", Light of Adua Book II

  Houses of the Realms

  From the Author

  About The Author

  The Feathers Newsletter

  For my mom who makes it possible,

  and my son whose autism superpowers inspire me.

  Chapter 1

  Stay Safe

  It was already dark when Enilsa got off work, and darker still when she passed the flamingo pink building with a white on green sign that read “Liquor Deli.” Andrew was mumbling something amidst the cardboard castle he’d erected for himself. He reminded Enilsa of a photo she’d seen of the local guides in the Himalayas. It was the beard, the hair, and the weather-worn face. She didn’t suppose the guides mumbled to themselves or lived in paper houses.

  “Hello, Andrew.” Enilsa stopped by the homeless man and dug out a cellophane-wrapped sandwich from a brown paper bag. There was a bottle of wine in there too, but that was for her. It had been that kind of day.

  Andrew stopped his mumbling long enough to look up at her. His smile revealed two missing front teeth and more than a few molars in the back. “What you got there for me, Enilsa?”

  “It’s a double-decker today.”

  “Oh, it got bacon?” He reached for the sandwich with both hands. “You got off late today.”

  Enilsa grunted and threw her head back.

  “That bad?”

  She rolled her eyes and nodded too, but he’d already started on the sandwich and looked preoccupied.

  “All right, you have a good night, Andrew.” Enilsa got on her way, and Andrew said what sounded like “Stacy.” She turned, but he was busy with his food, and chewing was hard enough for him without the added task of speaking. She let him be.

  Enilsa waited at the crosswalk even though there was hardly any traffic. A couple of cars passed by—maybe. The light turned green, and she crossed. A block away, she could already hear her building— the rent controlled block of flats was a massive jukebox that played cheesy music at all hours. She could always hear it before she could see it.

  A stray lab mix sat by the curb, flapping his dirty tail on the ground. “Sorry, buddy. Got nothing on me,” Enilsa apologized.

  As she walked by, the dog suddenly snapped at something behind her. Contorting its face into that of a monster, it growled— aggressive and eyes glaring. Then it yelped and ran off, limping with its tail tucked between its hind legs.

  “Jesus, girl, you scared me!” she yelled after the dog.

  Startled still, Enilsa took three more steps—maybe—before her legs quit suddenly. Face first, she went down stiff as falling timber. Her jaw crunched when she hit the pavement, and something tugged at her tailbone. A white converse with a red star kicked, and Enilsa rolled over.

  Two teenagers, a boy and a girl not much older than thirteen were looking down at her. The boy was wiping blood off a knife, and the girl tilted her head like a broken doll.

  “Why wipe it if you’re going to use it again?” said the girl, and she sounded normal like a kid.

  The boy, who appeared to be cleaning his knife mindlessly, looked down at his hands, then sighed. “Right. Forgot. But seeing as how it’s already clean, why don’t you finish her?”

  The music was still blaring in the background, but no one passed them—not even a car. If only Johnson had shown up for his shift, Enilsa wouldn’t have been so late getting off. But he had a newborn now, and his wife was ill; Enilsa understood times were difficult for him. I’m getting mugged, she thought, but why though? She was flat broke, but the kids wouldn’t know that. She opened her mouth to tell them she didn’t have money, but only croaking noises came out—strange, as if the sound wasn’t coming from her at all.

  The girl crouched over Enilsa and frowned. “She doesn’t look like much.”

  “She’s human. What do you expect?” The boy folded the knife and dropped it into his pant pocket, then pulled his hood up. “Come on now, Silvi. Let’s get going.”

  “Where to next?”

  “Couple of places in Oklahoma, then Arkansas on the way, and Louisiana—that’d be the last one. Then, we start the whole thing over again.” The boy was looking at a piece of paper he had taken out from his pocket.

  “We’re not going home for Easter?”

  “Not unless we find him before then. Or so says the Reverend.”

  The girl took the paper from the boy and studied it. “Can we at least go to New Orleans next? I’ve never been there.”

  “Oklahoma is closer. Come on now, sis, have you ever seen a map?”

  “Not since they stopped making paper ones. I used to like how they folded perfectly.”

  “Never mind, Silvi. Be done with it. Let’s roll, let’s walk and talk but be done with it.”

  “All right.” The girl’s eyes turned completely black as if being swallowed by her pupils. She made a turning motion with her hand and Enilsa felt her neck turn, twisting completely, until she was facing the pavement. Not much pain—not even as she felt the bone crack. But why, she thought again. What did she do?

  A childhood memory came— a rope swing with a baby blue seat swayed back and forth on the porch. Hearing her mother singing inside the house, Enilsa knew her mama would be cooking. Trying to make out what was for dinner, she sniffed through the window, but instead of her mother’s lasagna, she smelled spit and urine of the city pavement. Death is peaceful, was her last thought.

  Chapter 2

  Sugar Rock

  Sugar Rock was a ten-minute walk from where Ana lived, a good enough reason for her to frequent the bar. It had an open terrace with rows of naked light bulbs strung above like a giant parasol. Decorated like a birthday pinata, the bar was a vomit of random colors: pink pillows with yellow stripes thrown over a lime green sofa, a tile floor with alternating palettes, not to mention the chairs woven like Red Riding Hood’s basket. Even the walls were busy with a graffiti portrait of someone playing the trumpet. Someone famous, no doubt, and someone dead—probably.

  Ana sat down on one of the basket chair
s. There was a menu on the table, but she already knew what she wanted. Double bourbon, no ice. She raised her arm and waved, but the waitresses were busy running around with trays full of yard-long beers and Jell-O shots. College crowd, all out of town, it was about that time spring break visited New Orleans.

  There was another bar—lounge kind of a joint—walking distance as well, but despite the laidback Cajun name, that one hosted an uptight crowd. Ana in her ‘starving artist’ look would fare better with rowdy college kids. She had on a faded T-shirt and jeans with black smears. Ana checked her hands and, finding they still had charcoal on the tips, wiped them on her jeans— this made more smears. No one cared here, which was good but she couldn’t get service, which wasn’t so good. It was time to go inside and sit by the bar—might as well be closer to the man she needed.

  It looked to be the blond bartender’s shift. With a toothpick in his mouth and a pen behind his ear, the tragic blond would often shake his head if he’d heard and seen it all.

  “Hey...” Ana would say his name but she didn’t remember.

  “Hey, girl.” Looked like he didn’t remember hers, either. He was too busy to be chatty, and that was good as well. He poured drinks with the efficiency of a factory machine programmed for that purpose alone.

  “Can I get a double bourbon, no ice, please?” asked Ana.

  “Aight girl,” he said, turned, and forgot about her.

  Unable to get a drink even at the bar, Ana groaned. She’d been planning to meet a guy she’d swiped right on but changed her mind when she received a dick pic. It wasn’t the pervy behavior that turned her off, Ana liked lewd, but she didn’t like his dick. Instead of staying the course, the dick had taken a left and curved—it was bound to rub her the wrong way.

  Still no drink. She could go back to her apartment where she had bourbon and better service, and much cheaper too. Deciding she’d had enough ‘people’ for one day, Ana got up to leave but saw a man on the terrace and sat back down.

  Maybe not a man but a boy, he hardly looked old enough to be in a bar. Curly red hair and freckles visible from fifty feet away. Black jacket, designer jeans, custom sneakers with digital art. He was smirking. It was the smirk and his posture that caught Ana. The redhead had one elbow resting on the rail and held a drink with the other in a nonchalant manner. He was looking to the side at something out of Ana’s view, and smirking.

  Arrogant men stood different, carried themselves different, and smirked when they should smile. The redhead cleary enjoyed his own company and Ana dug people who loved themselves—narcissists. Her therapist would say that was a problem, but she wasn’t here, so who cared?

  Tilting his head in a question and looking directly at her, the redhead arched an eyebrow; she’d been staring at him. A normal person would have smiled, maybe even waved, but Ana rolled her eyes and turned back to the bar. Because I have no game.

  “Here, girl,” said the bartender, and her drink appeared. When Ana exchanged her card for the bourbon, he asked, “Open tab?”

  “Nah, I’m about to be out of here.”

  “Aight girl.”

  “Hey, how old is the kid over there? The redhead on the terrace, six o’clock,” asked Ana. She lived alone and had no dignity, so why not?

  The bartender stared behind Ana, squinting. “I carded him already.” Yeah, because Ana looked like she was from the liquor license revoking… agency?

  “I’ve seen him in here before. He’s all right,” said the bartender answering the question Ana hadn’t asked. “The blonde is hot, though,” he continued.

  “Is he looking at me?” Ana asked.

  “Nope, he’s looking at the blonde.” With that, he took her card and turned.

  Ana threw a glance over her shoulder—carefully. He was talking to a blonde wearing an off-the-shoulder black dress. The woman’s face was turned away from Ana but the snooty attire said ‘not a college kid’. Perhaps he liked older women, which was good, because Ana wasn’t eighteen or nineteen… or however old he was. At twenty-seven, she was already trying to rob cradles—she would need more than one therapist soon.

  The bartender returned with Ana’s bill, and as she signed it, she thought about how little money she had and how much of it she chose to spend on bourbon—she had issues therapists couldn’t fix.

  “Hey, can I get a double shot of whiskey, neat?” said a male voice with perfect pitch that was not too high, not too low. Old fashioned and sweet with a bit of southern twang, it spoke again, “Are you doing all right, ma’am?”

  Ana looked up—the redhead, of course. Don’t roll your eyes, she thought and squinted with the effort. “Hey.” She tried to sound casual, overdid it, and sounded as if she’d ingested opioids.

  He had a hundred-dollar bill folded between his middle and index fingers and held it out to the bartender, who snatched it, smiled, and produced a drink immediately without forgetting first.

  Ana said, “Hey,” again—because she was an idiot.

  “Hey,” he said with a smile. Still a smirk, but from this distance, Ana saw he had gold eyes. His freckles were adorable, as if someone had blown copper dust onto his face, and he smelled nice too— musky, like earth and temple. Wondering what kind of noises he made during sex Ana imagined him breathing hard over her. He’s the type to look angry, Ana thought—she liked those.

  There must’ve been something wrong with her face because he asked, “Are you all right?”

  “I’m Ana,” she said and held out her hand as if he was a business associate, because of course she did. She was a well established idiot.

  “Nice to meet you, Ana. I’m Drake.” Laughing, he took her hand and shook it with a strong, warm grip.

  “Are they contacts, Drake?”

  “What?”

  “Your eyes, I mean. It’s a strange color.” The idiocy continued.

  “No, my mama made me this way. But I’ll let her know they’re not working out with pretty girls.” That damn southern twang was so sweet that even though he had the smug tone of a banker or a lawyer... or maybe a doctor, he still sounded like an old-fashioned sweetheart.

  Ana meant to say something, and—hell—maybe she would’ve even come up with something pleasant, but the blonde came between them. Not the bartender, but the blonde he had been speaking to out on the terrace. Ana only saw the back of her head (again), and now the hair was in Ana’s kisser. Wiping the woman’s hair off, Ana made a face. She didn’t know what kind of face, but it got a laugh from Drake.

  The blonde turned and said, “Oh, hey.” Barbie doll, as in made of plastic (surgeries). If that was his type, Ana wasn’t.

  That’s all, folks. Dismissing the blonde with a swipe of her hand, Ana rolled her eyes—intentionally this time—and headed out. She heard the woman say, “Well, she’s rude,” behind her. Not hearing what his reply was, she pushed the door and stepped out.

  Nine bands, lit up like halos, were set in eternal motion—destined to churn forever, encompassing a dark planet that wasn’t a planet at all. Heavy like a liquid, but smoke that screamed, that cried like her mom had when she saw her daddy had hung himself. Turning like a spindle hung from a black ash tree, daddy’s feet spun above as Ana looked up. Nightmares, she hated them—and she always had them.

  The halos would halt one by one, becoming a giant belt of screeching, grinding metal, turning by way of its own inertia till that faded too—dead weight floating away into the dark space. An insignia was etched on each band but only became visible after the light waned. A single band remained a halo.

  No matter how many times Ana had this dream, she could never see the insignia on the halo. The dead bands, yes, she knew the symbols on them by heart, but she could never see the design on the halo. She’d had this dream ever since she could remember, even as a child; it used to scare her then, and it scared her still. A single halo remained to keep the black from enveloping her completely. She’d always been afraid of the halo dying, going out like the rest. She could hear the
darkness and all that dwelled within it. When the light dies, the monster will come.

  The dream would play itself out, as it always did, and she would wake up in her room as she always had. No monsters, no screaming darkness. Except she’d been getting a feeling of someone watching her dream—the presence felt benevolent and didn’t scare her, but she was crazy (diagnosed and everything). Only crazy people would feel someone watching them sleep and think, he’s just protecting me.

  Ana woke, and the black from the dream dissolved into the shadows cast by the objects in her room. Yellow impended—like tiny holes in a blanket of black, little stars revolved on the ceiling. Unable to sleep in the complete dark, Ana had a nightlight—hence the star-studded ceiling. She was an adult who still worried about monsters in the dark.

  Ana sat up and flipped through the pages of the sketchbook she kept by the bed. Once again, she drew the insignias, which she counted afterward—eight.

  Ninth was the light, and being the halo it was too bright for her to make out its markings. The word fire came to her, but none of it meant anything anyway. Only that the shock therapy didn’t work. That talk therapy didn’t work. That pills didn’t help and that she was still crazy. Ana tossed the sketchbook on the floor and kicked off her blanket. It was still night, but she may as well get up because sleep wasn’t going to happen for her, not without more pills or drinks.

  Ana went to the living room and turned on the light but it was too bright, so she turned it off again. She turned on the desk lamp by her computer and made coffee in the dark kitchen. The lamp was enough for the living room and the kitchen—her apartment was small, but she didn’t have a pet or a boyfriend so a single bedroom was okay.

  After she got her coffee, Ana sat in front of her computer, turned it on, and stared as all the software loaded. She didn’t know what time it was. The left-hand bottom corner of the screen said 5 p.m., but that was somewhere in Japan. She’d bought the computer second-hand, and the clock had always been wrong. Well, right for where it came from but wrong for where she was. She kept forgetting to reset it—perhaps it was easier to move to Japan.