The Call of Memories: Book 2 of the Dísir Series

By Vivian Griffen

Bennett Sinclair is a reluctant psychic and former bodyguard. He's learned that the world is far stranger and more complex than he could have imagined. Werewolves, ghouls, pucks and sorcerers are only the tip of the iceberg.

Now making his home in Seattle, he's learned that people are mysteriously dying and he's been called upon to use his talents to save an unsuspecting population.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vivian Griffen
• Release date: Feb 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301848898

Vivian Griffen

V. Griffen remembers writing her first story at age eight, a suspense-thriller involving a long and terrifying walk home from grade school and encountering her own shadow. The stories never stopped and many a digital tree is now carrying her words and characters into posterity. Now she’s made the supremely daring choice to inflict a few of her stories upon the unsuspecting population. V. Griffen is an author, artist, historian and inveterate researcher of any topic that strikes her fancy of the moment. She's lived in New York, Wisconsin and Pennsylvania. Newly relocated to Montana, she is awed and humbled in the wide-open prairies. Having worked at seemingly every job imaginable, she concluded that the width of her experience is best used to bring depth to her novels, focusing on her love of paranormal urban contemporary fiction.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Someone near was digging my grave.

It was my first semi-coherent thought in, I suspected, quite a while. I was absurdly pleased to have managed it. My head, however, protested the multitasking, of managing basic bodily functions and thinking, vehemently and with great emphasis as it attempted to jackhammer my few remaining brain cells out through my ears.

Behind me came the rasp of metal as it scraped against small stones in the soil and turf. There followed the grunt of labor from lifting and the light hail as bits of the dirt trailed off the sides. It culminated in the dull thud as the load was upended to the ground, only to have it start again.

It was kind of soothing, with its methodical, unhurried rhythm. I can be rather perverse.

A light, misting rain fell on my face. After living in Nevada for the better part of a decade, it seemed like an odd sensation. As was the smell of pine and grass. At least there were no scorpions.

Thinking was a bit of a chore; unpleasant and too much work. My mind drifted along, occasionally lifting up to have a rational thought. But for the most part, it sulked at the abuse when it wasn’t skittering along like a half-deflated helium balloon.

It had been such a promising day. My lady friend, Zoe, was out of town. She’d been gone for a week now. In that time, I’d come to a startling discovery: I missed her. No, that really wasn’t true.What was startling was that she’d put up with me for the past year, despite my ineptitude with all things Relationship.

It was amazing how much I missed her. Don’t tell anyone, but I actually caught myself throwing a towel on the immaculate bathroom floor because I missed picking up after her. That just sounded pathetic, even inside my head.

Knowing she was returning in a few days, I had taken it upon myself to head into the Seattle hills where we’d driven aimlessly around a few weeks before, exploring. She had been certain a dryad had moved back into the area and she wanted some confirmation

Zoe sees auras and she said the trees on the Queen Anne hill were healthier, the leaves brighter, than on the trees outside the area. She could see it even from the downtown area. Who knew trees had auras?

So, while I was getting a lecture (She says she was just informing me) on how the logging had killed one dryad and forced another to flee, we came upon a home-based florist. Being an avid gardener, she made me stop.

We killed two birds with one stone, though I’m pretty sure any self-respecting dryad would not like the metaphor. She hoped the locals might give her some clues. We never did find the dryad, but Zoe and the shop owner were soon friends. That wasn’t a surprise. Everyone liked Zoe. She even got some great philodendrons out of the trip.

So, in anticipation of her return, I was heading back to pick up a pot she liked. It was a ceramic turtle with a globe-incised bowl on top. Apparently it was based on some legend. She hadn’t bought it because it was pink. An eye-searing, retinal-burning, see-it-from orbit pink.

I’m color-blind. She’d have gotten away with sticking it on my deck until the first person gave me a hard time about it. Not that I have many, or any, friends in the area to rib me about it. But that’s my lady. Always thinking of the other guy. She was convinced no self-respecting male would want a pink flower pot on their deck. Especially when there was no live-in female to blame it on.

At this point, I was missing her so much I didn’t really care what anyone said. I was gonna have it as a surprise.

So, there I was. Pink pot was safely cushioned in the back seat and a flat tire in the front. It’s the usual way the universe looks after me. Then, just to complete the day, there was no spare.

With the hills, there was no cell reception so I was reduced to hoofing it to the only house I could see in the sparse residential area.

The house was large enough to confirm a comfortable living but not so high-brow they’d throw the bolts on the front door when I knocked. It was in good repair, even if it needed tuck-pointing. Because of Zoe’s gardening, I noticed that the flower beds were thin from long-term neglect.

I didn’t have high hopes of an answer at the door. The garage door window let me see there was no car in the garage. Most of the windows were dark, but I thought I saw a gleam of light through the tiny cut-glass window that ran along either side of the door. It was possibly left on to prevent theft.

There was a sticker on one window announcing this residence was protected by Omega Security’s Mark 3000 security alarm system. I seriously hoped it was a feint. Otherwise, they did half the job for any hopeful thief. A little study and they would know precisely how to get past the system. It might be a feint, but probably not. The stupid resident’s probably thought it would be a deterrent.

I rang twice and was going to give up when I heard faint footsteps and the door opened. The guy facing me looked a little younger than my thirty-three years, with dark hair and fine features. With his lean physique and looks, he’d have been a perfect GQ model.

I gave him my best smile. Sorry to bother you. I got a flat a little ways away and I was hoping to used a phone. I held mine up. No bars.

No.

Okey-dokey. That was brief. And a little odd.

I can be intimidating. Over ten years as personal security can cause the Bad Ass aspects to leak out even when you’re not working. But here I was on my best behavior. And, for the record, how many would-be home invaders wear Gino Valentino suits? Maybe he didn’t like the light scuffing on my shoes.

There were no other houses that I could see. Could you call a tow for me?

He didn’t bother to answer. He just started to close the door.

Ass. I gave another smile, this one a little tighter. No problem. I turned and started walking, talking over my shoulder.

You mind if I hang at the bottom of your drive? I’m sure a passing car will call it in, or call the cops because I’m, you know, clearly a vagrant. You could even call them for me. I’m sure they’ll call for a tow.

There was a pause, followed by an irritated Wait.

I was a little surprised that worked. But maybe I shouldn’t have been. Most people don’t care to deal with the police if they don’t have to. Modern living, you gotta love it. I wasn’t going to knock a gift horse in the mouth.

Just for the record, why would anyone knock a gift horse? Aside from the fact that it’s rude, the beast has around three times your weight and a general accuracy with four hooves. Seems like a stupid thing to do. Yes, I wonder about things like that.

Plastering a pleasant look on my face, I turned back around and headed back to the door. With a surly sweep of his hand, he gestured me to enter. Phone’s in the kitchen.

He could have been more gracious about it, but that wasn’t going to stop me. Knowing Seattle, the late afternoon rain would start soon. I still hadn’t picked up the knack of having an umbrella around all the time.

I stepped inside, just as it began. Perfect timing. I swear, I’ve seen more rain here in a week that I did in an entire year in Nevada.

The house was comfortable, if a bit sparse. The furniture was excellent, though. I couldn’t help but stop and run a hand along a Stickley chair. It was an original. I made a promise to myself to make one in my wood shop. Just so you know, I have never tried to pass off my work as antiques. Forgery just isn’t my thing.

At my host’s impatient cough I moved on. We passed the living room and entered the dining room. More wood furniture. It was all well-worn and comfortable, with sturdy fabrics that would last. Lacy bits covered worn spots on the arms. Knickknacks cluttered over the fireplace.

It didn’t suit Mr. GQ. I saw him more as a chrome-and-veneer sort of guy. Maybe his wife picked it out? Better yet, it was probably his parents place.

A series of photographs graced the sideboard in the dining area. A few showed an elderly couple, all white-haired and smiling. The rest had small children at various stages. None looked older than grade school and seemed to be recent, as one had a boy grinning over a new laptop.

I did note the incongruity of the shiny nail heads securing the windows. It was recently done. I frowned. With a house like this, why ruin the wood when the security system worked better? My inner paranoid was quivering.

Go on straight through. The kitchen is just in back. The phone is on the desk. His voice was gruff and the extended conversation held a bit of an accent. It was definitely Latino, maybe Mexican.

I stepped forward and through the swinging door that separated the kitchen. The strong, almost overpowering scent of cleaning solutions hit my nose. Someone was cleaning the shit out of the house. I was through the swinging door when it hit me.

A memory lingered there, fresh and powerful. Alarmed, I backpedaled right into the guy behind me. His arms went up and around me. Not in support, either. His left came around, his forearm pressing against my windpipe as his right arm came up behind my head as a cross brace.

The room’s memory pressed in. I brought my hands up to wedge one in between the arm and my throat. GQ boy was stronger than he looked.

The memory was bearing down hard. Between it and the throttling, I was seeing spots. I had second to make a choice, neither palatable. I could let down my mental defenses to concentrate on the guy or keep focused on my mental wards.

These weren’t good choices. If the memory swept me up when I wasn’t in control, there was a good chance I wouldn’t come out of it. Ever. Then again, if I rode it out, the guy could kill me with ease. I could not do both.

Hm, coma and/or insanity versus death. I knew which I feared more. I brought up my mental shields and let my body go limp.

Chapter 2

Perhaps I should back up and explain a few things. My name’s Bennett Sinclair and I am a psychic. That sounded like a good opening for a paranormal 12-step program.

As the cliché goes, I see dead people. Not ghosts or remnants. It’s more like an area-based psychometry. I see events that happened in that space, in the past. I once went to the Ford theatre in D.C. Saw Abraham Lincoln get shot. Spoiler alert, John Wilkes Booth did it.

The universe cursed me with this from childhood. Why I couldn’t be a normal mutant with a nifty superpower that manifested itself at puberty like any other self-respecting freak, I couldn’t tell you.

There’s no rhyme or reason that I could tell for when it happens. Like I said, I saw Lincoln get shot, but there was nothing, not even a glimmer of a vision, when I went to the grassy knoll where Kennedy died. The long and short of it is that I never know when I’m going to get blindsided.

I’ve had these episodes every few months for most of my life. Most of them highlighting the darker aspects of the human race. I can count on one hand the uplifting memories. That’s what I call the visions. Memories of times past.

I’ve seen men and women hacking away at each other to defend a village in 12th century France. I’ve seen conquistadors slaughtering a small group of natives on the jungle floor of Peru. I’ve even seen tribal warriors fighting a losing battle in the Boer wars. We are not a pretty people.

And if you’re wondering why I’m not completely bug-nuts, you’re not alone. For the most part, once I’ve viewed the event, the trauma fades relatively quickly. They become faint, distant images, like a movie dimly remembered from long ago. For the truly horrible, I’ve learned to lock them away in my special place. I room in my mind that I try to never, ever let open. Yep, paint me an ostrich.

As par for the course, my vision dimmed and then cleared. I was still in the kitchen. This time, the sun outside was close to the horizon and cast a warm glow in the room. Oh, another kick in the teeth is that I’m color-blind except during a memory. Irony or tragedy, you decide.

Outside, the trees were void of all leaves, leaving only the evergreens to bring a little color to the Fall season and provide some privacy from neighbors. The corners of the windows were opaque from the frost that started out heavy along the edges and spread into a delicate cover.

I can’t really see the people. Usually, they’re just blobs of light and mist until they die. But, between the voices and emotions, I can usually figure out some of the details.

A middle-aged woman was chopping vegetables at the counter and talking to someone else. Her voice was tired, but she was making an effort to keep her voice cheerful as she chatted about taking a trip down the coast.

I was thinking we could try out Eureka. It’s supposed to be a great town. A lot of people are moving there. We could get in while there are still jobs to be had. What do you say to that?

She reached out to stroke an empty pot. It was a pretty cerulean blue ceramic deal with side pockets for a multitude of different flowers. Soil crusted the inner sides. Three full ones were on the floor near the door, waiting to be planted. They held pure white lilies. It seemed like a senseless thing to plant this time of year. The lilies would frost and die in the cold.

I sensed an unseen presence, filled with malicious glee, approaching. He came in from the dining room. The door was to the woman’s back. He came in fast and with a purpose. He was eager, almost aroused in dark anticipation.

The sound of the swinging door alerted the woman, but not quickly enough. The woman’s tiredness vanished as fear consumed her muscles, freezing her in place for too many seconds. Desperation, with a tiny shard of anger, gave her time to whirl around with her knife ready. But, he had the jump on her.

She wasn’t a good fighter. He easily slapped the slashing knife from her hand. His return backhand brought her up against the counter. With no hesitation, she lunged for the butcher block and selected another weapon. I could feel the emotions seeping into me. Her determination was spiked with fear. It formed a solid lump in the base of her/my spine and in the back of our necks.

He danced back with a liquid grace from the slashing of the knife as she swung wildly. He grabbed her wrist with one hand, backhanding her again. I felt her thin bones in my hand even as I felt the blow across one cheek.

His elation soared. He could smell her fear and the fragility of her wrist bones. He/I had the power to stop this, but it was much more fun letting her use up her strength. It would make breaking her easier, later.

She/I fought with a desperation that bordered on insanity. Her fear was a palpable thing, steeling away her breath and her voice. Her/my muscles strained to break free as he/I bent her backwards over the counter. I felt the tiny bones in one foot protest as she got in one good kick on his shin. She/I called out as she fought. Something in a foreign language, Eastern European, I would guess. I didn’t understand her words, but I could guess the meaning. Run!

A third presence, the one she’d been talking to, was confused and then terrified. Too terrified to scream or help in any way. I never saw the person but the fear was as piercing as a thin, high scream. It clawed my belly. When the woman screamed, bowels loosened as the person/I peed in terror.

If there was one blessing in my curse, it was that I never actually saw the people. I didn’t have to witness the visuals. For the sake of my sanity, I am profoundly grateful.

The man was…odd. Different from other people. Like any asshole, he got off on the power, the fear. He enjoyed controlling others. He was pleasantly surprised when she fought back, but there was also a thread of anxiety there, like another unwanted intruder, coming from somewhere else.

It felt like it came from far away, though I’d never had that happen before. All of my visions came within a specific area. It confused me enough to almost throw me out of the memory. Almost. But it did allow me a brief respite from the emotional barrage.

There were only two people in the room. If I didn’t know better, I’d have said there were four people there.

But I didn’t see anyone else in the room except for the two fighting. Unless this was a Grimm fairy tale (and with the types of people I’ve been meeting recently, it’s a distinct possibility) there wasn’t anyone in the stove or refrigerator. I got a horrible sinking feeling with the realization that there was no place an adult could be.

I was torn. I wanted to ‘fast-forward’ through the memory, getting past the worst of it, of what I expected to see. But that felt too much like I was abandoning whoever else was in the room. It was too callous, even for the sake of my sanity, to leave a child to this.

But I was also painfully aware that I didn’t know what was going on with my body outside the memory. I could only assume, hope, that since I was still in the middle of this, I wasn’t dead yet. But I was likely running out of time.

Time was not relative here. Before I got a modicum of control over the curse, I was forced to relive the memory in real time. In stages, as I grew up, I learned that pushing them forward could mean I could get through it in a fraction of the time it would normally take. I’ve had full-blown sessions take only a few agonizing minutes. Recently, in New Orleans, I let one out resurface again, to go through a second time, and it only took mere seconds.

But going through a first session almost always meant minutes. Minutes I might not have. There was nothing I could do to help anyone here. I knew with a certainty that at least one person here was dead. I never had a memory where someone lived. I was a witness of the past. I couldn’t change it. I could only get the son of a bitch if he was alive. If the child was alive, she needed me in the here and now, not in this fucking memory.

With no little reluctance, I pushed the scene forward. It didn’t dull the feelings. It only condensed the time and blurred some of the details.

The man tied the woman up. It became clear this was no random invasion or rape. This guy had an agenda. He sat her in a chair and secured her. He put another in front of her, straddling it. He was curious to see just how much she’d resist. How much she would lie.

I felt myself being drawn in again.

He/I didn’t try to hide his face or cover her eyes. From that alone, she/I knew she was going to die. It was just a matter of how long it would take. She/I rocked in her chair as much as her/my binds allowed her/us. The plastic ties bit sharply into her/my wrists and ankles. Her/my strength wasn’t enough to break them. She/I was seated on a metal chair. It wouldn’t give under her/my struggles.

A thin line of defiance faltered and strained inside of her/me, but did not snap. Everything else damped down under the pressure of one solitary goal. A kis egér. Fedél a füle és szája.Ha lehet Végezze el a bitonsági.

Sarita. He/I slapped her to get her attention. The pain stung across her/ my face. He/I enjoyed the feeling of flesh striking. I’m going to ask you some questions. If you lie, if you fight, it will be much harder on you. I don’t need to explain what that means do I?

A spike of rage ran through her/me. She/I made a sound somewhere between a sob and a whimper.

Good. Tell me where your lab is? Where are your formulas?

She didn’t hesitate. They are at an abandoned storage drain, north of The Pier on Chestnut.

He slapped her again; hard enough he/I almost knocked her/me out. He/I enjoyed the feel of his/my hand on her/me, the bite of the blow echoing along his/my arm. I felt blood flowing in her/my mouth. We found that one. You hadn’t been there for weeks. Where is your lab? Where are your notes?

She/I debated for almost ten seconds. It was a brutal war inside her. I could feel her emotions but I had no idea of her thoughts. I could guess, though. Should she give a monster what he wanted and invite a clean death for the sake of giving a child a chance to escape? Was it her child?

There really wasn’t much of a choice, but she didn’t know if she gave him what he came for whether he’d make it a quick death. I haven’t built another. None of the experiments worked again. The notes are upstairs, in the bedroom, in the satchel.

He was keenly disappointed. He’d expected a better showing than that. He checked her bindings and gagged her before leaving the kitchen.

She/I struggled in the chair, trying to talk around the kitchen towel he/I had stuffed into her/my mouth. There was no answer, but a thin mewling sound came from my right, near the window.

She/I struggled harder which only served to topple her to the floor. Her/my ankles were bound to the chair legs. She/I couldn’t break free.

He came back with a file folder filled with printouts and handwritten notes. He/I looked at her lying on the floor. He/I was suspicious that she caved so easily; disappointed and angry that this was so easy. There was only one outlet for him, for his feelings.

I pushed the scene harder. He/I lifted her until she/I was upright again and removed the gag. He/I hit her, his blows increasingly powerful and frequent. I felt her/my face grow numb under the blows. I felt his satisfaction when he saw the blood. I felt her pain as one cupped hand hit her on the side of her face, rupturing the eardrum. She/I screamed at the sharp pain slicing through her head.

Where is your other lab?

She/I could barely hear him. But she gave him more. I-I w-worked out of my home. Basement.

He/I punched her/me in the stomach. Bile rose, along with the meager dinner. I felt the hot fluid rise. I could smell the stench and vomit sprayed out.

He/I was disgusted by the weak response. This prey was pitiful. You are pathetic. Not worth the trouble I took to track you down.

He struck again, aiming a vicious kick against her/my knee. She/I screamed as the kneecap wrenched painfully.

Leaving her whimpering, he rifled through the papers. What is this notation? Hm? He/I grabbed a handful of hair to tug her/my head up. He/I shoved the papers under her/my nose. What is this, little Sarita?

She groaned. Cadmium. It is for cadmium. It does not work. None of it works.

He/I shook her/my head violently from side to side. Something had to work. You made it. Where is it?

Desperate laughter bubbled up in her/my chest. More blood fell. I could feel loose teeth in her/my mouth. I buried it. Buried treasure.

He/I hit her again and again. Where is it? Tell me where it is! I will stop if you tell me where it is. Bitch, tell me!

All the while, he/I was asking questions, I focused on the pages. It looked like some sort of formula. I recognized a couple of the symbols for…carbon, maybe? The interrogation made no sense. I was missing too many pieces.

He/I was pleased when she/I spat defiance at him. He grew hard at the terror in her eyes when he selected a knife from the butcher block on the kitchen island.

The child’s helplessness, hopelessness and terror burned in my gut. The child/I didn’t understand the words Sarita spoke, not through the roaring of fear, but I echoed them with her, stuffing hands in my mouth and curling up in a tight ball. All she felt was the fear, hearing the sounds of pain and violence. All she could smell was her anguish and terror.

The man/I made a few shallow cuts along her/my breasts and belly. I felt the sharp pinch of the blade slice open her/my skin. Her terror was reduced to a simple chant, Don’t know how to do it again. Don’t know. Please, I don’t know.

He/I was scarcely paying attention. He/I trailed the tip of the knife along her/my throat, becoming explicit about what he/I intended to do to her/me. Her/my gorge rose and she/I fought to not be sick.

She surprised us all. That thin line of defiance, not quite broken, strengthened. There was something she could do. Resolve clawed its way from her heart and hung there, refusing to leave. I felt it rise up from her belly, giving her a strength she never had before. She/I jerked her head down onto the knife at her throat. I felt the sharp bite of pain followed by a warm gushing over her/my shirt and face.

Arterial blood sprayed, hot and red, vivid splatters against the floor, wall and appliances. Her/my defiance melting into a deep sorrow and regret fading as the flood abated.

The man/I jerked back, disgusted and furious that he/I had gauged her so badly. She’d escaped him and now he felt the fear that the cost of failure would cost him.

She was gone.

Chapter 3

The memory faded and then I woke, in the garden, to the sound of digging.

I opened my eyes carefully. I could see the back of the house. We were at the far end of the backyard. A low stone wall ran along the edge of the property. It was at a height that would serve as auxiliary seating if the owners ever had a garden party. Adirondack chairs were arranged around a fire pit. An expensive grill sat against the back of the house. Flagstones meandered around, leading guests through flowerbeds that were sadly neglected.