A Gathering of Darkness

By S.M. Muse

It begins with a boy searching for his father, a father missing these last two and a half years. It continues with a man living his life one day at a time about to marry his best friend and the love of his life. Somewhere along the line the two meet, this boy and this man; what they discover about each other, and who they really are, will change everything.

Meanwhile, forces are gathering, marshaling their strength as agents creep the streets of modern day New York in search of royalty- royalty banished some 400 years prior –to put an end to their royal line once and for all.

Darkness is on the move, and with the royal line gone, nothing can stop them from reaching their goal, the eradication of an entire nation gone these last 350 years.

Portents light the night sky, the Royal Bay has begun to shed its leaves foretelling doom and the death of a King.

Can a fallen angel, a thirteen year old man/child, and an exiled King with no memory of who he is or was, hold off the terrible forces about to be unleashed upon an unsuspecting world?

Only time will tell.

Reviews:

A new talent, states E. Finlayson of Staffordshire, UK. This book can be considered equally as a young adult book or an adult book. The plot is out of the usual and the writer builds both tension and atmosphere skillfully. Like other reviewers I could hardly put it down until it was finished, and I hope very much for a Book 2.

AMAZING! Says Ron You feel like your right there beside the characters throughout their whole journey. I would HIGHLY recommend this book to anyone ready for an adventure. There were times while reading this book that my heart would be beating faster. Can't wait for the next book in the series! HIGHLY recommend this book!

• Language: English
• Publisher: S.M. Muse
• Release date: Oct 19, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466024830

S.M. Muse

After meeting Frank Herbert, author of the acclaimed Dune Series, I decided the life of writing was for me. That was about 30 years ago, I've been writing ever since. Heir of Nostalgia is my first published novel, and thanks to the encouragement of my loving wife Janet, is the first in a series chronicling the trials and tribulations of young man in search of his family, his country as well as his place in the world. I am pleased to present it here, for your reading pleasure. I truly believe in the gift and wonder of reading, I hope you do as well.Here's to the land of wonder, an air of Nostalgia, and childhood memories. May we never grow too old to dream...Got a question, comment or review, I'd love to hear from you. Simply drop me a line at: [e-mail].

Book preview

Book One

Nostalgia- 1770, severe homesickness (considered as a disease), Mod.L. (cf. Fr. nostalgie, 1802), coined 1668 by Johannes Hofer as a rendering of Ger. heimweh, from Gk. nostos homecoming + algos pain, grief, distress (see -algia).

Function: n

1 : the state of being homesick

2 : a wistful or excessively sentimental sometimes abnormal yearning for return to or of some past period or irrecoverable condition

3. A bittersweet longing for things, persons, or situations of the past.

'Tis thought the king is dead; we will not stay.

The bay-trees in our country are all wither'd

And meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven;

The pale-faced moon looks bloody on the earth

And lean-look'd prophets whisper fearful change;

Rich men look sad and ruffians dance and leap,

The one in fear to lose what they enjoy,

The other to enjoy by rage and war:

These signs forerun the death or fall of kings.

Shakespeare: Richard II., ii. 4.

Chapter 1

Phillip

No greater peril

Excuse me, young sir… young man?

The boy had been so lost, so caught up in thought; that it never occurred to him that the wretched figure swaying before him hadn't been there a moment before.

Startled by the old man’s appearance, he immediately cringed, as much from the gut-wrenching fear of being discovered, as from the murderous nor’easter cutting him to the bone.

He’d never been so miserably cold.

His first attempt at dismissal went unheeded, much like his second and third. Finally, he could take it no longer. It was obvious the old man was going to stay. What is it? he asked, all the while, keeping in mind his mother’s final words, ‘to keep his head down and his mouth shut. Tell no one his business or why he was here. And last but not least, speak to as few of these people as possible.’ With the old man’s intrusion, it seemed remaining anonymous was no longer an option.

Might you have a bit of change to spare, young master? The old man’s accent seemed contrived, forced. As he spoke he appeared nervous, glancing first left, then right. Everywhere but at him.

What are you trying to hide, the boy wondered? "Do I look like I have change?" he asked.

The old man’s feet began to shuffle and scuff, as if thinking involved moving.

Mental for sure, the boy mused. And yet, despite the old man’s street worn appearance, there was something oddly familiar about him. In the way that he moves, the way he shuffles his feet… Shadows seemed to cling to his features like they were painted there.

But why?

He was about to move on when a sudden thought entered his head, there was something oddly familiar about the shadows, the way they seemed to cling to the old man’s features, never revealing, not entirely anyway. Then this too, was gone.

I’m not supposed to be here, he realized. I’m supposed to meet Maggie… and father. A father he hadn’t seen in nearly three years.

In that moment, even as the words crossed his mind, the old man began to smile, obviously pleased with himself. It was as if the old fart had just shared a private joke, one that only he knew the punch line to.

Look gramps, I gotta go. If I see you later we’ll do lunch. Just have your people get a hold of mine, will ya? And with that he moved on, parting the crowds around him like Moses parting the Red Sea. On God’s mission, doing God’s will, everyone make way.

He had just turned a nearby corner when all the sudden he is grabbed from behind, an arm snaking around his waist and neck, lifting him off the ground and into a nearby alley strewn with trash, faded Springsteen posters and near-total darkness.

Fear attacked-

Try as he might, he could not break free, in fact he could barely breath. Panic flared in his mind’s eye, blinding him to thought and reason. The entire time he was being strangled, his attacker was pawing at his clothes, running his hand through his pockets, reaching up under his coat and raking claws, across his chest and back.

Get off me, he choked. Let me go. But his words fell on deaf ears. If anything, his attackers grip seemed to tighten.

Panic-stricken, he took a step back, trying to stomp the man’s foot, and missed. He tried to twist and turn, break free. Still nothing. His world began to darken and constrict, precious seconds ticking by. By now his eyes were watering and his lungs on fire.

Oddly enough, he wasn’t afraid- Mainly pissed… to come so far, go through so much, only to have it all end like this!

Into this midst comes the roar of an unseen sea, dark tides threatening to sweep him away.

I just want to go home…

Then, when it seems as if his entire world is about to fade, a voice enters his ear. Did you at least bring it with you? Before he can formulate an answer…

He tips forward into a snow-covered field…

A moment of disorientation. He is on his hands and knees, next to a deserted snow-covered road. An alabaster sky stretches high overhead. Into this silence, the gunshot cry of an eerie falcon, followed by nothing but silence- a silence so deep it frightens him.

He had almost forgotten what home sounded like- before the modern age.

His heart falters…

Suddenly free, he turns to confront his attacker- only to find no one, not even the alley behind him, instead endless vistas and snow-covered fields stretch away into forever. Steaming like a freight train, he grabs his throat…

The world begins to fade…

Nooooo! But it’s too late, hope fades like the landscape around him, until only the streets of New York remain.

And like that, he’s back. Turning, he finds the alleyway just as deserted as before- his attacker long gone.

It had to be that crazy old bastard,’ he thought. ‘Who else could it have been? With an effort he manages to clear his throat, hawk and spit.

Sadly, despite his distress, no one approaches him. Look at me, standing in the middle of a busy sidewalk, with no one around! This time sucks!

Entering a nearby stairwell he leans down, first to cut the wind, next to conceal his motions. The coin he retrieves from inside his shoe is thick and unnaturally heavy. One side shows the image of a burning shield; the other a crowned Eerie falcon- his father’s sigil.

Upon reaching his eighteenth birthday, that sigil would become his.

Together, the coin and boy are older than the city they knelt in by hundreds of years.

Comforted his secret remained, he returns the coin to its rightful hiding place. One can never be too careful, obviously! Shivering, he wipes away tears and reenters the teaming streets around him.

Chapter 2

Theo

The Majestic

New York’s Theatrical District, last night of a sold-out show- As You like It –an adapted Shakespearean play wherein:

"All the world’s a stage, and all (its) men and women merely players."

With the wrapping of tonight’s show, its seasonal run would end. Its many colorful and extravagant costumes and sets soon to cleaned, in some instances folded, and packed away.

Until next season.

As for the show’s actors and actresses, after tonight, many would take this opportunity to move on to even bigger and brighter prospects, their futures as brilliant as the sun. For others, however, tonight would be their final time on stage, their cues forgotten, their voices silenced forever. It is into this night that Theo Valerian takes his first faltering steps.

The city, even at this late hour, fairly hums with excitement. Shoppers and sightseers, en masse and alone, fills the streets, lines the sidewalks, and crowds the shops. Shoulder to shoulder, face to face, all seemed to be sharing the exact same thought, to explore as much of Manhattan Island as humanly possible-

All this I quickly assimilate through finger-smeared glass doors filled with blinding lights, jumping shadows, and marionette people. Anticipating the bitterness of outside, I pull tight the collar of my jacket, wrapping its warmth around me, before stepping into the night.

With the theater slowly receding and the night forever yawning, I managed to weave my way to the very outskirts of humanity, a.k.a., the nearest corner. Ahead lay the emptiness and chaos of the inner city.

It is here, along the periphery of the crowd, that I first spot them, an elderly couple slowly making their way towards a wall of yellow-checkered transportation. As a couple they seemed to be moving rather cautiously, holding on to each other’s hands, and trying their best to avoid random snowdrifts. In that moment I remember my grandparents, how they too, struggled to just get by in a city full of contrivance, motion, speed and sound.

Yesterday daring to intrude upon tomorrow.

With but a moment’s hesitation, I catch up and pass them. As such, I beat them to their destination.

The wife, all wrapped up like a poodle in a pale chinchilla fur, immediately blusters, her face red as a stop sign.

Well, I never…, she exclaims.

Before she can say anything more, I open the taxi’s rear door and beckon for them to enter.

He and she both freeze in mid-stride.

Anger slowly transforms into sorrow and regret.

Allow me to apologize, she said. A sad day, indeed, when one receives anger in exchange for common courtesy and good manners. Saying this she allowed her husband to enter first. As he slowly slid his way across the taxi’s vinyl seat, she turned to face me. Share…? she asked.

I decline. If you don’t mind, I’d rather walk.

She immediately tears up.

It’s nothing you said, I reply, offering comfort and reassurance. It’s just I prefer my own two feet on a night such as this.

She seems wary, apologizes once more, before following her husband. Without another word I close the door and slap the taxi roof once. In no time at all, they are gone.

The periphery returns.

Wintertime in New York, a wonderland of winter’s most bright and white. Nature’s fury constrained by pillars of shimmering steel, glass and stone.

A place where shadow and light share space and place.

Hey mister--

It was a small voice, but bold enough to interrupt my reverie. I turned, looked down.

Have you got any change to spare mister?

Small voice, small figure.

My initial response was to ignore the speaker altogether, that small shadowy figure lurking just beside the building before me, that or brush on by. (Both being very acceptable responses, especially this late at night. After all, it was nearly midnight.) Despite my better judgment, I decided to engage.

Patiently I waited for the boy to continue. Being this close to him I couldn’t help but smell the ‘streets’ all over him, a mix of car exhaust, cold and stale cigarettes smoke. (There was something else as well, something that brought to mind the words ‘wicked and wild’.) The boy was wearing a combination of clothes, a threadbare corduroy jacket, blue jeans, and a pair of ratty red-tailed gloves. His uncovered head was crowned by a mop of dark hair.

Taking a good long swipe at his nose, the boy, (who couldn’t have been more than thirteen, maybe fourteen, years old) visibly gathered his courage and stepped forward into the light.

I was stunned, his eyes were nearly identical to mine, the same color even, emerald green. Those self-same eyes were at this very moment looking me over, as if judging, weighing as to whether I was worthy of his interruption or not.

Such an odd thought.

You can’t be more than a kid, I exclaimed. Where in the world are your parents?

He ignored my question, countering with a statement and question of his own. I don’t see your parents walking you home… should they be?

Once again I had to gather my thoughts. Sorry, I muttered, You just seem so young.

As if homelessness has an age limit, he replies. All the while he rubs at his neck like it’s bothering him.

My first thought, the boy seemed entirely out of place, like I’d caught him playing the part of a homeless person when he really wasn’t homeless, only lost somehow.

With a quick shuffle the boy continued. So, got anything for me or not? The night’s young. I’ve got places to go and people to see. You’re either helping me or not. Only then did I notice his outstretched hand.

Behind me, the Majestic continued to empty out. Along the length of the street there were parents, nannies, chauffeurs and drivers, picking up their charges, strapping them into cars and whisking them home. Obviously not for this kid, though, it was obvious there would be no stretch limos or minivans arriving anytime soon to pick him up. Tonight his only way home would be like mine, his own two feet.

Don’t ask me where it came from, but before I could stop it my mouth blurted out, Why not join me instead?

Needless to say, my words caught us both off guard.

Excuse me?

Too late to backup now, the invitation was out there, so I plowed ahead. Instead of me giving you money; or whatever you’re wanting, why don’t you join me for a bite to eat instead? I know this really good place, cozy, out of the way, and a whole lot warmer than being out here.

What in it for you? he asked.

I was expecting this. I’m not sure I know what you mean. Even though I did. Let’s not be naive, the worlds a hard place where people take advantage.

Everyone’s got an agenda. What’s yours? he asked. My momma didn’t raise no fool, he said.

No catch, I explained, showing him my hands. I’m simply offering to buy you a meal You can join me or not, it’s up to you. I pretended to look at my watch.

Alright, he said, exasperated. Where exactly did you have in mind?

Like I had offered him a choice. Since you’ve asked so politely- it’s just down the block, a little hole-in-the-wall named Leo’s.

He just stood there, blank pallet for a face.

It’s not anything fancy, but the foods good. There’s bound to be a crowd there as well- if that counts for anything.

For a moment he just stood there, Can I bring someone else along? he asked.

I wasn’t surprised. Sometimes ‘they’ traveled in pairs and packs, and by ‘they’, I mean the homeless. Sure, I said, the more the merrier…

At my words a shadow detached itself from the alleyway closest to us, and begin walking our way. It was a young girl, older than the boy in front of me, but not by much. She might have been all of sixteen. Slender as a reed and pale as snow, she wore the same sort of clothes the boy wore, second-hand and worn. Despite layers of clothing, I could see she wore a tiny gold cross around her neck.

A dirty blue and white stocking cap masked most of her reddish-blond hair, but barely. As she drew into focus, I caught sight of her eyes, alive and glittering, they hugged the shadows beneath her brows like they were hiding from the world. Her lips, mere wisps of red, were drawn and thin. Sliding up next to the boy, she reached out and grabbed his hand.

Her name’s Maggie, the boy said. She doesn’t talk much. She won’t eat much either.

I’d love to have you join us, Maggie. She nodded. By the way, name’s Theo. Nice to meet the two of you.

You can call me Magpie, the girl said, voice as brittle as newly fallen snow.

Rubbing his hands along the sides of his jeans, the boy quickly followed her example. And I’m Phillip, he said.

A moment of nearly awkward silence.

After you, I insist, the boy added. And with that we set out.

Chapter 3

Theo

Leo’s Diner

Leo’s Diner lived up to its namesake, literally crouching in the middle of East 42nd Street, (not in the actual street per se, that would be silly) its presence as much a feature of New York as Lower Manhattan was to a skyline. The buildings foundations had been erected in the latter half of the nineteenth century, since that time the building above had been many things to many people. First an apartment building, then a Five and Dime store. It’s most recent incarnation, a small diner named Leo’s.

Half an hour later found the three of us parked in a booth next to a large plate glass window, our hands wrapped around a couple of steaming hot mugs of cocoa. Phillip and Maggie,  excuse me, ‘Magpie’, had both wanted a mound of marshmallows in theirs; I hadn’t had marshmallows since I was a kid, so despite the raised eyebrows of our waitress, I decided to follow suit and order the same.

So, I began, blowing across the top of my mug,  if you two don’t mind me asking, what brings you to the Big Apple? Small talk leads to big conversation, or so I hoped.

Ever since the boy had sat down he had been busy swinging his feet back and forth, his eyes jumping from place to place.  First he wanted to chat it up with Nancy, our waitress.  Then he wanted to pick at the napkins in their smudged chrome dispenser. With him it always seemed there was something new to see, something new to touch.

As for Magpie, she seemed content just to blend into the background, kicking back in the booth and all but fading into its worn blue upholstery.

Occasionally she’d finger the cross around her neck.

At first Phillip appeared hesitant to answer, staring into his hot cocoa and with lips pursed he elbowed Magpie and answered, Surviving, he replied. Magpie looked like she was wanting to say something more, but Phillip’s elbow had silenced that.

Sometimes that’s enough, I said. So far not so good. They were still mentally ‘outside’ looking ‘in’. Only one way to fix that. Want to know why I’m here? I asked.

Mirrored shrugs.

Because New York City is so big, I went on. It’s the host-est with the most-est. Everything you can think of, and more, can be found here.

And some things you never wanted to find, replied Maggie. Her words spoken so low I barely heard.

What she means is, the city’s bigger than it needs to be, Phillip added. Setting his mug of hot chocolate down, he began to spin it around by its handle.  If you ask me, it’s got too much of everything. And the people around here could learn some manners.

They can be a bit rude, I supplied.

If that’s what you call it, he said.  Do you think all cities are like this one, rude and obnoxious, or are we just blessed beyond belief? Without waiting for an answer he went on. You’d think their mothers would have raised them better.

I agree.

And besides being the rudest people on the planet, how can anyone figure out where they’re going or where they’ve been?  All anyone ever does is rush around. It’s crazy.

I had to agree, even though I’d only been living in New York proper, for the last few years. Sometimes I wondered what it would be like just to skip out and fly away, leave it all behind. Find some other place to settle down in- then I think about it again and say, nah!  All part of its charm, I said. Anything less would be… well, less.

And I take it you feel this is a good thing? He seemed skeptical.

Another long moment of silence. Maggie was simply sitting with her eyes closed. Time to change the subject.

Have either of you ever been up to the observation deck of the Empire State Building? Even though the building itself was a good three or four blocks away, we could still see its luminescence lighting up the sky.

They both shook their heads no.

It’s a shame, I said.  Anyone visiting the Big Apple, should at least make the trip.  The view from the top is mind-blowing.

You act like we’re on vacation, Phillip said blandly.

It was suddenly extremely hot, or at least I was. Point taken, I replied.

How about you, he asked, never batting an eye. Ever been to Central Park? As he was speaking he was reaching under the table.  The next thing I know he’s holding a coin in his right hand.

Maggie, now seemingly awake, had grabbed a napkin, begged a pen off Nancy, and was beginning to draw what looked like a bird of some sort.

Taken aback by his more-than-obvious question, I probably gave him the same facial look he just gave me when I asked if they had ever been to the top of the Empire State Building.  Of course I’ve been to Central Park. I think it’s pretty much a given if you live here.  After all, the park itself lay smack dab in the middle of New York.  Missing Central Park would be like missing the forest for the trees.  I found my eyes drawn to the coin he had retrieved. By the way, that’s some coin you got there.

His eyes snapped to mine. My dad gave it to me.

Simple enough statement. He was acting like I needed to go on. I didn’t.

With a shrug he returned the coin to its former hiding place. Casting a sigh, he turned his attention elsewhere. I think they forgot about us. Phillip exclaimed.  Maybe we should stop our waitress the next time she comes around.

We could do that, I replied. Then again, we could just as easily give her a moment.  She’s looking pretty busy.  Even as I said this, Nancy was in the midst of helping another waiter balance an impossibly large tray of food-laden plates.  The less we bother her, the quicker she’ll bring us our food.

An idea that hasn’t seemed to work for us so far, he muttered.  With this he turned back, his left hand still fiddling with his hot chocolate.

I turned towards Maggie. Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat, Hon?

The girls only response was to pull her cap down over her eyes even further.

Phillip was right, she didn’t want to talk.

Earlier, Phillip had removed his jacket, his gloves and finally his over-sized sweatshirt, all of which appeared to be frayed beyond belief.  Beneath all these he wore a faded gray tee-shirt and a pair of patched-up blue jeans, both so worn and faded in places they appeared to be almost threadbare.

So what now, the boy asked.

Good question. Maybe we can start again, I added. Like I said, my names Theo. I’m forty-one, and I work as a design engineer for Clearinghouse, an instate engineering firm- which means I get paid a lot of money just to draw fancy pictures on a computer.  At the moment I live alone, except for Thumper my Scottish terrier.  Oh yeah, and I like to take long walks on short beaches while reading poetry… That last part got them both to laughing.

You’d think we were on a date, Phillip added.  Sobering, he made the following observation.  And just so you know, for future’s sake, Thumper’s not a dog’s name; it’s a rabbit’s name.  A dog’s name should be Rex or Flash, or something cool like that, anything but Thumper. It makes him sound like a girl.

Hey now, I said, not really as offended as I let on. Rabbit or not, that’s his name, and if you ever get a chance to see him you’d understand why.  When he gets excited he doesn’t wag his tail from side to side like most dogs. He ‘thumps’ it up and down on the floor like a club.  Get it, Thumper?

He gave me one of those looks, you know the kind- crazy… Sounds like your dog is about as weird as you are, he said.  Which probably gets him beat up by all the other dogs in the neighborhood.  With this he began to rock back and forth in his seat, his attention caught only by the sight of Nancy heading our direction, a medium-sized tray of food balanced overhead.

At that point he quit rocking.

It was almost sad, sitting there watching the two of them eat- or should I say devour –everything in front of them. Not a word spoken, just getting down to the business of eating.

It was obvious they were starved.

Hey mister, you doing alright?

I jerked then, Phillip’s voice jarring me from the thoughts and memories of growing up on my own. (At some time he had had placed his hand on top of mine to get my attention.)

Yea, I’m back, I uttered, shaking my head.  Glancing up I could see they were both watching me.  Phillip’s eyes had gone misty, which I thought was weird, while Maggie’s were big and bright, like stained-glass windows full of light.

For a moment I was mesmerized. Then, something stirred within me, something familiar but hidden. I'm just tired, that’s all.  And when I’m tired I have a tendency to think about things I probably shouldn’t be worrying about.

I know what you mean, Phillip said.  My advice, don’t think so much when there’s food sitting in front of you. It gets cold if you do.

I smiled. Couldn’t agree with you more. Shall we?

And we did.

Later, after they had downed four more Cokes and another order of fries, they were done. Phillip punctuated his condition with a belch, for which he appeared only slightly embarrassed.

Sorry about that.

Not a problem.

At one time that was considered a compliment. he added.

I think things have changed, I said with a grin.

While the two of them were busy looking over the dessert menu, (how either one of them could still be hungry was beyond me) I tried chasing down Lycan, Leo’s owner.

I met Lycan three years ago, right after I moved to New York.  At that time I’d been looking for a decent place to eat, which really shouldn’t have been all that difficult in a city this size. But it was, at least it for me. I wanted more than just a greasy spoon, I wanted someplace to call my own. And being recently divorced didn’t help things. I either fixed way too much when I did cook, or not enough. Back to my story though.

On one particular night, can’t remember exactly when, I’d had all I could take of eating alone and my bad cooking. Fed up I threw on a coat, hoped downstairs, hailed a taxi, and threw caution to the wind. I asked the driver to take me to a good food establishment, and not one of those cookie-cutter restaurants in a box type places either.

So he took me to Leo’s. Leo’s had this burger, supposedly world famous, called the ‘Helluva Burger.’ The HoB was two half-pound all-beef patties, a stack of pickles, crisp green lettuce, ripe red tomatoes and thick yellow cheese, all topped by a secret, simply mouth-watering, special sauce.

It was everything  a burger could be, should be, and then some.

Can you say Crack between two buns, (no pun intended). In fact, I think they are illegal in most states, or should be anyway… that or come with a Surgeon General’s warning. Seldom did a week go by that I didn’t stop in to have one.  In fact, if I kept it up much longer, I would need an intervention of some sort, that or open heart surgery, whichever came first.

Anyhoo, it was in Leo’s that I first met Lycan.

Being the owner and all, I’d see him from time to time.  He’d stop by the booth and say ‘Hello’, plus all the pleasantries that went along with it, and I’d respond in turn.  Then we’d go our separate ways, me to my job, home and life, and him to his other customers, until this one night.

It was a Tuesday night. Ringling Brothers was in town for some big charity event  that I wasn’t going to attend, and I was sitting at home feeling a bit ‘peckish’ and sorry for myself. (Did I mention how I hated being alone?) I decided to go to Leo’s, grab a bite, and then head on over to the Conservatory for some serious RC sail-boating.  On this particular night, Lycan, who I didn’t know from Adam other than the few times he’d stop by the booth and say hello, decided to come out from behind the grill and do more than just say hello. He decided to sit down across from me and buy me dinner- just because –and in the process, introduce himself for real.

Three hours later we were best of friends.

During my next couple of visits, he’d repeat this pattern time and again, each time buying my meal and chatting it up.  For some reason the man had developed this strange fascination and friendship with me.  We’d discuss everything we could think of, even what books we enjoyed reading, Keyes, Tolkien, and Brooks.  In no time at all we developed a true friendship, one that would grow more and more comfortable over time. Now, not a week goes by that I don’t stop by, feed my addiction, and share some serious male bonding time.

Broinski’s I believe they call it.

As luck would have it though, on this particular night, with these two kids, Lycan wasn’t in.

I was almost sad.

By this time the kids decided they didn’t want dessert, so I decided to call it a night. I was about grab our waitress’s attention, and get the check when all of the sudden a hand reached out and grabbed my wrist.

It was Maggie.

Cheeks reddening, and all too aware that I’d been ignoring them the last couple of minutes, I smiled and asked what she needed, but not before my eyes caught sight of her wrist and forearm. Both were laced with age-old scars, diagonal and straight, like a set of meandering railroad tracks leading up to her elbow.

What the hell?

Seeing my sudden attention, she quickly withdrew her hand, pulling down on her coat sleeve and covering her wounds.

You asked me earlier what I was doing here. Still interested?  It was Phillip, thank god, breaking the awkwardness.

Sure, I said. It was all I could do to keep my eyes on the boy’s face and away from Maggie’s arms. I’d love to hear your story.

Chapter 4

Theo

It all started with my father abandoning us. And with that pronouncement the boy began.

Contrary to all appearances, he’d come from money, lots of money if you could believe it. His dad had money; so did his mother.  In fact, according to Phillip, his parent’s entire marriage had been arranged because of money. You sure couldn’t tell he was wealthy by looking at him, not now, that’s for sure. To me he looked like any other homeless, living-on-the-streets, kid out there. And there were lots of them.

Two such examples set before me.

He spoke to me about his mother and his sister--his sister that was older than him by more than a year, and sure she was a spoiled brat, and yes they fought like cats and dogs at times but didn’t every brother and sister –as a family they lived together in a great big house with lots and lots of rooms and lots and lots of grounds keepers, gardeners and servants.

This I let roll over me, my face stoic. What was that saying again, never judge a book by its cover?

Other than his coming from this great and supposed wealth, he’d grown up like any other kid his age, running around outside, climbing trees, exploring streams and skipping stones down by the beach.  In the evenings he’d go down to the sand and watch the tides roll in, and the ghost crabs scuttle about.  He said the crabs reminded him of drunken little sailors weaving their way home after a long night’s leave.

I said it must have been nice growing up next to the beach.

Most of the time it would be just him and Shep. Shep was his father’s favorite hunting hound, a gangly mastiff with a long red tongue and enough energy to run a young boy ragged.  As a pair they were inseparable, as well as insufferable I’m sure.  Both liked to hang out at the beach, and both liked to have plenty of fun. They also loved Phillip’s father more than anything in the whole wide world.

I remember loving my father that way. A father is as good as God in a young son’s eyes.

Phillip then shifted gears. He began fiddling with his hands more and more, wringing them, worrying them round and round. He told me how everything was normal until right around his eleventh birthday. ‘That’s,’ when he said, ‘everything changed, and not for the better either.’ It