Icari

By Linda Welch

There is a terrifying evil that only a select few can see. It comes from the depths; whispering, coaxing, pushing people to commit atrocities.

Bobbi Clark is about to come face-to-face with it.

 Despite the vicious migraines she seems to have inherited from her dead mother, seventeen-year-old Bobbi is happy with her life. Soon she’ll be eighteen, graduate high school and begin university with her best friends, and she even has a part-time job lined up. And now Grey Adams, the boy she’s crushed on for two years, asks her out on a date.

Then Ky, a complete stranger, comes busting in with a ridiculous story about killing demons. With his arrival the blows come hard and fast—her aunt and uncle are not who she thought they were, they’ve lied to her and now mean to hand her over to Ky.

Bobbi wants nothing to do with Ky and what he says is her purpose in life. But has she a choice? And what of Grey? Is he the monster Ky claims he is, or the shy, gentle boy she believes him to be? Who can Bobbi trust? One is her destiny, the other her betrayer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Linda Welch
• Release date: Feb 11, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386960690

Book preview

Chapter One

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How to describe the pain. I imagine a long, sharp spike punching through my skull and penetrating from the back of my head to the bridge of my nose. The pain lasts only a couple of seconds but during that brief moment my body locks down. I can’t move, can’t breathe. Then comes the pounding headache, the nausea, the double vision, which makes everything around me look different somehow, when I can see at all. It started in Fifth Grade and I thought it bad back then, but it was actually mild compared to what came later. I’ve experienced it three or four times a year.

Until now. This attack is the second this week.

It strikes as I smack open the double glass doors. Momentarily blinded, I reel away from the door, land hard on the railing and cling to it with one hand while my other holds the book bag. Cold, clammy sweat sheets my body and makes my shirt stick to my back. My stomach roils and, with eyes shut, I float in the dizziness.

Students come through the doors and hurry down the concrete steps. They don’t notice me, another student leaning on the railing with her back to them. I don’t want them to see me, face ashen, slumped over the rail like a sack of potatoes.

Several minutes pass before I can continue down the steps and not barf. I’ll be fine by the time I reach my car. This is how I cope with the pain and sickness; wait it out and carry on with what I have to do.

But the stabbing agony strikes again. I collapse and my knees crack on the concrete. Papers scatter from the unlatched bag and my phone clatters off to my right as my hands smack down.

It’s never hit me twice in succession and never felt as if every nerve end is on fire. Even the roots of my hair hurt. Eyelids scrunched together, I rip off the butterfly clamp, which keeps my hair off my face, and it tumbles free in an unruly mass of copper waves and curls.

Is she okay? a girl says.

Are you all right? a boy asks me.

Their voices come as far-off echoes as I feel them lean over me. I flap a hand back, hoping they get the "leave me alone, I’m fine" message, although with me on the ground, trying not to groan aloud through clenched teeth, they won’t believe it.

Voices are all around me now. I want them to go away. This is too embarrassing.

Then a voice I know. Bobbi, can you hear me?

Steph. I barely hear myself speak. I have to get home, Steph. Home, where Aunt Mo can help me.

I’d take you but my car is in the shop. I caught the bus.

My phone, I whisper. I can’t risk driving if the pain keeps coming like this. Mo will have to fetch me.

I have it. A deep voice, a lovely voice and the three words reach me slowly as if taking their time to emerge.

My hand is lifted, an object laid on my palm, my fingers wrapped around it by larger, warmer ones.

More than pain makes me groan. I would rather any guy other than Grey Adams saw me like this. I manage to lift my head but don’t look at him. I fix my wavering gaze on Steph.

I’ll take her, he tells Steph.

"Grey, with an E, right?" Steph purrs. Grey always emphasizes the E when asked his name.

Steph’s voice becomes a warm lilt, the tone she uses when speaking to a guy who interests her. She dips thick black mascaraed eyelashes over smoke-gray eyes and flips back her long, sleek blond hair. "Well, Grey with an E, nice of you, but I’ll call her Aunt Mo, she’ll come get her. It’s only fifteen minutes away."

Fifteen minutes here, fifteen back, thirty minutes to get her home when I can take her right now?

You have a point, but we don’t know you. Neither of us has spoken to him before now.

Steph, please. Enough with their talking about me as if I’m not here. My hand tightens on the battered phone. I look into his face.

Thick dark lashes outline azure-blue eyes. Straight nose, wide soft lips, all features perfectly positioned in an oval face. His hair is as black as crow’s feathers, thick and soft, and a stray lock falls over his forehead.

I noticed Grey two years ago and wondered why it took me so long. It was as if he erupted into hunk status all of a sudden. Other girls in my year seemed to notice him at the same time, and he dated a few but never for very long.

I have watched Grey Adams. When I should be studying, I watched him read. He likes to cup his cheek in one hand and that errant lock of hair keeps slipping down. He automatically pushes it back; I don’t think he realizes he does it. Sometimes, so into whatever he reads, his hand hovers as if it forgot what to do.

And I saw a change two weeks ago. Two weeks ago, Grey Adams started watching me.

A quiet guy, he seems shy. His face colors when our eyes meet. And they’ve had plenty of opportunity to meet since he began sitting across from me during study period. Yesterday when I caught and steadily held his gaze, he dropped his pencil. I grinned and he grinned back. Not an earth-shattering event in the scheme of things, but this is Grey Adams.

Thanks. My voice gains strength as my stomach settles and the strong pulsing in my head diminishes to a slow, rhythmic thud. If it isn’t too much trouble.

He releases my hand and places his palm flat on his chest. I wouldn’t offer if it was. And he smiles, flashing even white teeth.

Steph smooths back her hair with both hands. I’ll come with you and call Mo to let her know we’re on our way. She speaks to me but watches Grey.

I can’t blame Steph for drooling over him. I forgot how to breathe the first time he smiled at me.

I hunch over to get my papers but my pounding head and hair all over my face thwart me.

Here. On his knees, Grey shuffles over the concrete, gathers the papers and tucks them in my bag.

Steph takes my phone and on her feet, half turned away, makes the call. Hello? Oh, hi Mister Clarke. This is Steph. Bobbi’s having another of her headaches so a friend and I are driving her home. We’ll be with you in fifteen.

She turns back to me wearing a frown. But—

She makes a face at me. Okay. I understand.

What? I ask as she returns my phone.

He says to drop you off but don’t hang around.

My Uncle Rob, blunt as a kick on the shins. Sorry. He knows I need to be alone when I feel like this.

Okay. She turns a dazzling smile on Grey. What are we waiting for?

He still stares at me, but drags his eyes away, spins and takes off north-east to the parking lots.

Watching him, Steph moistens her lips. Mm, mm. She returns her attention to me. Come on, love. Let’s get you up.

A handful of people linger, as if they think they should help but don’t know how. Steph slings my bag over her shoulder and helps me to my feet. Lean on me. I put my weight on her arm. She guides me to the grass verge and helps me lower myself.

From the top of her shining blond head to the heels of her designer brand shoes, everything about Steph practically shouts cheerleader. She may as well have a big C branded on her chest. Last year, a classmate sneeringly asked me why I hang out with a cheerleader, as if the occupation defines her personality. I told him Steph is smart, compassionate and a good friend, and I’d rather be with her than in the same classroom as him.

You’re in a couple classes and a study group together this year, she says, and it takes me a second to realize she means Grey.

I nod and wish I hadn’t as my head thumps.

Does he have a girlfriend?

No idea.

Jealousy rears its ugly head and I grit my teeth at the notion of Steph and Grey together. She doesn’t know of my fascination with Grey, how I dissolve when his eyes rest on me. She’d back off if she knew. That’s the kind of friend she is.

A strong wind gusts through the campus, making the branches bow and shake off some leaves, picking up litter and skittering it over the hardtop. Someone’s unfinished, discarded essay paper settles by my knee before the wind whisks it away again.

Why me? What did I do to deserve this? Did I dent someone’s head in a past life and leave them with recurring headaches? Is this how Karma works? An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth? Tit for tat? I must have done something nasty to come back with raging pains in the head.

A noisy car roars along the road, stops, and Grey hops out, leaving the engine running. He sprints to me and Steph. Steph throws a slow smile at him.

His voice sounds harsh with concern. Can you walk?

Of course I can walk! I try to get up but my legs are like putty.

Sure you can.

He goes to one knee, takes my hand and places it on his arm. Hold on, I’ve got you. And he stands, taking me up with him.

Steph still ogles him.

I’ve got it from here. You can go home, he tells her.

Her smile shrinks at the edges. No, I’ll come along. I want to see her safe.

She’s safe with me. There’s a hint of challenge in his tone.

Her smile wipes out and Steph folds her arms. I insist. I recognize the determined set of her mouth.

Very well. Grey’s lips thin, his brow furrows. He toes my book bag. Then make yourself useful.

For a second his pupils seem to distort into tiny, triangular chips of gray ice. I blink and shake my head a little. My vision is going haywire again. My hearing, too, because his voice sounds more like a growl.

Steph slings my bag over her shoulder and takes my other arm. I feel like a toddler as they steady me. They kind of frog march me over the grass while I look ahead through blurring eyes. Moving makes my stomach churn and I concentrate on not throwing up. I don’t need more embarrassment today, thank you very much.

Grey’s car is green, or gray, maybe blue. I can’t tell as waves of dizziness and nausea wash through me.

You should get in back, Steph tells me. You can lie down.

Sure, and leave the front passenger seat available for her, next to Grey.

Grey opens the rear door for me. The car is high off the ground, an SUV, maybe a Jeep, and lacks a running board. Steph tries to boost me in and I end up with one foot in and one hand grasping a strap. As I dangle, Grey pushes between us. He slides one arm around my back, the other behind my knees, and lifts me. He holds me close for a bare second, my head flopped on his shoulder, and gently shifts me inside the car. I lie down and he lifts my legs up on the seat.

Cool leather. Feels nice when I press my hot cheek on it. Although the rest of me is chilled, I blush like crazy.

Doors slam and we move off. The car sways around bends and weaves along the narrow campus roads. I feel every bump. Branches and patches of open sky whip past. I feel sick. I’m going to vomit all over the car’s sleek leather interior. I desperately gulp down what tries to burn up my throat.

Agony pierces my skull again and I cry out. I don’t want to make a fuss but can’t help it.

Grey sounds alarmed. What’s wrong with her?

Voice sharp with concern, Steph eyes me over her shoulder. Bobbi’s had these migraines as long as I’ve known her, though not as close together as these are. You can’t do much more than get her home where she can lie down in a dark room.

My sister has migraines. They’re not like this.

Not being able to help her makes me feel totally ineffectual.

So you think they’re getting worse?

I don’t hear Steph’s reply over the thundering in my head. Some evil sprite is beating a drum in there.

Still woozy and nauseous, being stabbed in the head multiple times is a new development. An anomaly, I hope, not a sign of things to come.

I’ve asked to see a doctor a couple of times, but Mo and Rob say a physician isn’t necessary and won’t be able to help. When I argued, they said my mom had migraines like this, so did my grandfather and others before him and doctors couldn’t help them. It’s a family thing and like them, I’ll grow out of it.

After a while I feel more like myself and sit up. Grey is pushing the Jeep way past the speed limit. We’ve left the city and power along Bannerman Lane, a long straight road through the forest. The poplars lining our driveway are up ahead, poking above the other trees, their heads in the cloudless blue sky, marching to the old farmhouse I grew up in.

I hear a constant hum as we drive: Steph’s voice as she chatters to Grey. He replies infrequently with brief, blunt words.

Poor Steph, she doesn’t seem to be getting anywhere with Grey and I experience satisfaction unworthy of a friend. I silently admit I’ll be more than envious if she does reel him in. I won’t be able to bear her chatting to me about Grey as her new boyfriend, describing their dates, their first kiss. It’ll be too late to tell her I’m incredibly attracted to him, and now is not the time to say anything.

She points out the side road at the forest’s edge, near the hills and pastures of Uncle Rob’s property. Another right turn puts us on the driveway to the farmhouse, the poplars throwing banks of shade over the asphalt. Flashing through bright light and shadow makes my stomach lurch again and I shut my eyes against the dazzle that shoots pain behind my eyeballs.

The Jeep stops, the rear door opens. We’re here, Bobbi, says Steph.

Both of them help me out. Steph takes my book bag and one arm, Grey has my other arm. Uncle Rob waits under the porch. Aunt Mo’s bright-red hair looks like a flame in the dark doorway.

Uncle Rob hurries down the steps. I’ll take her now. Thank you for bringing her home.

Think nothing of it, Sir, from Grey.

I’m thankful for Steph’s presence. With luck, Mo and Rob will think she and Grey are a couple and not unsubtly question me about Grey.

Uncle Rob gathers me in with one arm and helps me up the steps. Relieved to be home, I sag against him, letting him take my weight. He drops my book bag on the living room floor and guides me to the kitchen. Aunt Mo waits there and pots bubble on the stove. The kitchen is warm, dim and humid from the steam. As always, miscellaneous bowls, dishes and cooking utensils clutter the counters. Aunt Mo bakes almost every day, her preferred method measuring the individual ingredients in containers before adding them to the mixture, like the chefs you see on television.

When we moved here a small gas stove, a sink, an old refrigerator, four cupboards, two small counters and a table under the window were overwhelmed by all the empty space around them. Mo’s voice echoed when she took one look and said, This won’t do. Uncle Rob had to remodel the entire kitchen.

Uncle Rob gets me in a kitchen chair.

Mo’s cool hands find my forehead. There, there, sweetheart. Was it worse than before?

Three times, Aunt Mo. Each time I started to feel better, it hit me again. I still feel awful, sick to my stomach and woozy.

Rob and Mo share a significant look, as if exchanging a silent message.

I squint at one then the other. What was that?

What was what? Mo asks mildly.

The look. Are you and Uncle Rob not telling me something?

Mo places one hand on my shoulder and squeezes. No, dear. You’re imagining things.

The pain lances through my head again, so vicious I grunt. Tears leak from my eyes. I lean over my knees, hands clenched, fingers digging in my palms.

Poor pet, this is a bad one. Mo goes to the stove, pours liquid from a saucepan into a mug and brings it over.

Groaning, I put my hands over my eyes and peek through my fingers. I know what’s coming.

Sit up, dear.

I push up and she folds my fingers around the steaming mug, a blend of water, herbs and, in her own words, a pinch of this and that. It always tastes awful, nasty and bitter, but does soothe the pain and settle my stomach. I try to gulp it down without tasting but it coats my throat.

Bleah!

Rob takes the cup from me and Mo’s hands find my forehead again. She hums a soft tune.

The throb in my head fades. The headache and giddiness disappear. I relax, shoulders slumping with relief.

Any better? Mo asks.

"That stuff is about the most revolting thing I ever put in my mouth, but I do feel better. A deep lassitude swamps me. I don’t want to move. Wish I could carry it with me."

And what would you do after you took it, find a nook to sleep in?

She’s right. The concoction makes me dozy so I can’t use it anywhere but at home.

She circles the chair to face me, a frown deeply furrowing her brow. This hasn’t happened before, has it, lovey, hitting you like this one after the other?

No. I push hair off my face. And I hope it doesn’t again.

Uncle Rob stands behind me. Come on, girl.

He helps me to my feet and steers me to the small hall where the staircase rises to the upper floor.

I can make it from here. I give him a warm smile as I wobble and grab the banister.

I can see, he disagrees. Hands on my hips to steady me, he comes behind me up the narrow stairs.

We cross the landing to my small bedroom and he guides me to my bed, where I ungraciously flop down. As soon as my door closes behind him, I strip, clothes flying one piece at a time. I burrow under my homemade quilt.

I can’t stop thinking about the spectacle I made of myself today. Why can’t I be normal?

I imagine Aunt Mo’s voice in my head: "You are normal, dear. Over three million people in the U.S. suffer from migraines."

Why are the migraines fiercer than other people’s? Scientists found a genetic link proving they generally run in the family. My mom had them, so my getting them is no mystery. Throbbing pain: check. Sensitivity to light: check. Sensitivity to sound: check. Nausea: check. But no mention of a striking agony that makes you think your skull has cracked open, or how it shoots clean through your head. Knowing it runs in my family and will eventually stop doesn’t help.

And Grey had to be there to see me writhe on the ground, making a fool of myself. Despite being alone in my room, I redden and pull the cover over my face. Just when I felt we were becoming friends, and hoped for something more. Now he thinks I’m a freak.

If he avoids me, I’ll die.

Mo’s home-brewed medicine takes over and I sink into dreamland.

––––––––

My bladder wakes me.

No moon lights my room through the open window, not a single star sparkles up there, but I don’t need light to feel my way through the house. I know every board. I pull on my robe and walk the landing past Uncle Rob’s bedroom, and head downstairs holding tight to the banister because the steps were put together at the beginning of the Nineteenth Century when staircases were narrow, the treads shallow, unless you lived in a big, fancy mansion. Built in 1802, the rear ground floor extension added in 1959, the only bathroom and Aunt Mo’s bedroom are downstairs in the extension, a huge nuisance on the rare times I have to get up in the night. But I love this little old house; my two tiny, connecting rooms upstairs, the outer one my bedroom and the inner one a study and extra storage; the lovely living room with paneled walls and polished oak floor downstairs in the old part of the house; the tiny back hall where the stairs come down, which Rob uses as his farm office, and the cave Aunt Mo fondly calls her kitchen. Mo says they made the kitchen big because in the old days it was the family gathering place, the living room kept pristine and unused except for entertaining visitors or special occasions.

Rob and Mo are in the living room, the television turned down low. I avoid the creaky trapdoor in the hall, which accesses the basement where the furnace and hot water heater are, and silently tiptoe through the kitchen but my feet freeze on the brick floor when I hear my name. Telling my bladder to hold on a little longer, I backtrack to the living room door.

Mo and Rob sit side by side on the long sofa, which is unusual in itself as Rob always uses the big old cushioned armchair near the front door. That they are twins is not obvious. Mo dyes her short spiked hair in bright colors—this week flame-red—and wears glasses with thick, round black frames because the optician’s assistant told her they are in fashion this year. Her eyes have crow’s feet and when she smiles the delicate skin around them crinkles like crepe paper. Carefully applied makeup can’t hide the deep lines on her brow and around her mouth. A salt-and-pepper beard and moustache hide half of Uncle Rob’s face and he decided to shave his head when he started losing his hair. Mo loves figure-hugging jeans and loose shirts. Rob’s clothes are all about comfort: shapeless jeans and sweatshirts, and bib overalls when he works on the farm.

We have to tell her, Uncle Rob says.

Tosh! We can’t spring it on her. You know it doesn’t work. She’ll think we’re senile. She’ll believe when she sees for herself.

I suppose you’re right.

Today gave me a fright, so many migraines on the same day. It’s getting close. It could happen any time. Where is the Icari?

You phoned in the message this evening. He or she may have been halfway around the world when they got it.

My point, Rob, is I shouldn’t have had to call when someone should have been here weeks ago.

Not necessarily. Bobbi surprised us, the way she’s coming along. Sudden and unexpected. We thought she had months. The Icari probably did, too. And for all we know one’s here, they’ve met and are friends.

I hope so. They have to earn her trust or she won’t go without a fight. And I don’t want to turn her over to a complete stranger.

Unable to wait any longer, I slide back to the hall and clear my throat to make them think I only just came downstairs, not listened in on