Hand Me Downs: Soul Travelers, #1

By Kari Kilgore

A Haunting Legacy

John and Branwen face challenges as a couple—his violent past and her unwanted pregnancy. Just when life threatens to overwhelm them, Branwen receives an offer of help from an unlikely source.

Now, John must face his lifelong fears to find the strength to fight an ancient power and save Branwen from her family legacy.

But first, John and Branwen must stop hiding things—from each other and from themselves—and learn to face the truth, no matter their fear of the consequences.

A haunting fantasy story about the lasting power of family legacy.

A page-turning tale of love and sacrifice.

An excerpt from Hand Me Downs:

John was in the grips of an insistent memory that wouldn't let him rest.

Whenever an upsetting memory caught at him like this, especially from his difficult seventeenth year, John had learned long ago it was best not to resist. Something inside was going to have its way with him. Fighting would only make it worse. 

This particular memory hadn't demanded his attention for so long. Until tonight, he'd dared hope he was done with this one.

The odd solitude of an overnight flight was preferable to a huge family gathering for this sort of ordeal, and certainly better than the twisted filter of his nightmares. 

At least while he was awake, he knew the worst night of his life was when he'd at last started to take control and change the course he was on. 

His dreaming life gave him no such relief.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Spiral Publishing, Ltd
• Release date: Dec 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393008750

Kari Kilgore

Kari Kilgore started her first published novel Until Death in Transylvania, Romania, and finished it in Room 217 at the Stanley Hotel in Estes Park, Colorado, where Stephen King got the idea for The Shining. That’s just one example of how real world inspiration drives her fiction. Kari’s first published novel Until Death was included on the Preliminary Ballot for the Bram Stoker Award for Outstanding Achievement in a First Novel in 2016. It was also a finalist for the Golden Stake Award at the Vampire Arts Festival in 2018. Recent professional short story sales include three to Fiction River anthology magazine, with the first due out in the September issue. Kari also has two stories in a holiday-themed anthology project with Kristine Kathryn Rusch due out over the holidays in 2019. Kari writes fantasy, science fiction, horror, and contemporary fiction, and she’s happiest when she surprises herself. She lives at the end of a long dirt road in the middle of the woods with her husband Jason Adams, various house critters, and wildlife they’re better off not knowing more about. Kari’s novels, novellas, and short stories are available at www.spiralpublishing.net, which also publishes books by Frank Kilgore and Jason Adams. For more information about Kari, upcoming publications, her travels and adventures, and random cool things that catch her attention, visit www.karikilgore.com.

Book preview

Chapter 1

John Falconer could feel the nightmare coming.

He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. The international concourse, like all the others at the immense Atlanta airport, seemed to follow the curvature of the earth. The opposite end was invisible through crowd and distance.

Swarms of people moving at different speeds passed in front of him, thick enough to nearly hide the bright geometrical shapes on the carpet. Most walked as quickly as humanly possible without breaking into an undignified luggage-dragging run.

Groups chatted and strolled, always stretched most of the way across the hallway, oblivious to everyone dodging around them. A few were desperate enough to run, their wide-eyed, near panicked expressions always the same.

After ten—no, fifteen—minutes of waiting for his wife and watching, John was amazed the incompatible streams of humans so rarely collided in the middle.

A steady number of slower moving people detoured out of the constant flow toward the water fountain beside him, pulling plastic or metal or glass water bottles out of their luggage as they walked. Anyone who planned ahead enough to bring their own bottles probably managed to arrive early enough to have time to fill them. Or their connections had cooperated.

Years of anxious transfers through Atlanta and other huge airports left John relieved to live here now, to begin and end flights at the busiest airport in the world rather than rushing through himself.

Instead of checking the time yet again, John glanced up at the curved security mirror in the ceiling. His torso seemed abnormally short and stubby, his legs far too long. He rotated his neck, trying to loosen the tension that had been building like clouds on the horizon all day.

Heaviness in his head and knots in his shoulders let him know this wouldn’t be an easy flight. He was determined to be patient, or at least calm.

He leaned forward, making sure he wasn’t getting out too far into the surging crowd. He spotted Gate 17 only a little farther on. They should still have plenty of time.

He concentrated on the tile against his back, still cool where he’d sweated under his backpack in January temperatures near seventy degrees. After years of freezing through winters far to the north in St. Louis, the occasional spring-like day here in Atlanta was a treat. He wasn’t sure he’d still feel that way when the long, humid summer really settled in, even compared to the broiling Midwest.

After sixteen years in the US, John missed the weather in Scotland more than just about anything else.

A bittersweet reminder of the only thing he missed more nearly collided with his legs. Two small twin boys, probably five years old, had apparently been racing each other across the crowded hallway toward the water fountains. At a sharp word from their weary looking father, the boys put their identical curly mops of flaming red hair together and whispered too low for John to hear.

Conference concluded, both looked up.

We’re sorry, sir, they said in almost perfect unison. We just wanted a drink of water.

It’s quite all right. Please help yourself.

Two sets of blue eyes widened when John spoke, and both boys covered their mouths and giggled. John laughed under his breath, trying to remember how long it had been since someone reacted to his accent like that. Even after so long away, his origins in Glasgow came through loud and clear.

The boys grinned at John, then at each other, before racing off in the other direction. The man pursuing them—now accompanied by a woman who was clearly the source of the red hair—stopped halfway across the hall, sighed, and adjusted their course.

John had often wondered how his own parents would have coped with two little boys. Not redheads, but each with his own thick, wavy black hair. If his twin James had survived, their parents would have worn those exhausted, exasperated faces even more often than they had with him.

Despite his giving them plenty of stress and frustration, or maybe because they’d managed to raise him to adulthood despite of it, John was closer to his parents than anyone else.

Besides Branwen.

Who was still in the restroom, more than twenty minutes on.

We are ready to begin boarding British Airways Flight 828 with non-stop service to Manchester. Will our Business Class passengers please approach Gate E 17?

John knew Branwen stood beside him before he saw her. Since the first day they’d met, he’d always known when she was nearby, and often how she was feeling. He’d never had that with other people as strongly or clearly. Lately she’d been able to block him sometimes, and he’d missed their connection terribly.

Right now she felt sick, loud and clear. Underneath, so hidden he barely caught it, she felt frightened. Forgetting his own body’s stressful warning signs, John focused on his wife.

Branwen, what’s wrong?

She tried to smile, but the normally sweet expression clashed with the greenish tinge of her skin. She’d pulled her thick brown hair back, and the curling bits around her face were wet. Her dark brown eyes were puffy and bloodshot.

I’m fine. Something I ate last night didn’t sit well, that’s all.

John touched her cheek with the backs of his fingers, the same gesture his mother still used when he wasn’t feeling well. Her skin was colder than the water would explain. Even in the cool airport, that only increased his unease. He’d put her restless night down to travel nerves, but now he wasn’t so sure.

We’ve eaten there before and it didn’t bother you. Sure you’re all right to fly?

John regretted asking before he’d finished. His bride had made it painfully clear she didn’t want to go on this holiday at all. Her being ill was only the newest thing making it clear the whole trip a bad idea.

His bad idea.

She scowled, and anger pushed the fear away.

I said I’m fine, John. If we’re going, we need to go now.

She slung her backpack over her shoulder and strode away. John stood nearly a foot taller, but when she was in a bad mood he had to struggle to keep up. With her in this sort of especially rotten temper, he was better off not even trying. He picked up his own backpack and followed.

As if on cue, he heard the announcement for boarding in the main cabin. They’d missed their chance to get seated and settled early. Now he’d have to wait in line for a very long time with her in a very foul mood, only to sit beside her for what already promised to be a very long flight.

John reached out as he reached her side. The fear was still buried, hidden behind the wall she’d somehow built around herself. At least he’d had plenty of practice lately in trying to understand what was bothering her without knowing how she felt.

He’d learned not to let his own temper get the best of him, long before he’d met Branwen. The blinding hot but quickly spent fury of his youth wouldn’t have gone well with the slow burn she could sustain for what felt like ages to him.

The one time in fourteen years he’d let himself get caught up in an argument with her had led to a horrible fight, only a few short weeks ago. An unforgivable lapse on his part he was determined not to repeat.

I’m sorry you’re not feeling well, love. John put an arm around her and kissed the top of her head. Can I do anything?

After a few seconds, Branwen leaned against him, turning her face against his chest.

I’ll be okay. I’m sorry I snapped at you. I’m just dreading this flight.

Dreading a flight couldn’t possibly explain the fear. She’d flown far too often since birth for that to make sense, but he decided to let it go for now. They had plenty of time ahead of them on this holiday to find each other again.

When they finally boarded, thankfully none of the rows were full. John himself dreaded the flight, but that wasn’t anything new.

A welcome benefit of his new job was these business class seats, with extra room and quiet. John never spent much of any flight sitting still, though. He’d have room to wander while Branwen and nearly everyone else slept.

Anything to pass the time.

Even knowing he’d have space to move around during the night, he still felt uneasiness creeping around his edges.

No matter how Branwen might be feeling, she could always be counted on to be asleep before the plane left the ground. By the time they accelerated for takeoff, she had the blanket pulled up to her chin and her eyes closed.

John flipped through the in-flight magazine without seeing it, waiting for the signal to begin his walks around the cabin. They’d leveled off but hadn’t heard the all-clear for moving around when Branwen sat straight up in her seat.

She stared at John for a second, then her face screwed up into a grimace. She put one hand over her mouth and grabbed for the seatbelt.

You’re not ill again?

She stood and ran toward the restroom.

Ma’am? Please take your seat, called one of the flight attendants.

John reached for his own seatbelt as Branwen pushed the door shut with a bang. The same flight attendant spoke to him, more insistently this time.

Sir, you’ll have to wait!

He ignored her and walked forward, feeling like he was going up a steep hill. He heard her retching even over the roar of the engines. The flight attendants at this end of the cabin talked to him now, asking him to go back to his seat. Temper and tension and worry pushed him far too close to anger. He made no effort to hide it when he glanced their way. They all fell quiet.

He waited, one hand on the door frame, listening to his wife make the most painful noises he could imagine. She was rarely ill, and he couldn’t remember the last time she’d thrown up. If he was right about her restless night, this made several times in just a few hours.

John had an uncomfortable certainty something worse was going on. He jumped when one of the flight attendants touched his arm.

I am not going back to my seat until she comes out, John said, dismayed at how close he was to losing control of himself altogether.

No sir, it’s fine now. She gestured to the darkened seatbelt sign. Can I get your wife anything?

She’s not usually like this, I don’t know. John raked his fingers through his hair. Maybe a ginger ale?

Right away.

A few seconds later, he heard the rush of the toilet flushing and the door opened. This time Branwen’s face wasn’t greenish; it was near gray. Her eyes were again red, and fresh tears welled up when she saw him.

Her misery and fear amplified John’s helplessness.

Branwen, please, what’s going on?

I told you, dinner last night, she said in a shaky voice. I’ll be fine.

The flight attendant met them at their seats, a glass full of amber liquid bubbling away in her hand.

I’ll take it, thank you, John said. Could you bring water, please? I’m afraid she’ll be dehydrated.

Branwen took the glass but didn’t drink. She held her body rigidly in her seat, eyes closed, mouth tight. When John touched her cheek again, she was hot and sweating.

Can you get some of this down?

She shook her head without opening her eyes. John took the bottle of water from the flight attendant, then turned back to Branwen.

Please, love, try some water if you can. Eight more hours of this in dry air and you’ll keep getting worse.

John had never forgotten his own brush with serious dehydration not long after he’d moved from Glasgow to St. Louis, a seventeen-year-old kid with no idea just how brutal the American Midwestern weather could be. One good long run on a hot, muggy afternoon taught him the dangers of throwing up liquid faster than he could drink it.

If Branwen had been dehydrated for hours already, she could be in real trouble long before they landed.

I don’t want any water. It’ll pass.

John gently turned her face toward his, and she finally opened her eyes. They were narrowed, but not in pain.

I know you don’t feel like it. But if you’ve got food poisoning, you have to stay hydrated. Once this starts it’s hard to stop. You’ve got to get something down.

I don’t have food poisoning. Just let it go.

John drew back at the furious mental push from her.

You’ve thrown up several times in just a few hours. If it’s not food poisoning, then what’s going on?

I’m fine, John, Branwen said more loudly, this time pushing his hand away. Let it go.

The thought of Branwen getting worse with hours over the Atlantic ahead of them mixed badly with the uneasiness he’d been feeling all day. Growing up with a doctor and a teacher had taught him not to panic over nothing. But John did know how to recognize a serious problem before it was too late.

I’m going to see if they have anything on board for you.

Branwen grabbed his wrist with a painful grip.

John, sit down, she whispered, glaring at him. I’m not dying. I’ll drink the damn water if you just back…the hell…off.

John froze, hurt and anger perfectly balanced within him.

What are you trying to do? Branwen said, her voice rising. "How far do you want to push? I didn’t see a shouting cabin on the way in. Should we keep going and see what happens anyway?"

He sat back, aware of other passengers looking their way. Branwen swallowed all the ginger ale without stopping, slamming the glass down hard enough to make more people glance uneasily at them. She grabbed the water bottle out of his hand.

John was afraid to move. That horrible fight, the one they hadn’t even begun to recover from, had never quite left his mind over the past few weeks. Now he felt a breath away from being back in the same furious nightmare.

Branwen’s brow knotted as she stared at the seat in front of her. When she looked back into his eyes, her own weren’t nearly as cold and angry.

Listen, I know you’re worried. If I get sick again, I’ll ask for something. I promise. I’m asking you to drop it for now. Please.

What do you want me to do?

You can let me get some sleep. I hardly got any last night. I’ll drink the water, and we’ll see how I feel once we land. I’ll let you know if I need anything else.

Her face softened, and he was surprised to see her blinking back tears. She reached for his hand.

After the lonely void of the past few weeks, the connection between them, strong and steady, was more vital than the air he breathed.

I’m sorry, I’m not being myself. I love you, John. I love you.

Too off-balance to do anything else, John stroked her hair.

I love you too. Get some rest.

Chapter 2

John shifted in the seat, reluctant to get up again but unable to sit still. Branwen and seemingly everyone else in the cabin had fallen asleep over an hour ago. Even the flight attendants had settled in for the long night. He finally stood, hunching to keep from hitting his head on the low ceiling, and stepped carefully over Branwen.

He hadn’t felt anything from her since she fell asleep, no dreams at all. She did seem to be keeping the water down. If all was indeed well, she wouldn’t wake until time for breakfast on the other side of the Atlantic.

He could normally get through a flight with a few aches and a little boredom, drawing upon many years of practice in keeping himself distracted. Tonight though, none of his eBooks held his attention, the movies either dreadful or already seen, and even his own music wouldn’t help him settle in and calm his agitated mind.

John stepped out into the aisle and stretched out to his full height, sighing with pleasure as his muscles moved into different positions. The air wasn’t as stale as it would be in a few hours, but it still held an unpleasant flat dryness.

He wished for his usual fallback of thinking about a research or teaching project. He’d wrapped everything up in St. Louis before they left, and he wouldn’t really get started in the new genetics department in Atlanta until the fall.

Even before Branwen getting sick and then so fiercely angry, the warning signs of a coming storm inside his mind had been clear all day long.

One other person was awake now, reading under the overly bright light built into her seat. Her eyes met John’s, then she nodded and gave a sympathetic smile. No one else moved. John nodded in return as he walked toward the back of the airplane. His hopes of getting through this night calmly had been slim before the flight’s difficult start.

John was in the grips of an insistent memory that wouldn’t let him rest.

He pulled the curtain at the back of the cabin aside to reveal the tiny galley and two chatting flight attendants. The neatly organized but cramped space reminded him of the kitchen in their house in Atlanta. It hadn’t seemed much bigger than this before he and Branwen, then the contractors, started work.

Now it was nothing but a dusty mess. With any luck, everything would be completed long before they returned.

Can I get you anything, sir? the closest one said, the same one who had helped him at the beginning of this long, long night. Your wife seems to be feeling better now.

She is, thank you for your help. Just stretching my legs.

No one was awake in the next cabin, at least no one with a light on. He continued toward the back of the plane, dodging random knees and elbows sprawled in the narrow aisle until he reached the last row of restrooms and cut across.

Moving around wasn’t helping settle his whirling mind. Getting out of his head and into his body worked for a while sometimes. The longer martial arts forms he practiced worked better to calm his mind than anything else until he’d met Branwen. There certainly wasn’t enough space for that.

Their own bed might not have suited him any better than being trapped in an airplane tonight.

Whenever an upsetting memory caught at him like this, especially from his difficult seventeenth year, John had learned long ago it was best not to resist. Something inside would have its way with him. Resisting could only make it worse.

This particular memory hadn’t demanded his attention for so long. Until tonight, he’d dared hope he was done with this one.

The odd solitude of an overnight flight was preferable to a huge family gathering for this sort of ordeal, and certainly better than the twisted filter of his nightmares. At least while he was awake, he knew the worst night of his life was when he’d at last started to take control and change the course he was on.

His dreaming life gave him no such relief.

When John passed through the front galley again, he asked for his own bottle of water. He drank it slowly, letting his surroundings gradually fall away, letting the memory surge up within and take him over.

No longer thirty-three years old, flying across the Atlantic with the half-moon reflecting off of the water. Beside his wife, who was afraid of something he couldn’t yet understand.

He was seventeen, nearly as crowded sitting shoulder to shoulder with his dad in his mother’s small car, dreading reaching his house for reasons that were as clear to him then as they were now.

Because he would have to talk. He would have to tell his parents everything. Even worse, he would have to admit everything to himself.

He would have to face the truth.

John got as comfortable as he could in close quarters with so many strangers. There was no danger of falling asleep and getting too far into that night nearly half his lifetime ago. His first flight by himself, not long after he started to turn his life around, had taught him harsh lessons about sleeping on airplanes.

As he often had over the years since, John hoped this would be the last time he had to go back there.

Maybe this time he would see whatever he was supposed to see, and he could finally put the past behind him.

Chapter 3

Sixteen Years Ago

The ride home through the nearly empty streets of Glasgow seemed eternal. John’s mother’s Mini was sized for her much smaller frame, not for the two large men crowded into the front seats. The interior smelled faintly of her strong morning tea and her rose-scented perfume.

Not two men, not really. A messed up seventeen-year-old kid and his understandably pissed off father, certainly. But right then, staring out the window as the orange lights of the motorway gave way to the towering blond sandstone buildings close to home, John couldn’t even imagine himself as a good person.

Himself as a good man like his father felt firmly out of reach.

He’d finally stopped trying to think of ways out of this whole mess before his dad picked him up from the police station. Maybe because it finally was too late. But that left him desperate to talk and terrified to open his mouth.

John had been in free-fall since the first fight months ago, and he wasn’t sure where he’d landed yet.

Neither of them spoke until they were parked in the crowded but neat garage behind their house. Generations of men in his family had collected tools in the converted horse stable until the lovingly maintained space looked more like a museum than a working garage. Hooks and shelves full of wrenches, hammers, and screwdrivers lined every surface that wasn’t covered with cabinets.

The only other car on the aged concrete inside was the Morgan he and his father were restoring together—the deep, rich Connaught green peeking through years of neglect. The long, vented hood waited alongside the spoked wheels off to the side. But the curving chrome grill gleamed from in front of the spotless motor, and the muscular lines of the fenders crouched on either side like a wildcat’s haunches.

John’s mind had a hard time matching the emerging classic sports car with the dusty heap of parts they’d hauled back from Edinburgh.

For the last several months, working on that car had been the only thing he and either of his parents could do together without shouting.

His father turned off the small car’s motor, then lowered his head and sighed.

Dad? John said, his voice rough from screaming and puking and crying.

John?

Thank you for coming to get me.

After several heartbeats that seemed to take years, John’s father looked up. His warm brown eyes were almost invisible behind his glasses, but tense lines above his nose and around his mouth were clear in the dash light. He shook his head once.

Let’s go in. Your mother is worried sick, his father said, opening the door. So am I.

His mother met them at the kitchen door, her scrubbed face and pulled back hair making her seem younger than she was. John’s rapid growth over the past few years promised he’d be tall and slender like his father, but he’d inherited his mother’s thick black hair, pale skin, and fiery green eyes.

She hugged John hard, then stepped back to look at him.

Her eyes were swollen and red, much like his own. John had hardly ever seen her cry. He despised himself for being responsible for it.

What on earth’s happened, John? I’ve just gotten off the phone with William’s mother, he’s in hospital?

Before John could respond, her entire demeanor changed. She grabbed his shoulders and squeezed, shaking him. Her fingers digging into his flesh hurt. She’d been angry at him plenty of times, but she’d never hurt him.

The fact that she had to reach up didn’t make her the tiniest bit less frightening.

"What the hell have you been getting into? she shouted. I’ve been scared half to death!"

Her furious voice and flashing eyes were bad enough, certainly combined with the surprising strength of her grip. What really undid John was the blast of emotion, the first time in weeks he’d felt anything from her.

Her fury was nearly drowned by a desperate, bottomless fear, more vast than he’d ever imagined. He opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t manage.

Her painful grip eased, and she hugged him hard again. John’s father rescued him.

Yes, William is in hospital, and another young man. We have a lot to talk about, Maggie. John’s going to tell us all of it right now, and he’s going to see Andy in the morning.

His mother stepped back and looked at John, watching to see if he was telling the truth. He looked back at her without flinching and nodded. She finally turned away and hugged his father.

John watched the two of them walk into the bright kitchen, still confused and a bit stunned by his mother’s reaction, and grateful for his father’s.

Sit down, his father said. I’ll get coffee started.

John joined his mother at the dark wood table. The remains of their tense supper had long since been cleared, leaving only plain brass salt and pepper shakers and a stack of blue fabric napkins.

What happened to your hand? She touched his fingers outside the metal splint wrapped in gauze and bandages, holding his fingers and right hand immobile.

I managed to break two bones. I have to go tomorrow to see if I need surgery or not.

Your left hand doesn’t look much better, she said. Tell me what happened.

I got into a fight and William tried to pull me off. I don’t know… John’s already rough voice broke. "Yes, I do know. I turned on William, and I knew exactly what I was doing. That’s why he’s in hospital. That’s how I hurt my hands."

His mother frowned. William? Why would you do that? Why would you get into a fight to begin with? I thought this stopped years ago, after that horrible business when you were thirteen.

It’s been going on since the end of last term, John said. All summer. The first fight was kind of an accident, but it helped me sleep, kept the nightmares away. The first time I felt better for a few weeks, but then less and less.

And tonight you got arrested?

He turned himself in, John’s father said, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. Strong, rich coffee aroma filled the air. He’s not being charged with anything yet, but he still could be.

His mom covered her mouth, eyes wide.

I know how it sounds, John said. "It sounds the same way to me. I knew fighting was wrong from the beginning. Once it started, I couldn’t find a way to stop. I turned myself in so this would have to stop. The only other thing besides fighting that helped was...being with Abby. Or Marie."

Marie? his mother said. When were you seeing her again?

Last weekend, John said in a low voice. Just one time.

After you went to visit Abby that last time, his father said. Last Saturday, right?

That’s right. Abby dumped me that afternoon and I, ah, I called Marie right after.

Marie’s father called me that same evening before you got home, his dad said. He made it quite clear you’re not welcome there anymore. He told me to ask you why, but I’m afraid I can guess.

Even with everything else he’d said and done, John still didn’t want to talk about how he’d treated Marie. So deliberate and cold, nothing like the passion of getting into a fight. He closed his eyes and held his breath until his head pounded.

He had to tell them everything while the blackness inside of him was held at bay enough to get the words out. He was too exhausted from the fights, internal and external, to keep anything else inside.

No, don’t guess. I asked her out, and we ended up having sex, John said in a rush. And that was the end of it.

Oh John. The same thing? his mother said, her eyebrows drawing together. To help you sleep?

That and to get back at Abby, I guess.

His mother closed her eyes. Do you have any idea how awful that made them both feel?

I know.

John’s father sat down with cups for all three of them. I hate to ask the obvious and rather indelicate question, but did you think to try taking care of that yourself?

I tried plenty. It doesn’t work. I mean, it doesn’t stop the nightmares. John knew his face was burning red, adding to his horrible discomfort of talking about this with his dad, much less his mom. Lately only being with someone else does that. But that stopped working, and even fighting doesn’t work now. I’m fucked up. Broken. Nothing works. I don’t know what else to do.

John took a long drink and concentrated on the cuts and scrapes outside the white gauze and tape on his hand. The too-hot coffee traced a line through his middle to match the heat in his face. He was terrified to see his parents’ eyes. He could certainly go into a lot more detail about the sex and the fighting, but none of them wanted that.

What he’d said so far drained the life out of him.

His mom finally reached out and touched his arm.

"But why, John? Why are you doing these things? What do you think is causing these awful dreams to begin with?"

John wanted to run, to get away as far and as fast as he possibly could. He’d promised his father he’d tell them everything. He’d promised his father and himself. As awful as he’d been to everyone, and as awful as he’d been to live with lately, he still kept his promises.

But that fury that drove him was so close now, writhing just under the surface. It hadn’t left him for one second since he’d walked into the hospital that was treating his best friend, since he’d walked up to the constable to turn himself in. If he really got started talking about why, he was terrified he wouldn’t be able to keep any kind of control.

Listen to me, son, his mother said, squeezing his arm. No matter what it is, I’m going to love you. We both will. If you tell us what’s wrong, what’s making you do these things, maybe we can help.

Or we’ll find someone who can, John’s father said.

I’m not… It should have been…

John struggled with a choking feeling, invisible hands trying to stop him from saying any more. He couldn’t give up now. He might never get started again. He called up a mental and physical push from deep within, forcing his voice into a shout.

The fact that he managed to speak didn’t surprise him as much as the words did.

It should have been me instead of James! I don’t deserve the one life between us.

John stared at his hands, not surprised to see they were shaking but dismayed at how badly. His mind and his heart and his guts felt torn loose, drifting uncontrolled inside, his body burning and freezing with that internal tide.

His father sighed, then spoke slowly and deliberately.

The only thing you can do, that any of us can do, is live our own lives as best we can. None of us can live for someone else, someone who’s not here.

That sounded reasonable enough, but felt fundamentally untrue. John didn’t realize he was shaking his head until his mother spoke.

Why would you ever think we want you to be anyone else but you? She lifted his chin, waiting until he met her gaze. We’re all sad about James sometimes. Even with everything going on right now, we’ve never felt anything but thrilled and so lucky to have you.

John forced himself to keep looking into her eyes, even when tears fell from his own. His father nodded, agreeing with her. How could they want him, be glad to have him, when he’d been so horrible?

You’re not the only one who struggles with this, love, she said. You’re seventeen and confused and needing help, certainly, but you’re not alone. You’re not broken. No more than I have been.

John’s father reached forward, but his mother shrugged away.

Maggie, you’re not–

No, Jack, let me talk to him. I’ve been pushing this away for months, since he started to have so much trouble this year, and it’s not doing either of us any good. He needs to know. It’s not just me fighting this anymore.

Chapter 4

A faint memory stirred in John’s mind. After a quick search, more like his father remembering a name than he realized, he had it. The morning after he’d attacked those awful bullies in the gardens across from the house, when he’d been thirteen and horrified by his own actions, John had overheard his parents talking about some mysterious thing he might or might not have.

I’ve never told you what happened when you two were born, not really, she said, her voice soft. You’re old enough, and it might help you understand, or at least know you can come out the other side. The day after we brought you home, we buried James. It was the most horrible and awkward thing I’ve ever been through. I held you in my arms while I watched them bury my other baby boy. Everyone wanted to look at you, but they were afraid to ask. And I was so numb and shut down I couldn’t help myself, much less anyone else.

Was this what his parents meant, what he’d gotten from his mother? She’d just described how he’d been feeling for most of a year, pushing his feelings and everyone else’s away until all he had left was numb.

Even after that awful day, she said, I didn’t feel anything. I took care of you, and your father and I tried to take care of each other, but I was lost. He started talking to Andy, Dr. Douglas, but I refused to go. After a few weeks he went back to work, and I had the first day alone with you. We had two of everything, blue and green for two little boys.

She stopped and looked away, her chin trembling. John took her hand with his scraped and bruised but unbroken left one. He’d thought many long hours about James and what could have been. He knew what had happened, and his parents had always been good about answering his questions.

This was the first time either of them had talked about how they felt.

I’d found a crib big enough for the two of you to sleep side by side. You looked so lonely in that vast thing by yourself that I couldn’t stand to look at it. I was almost closing my eyes to pick you up or put you down. That first day by myself, I decided it was time I dealt with what had happened. I didn’t want to stay so cold. Your father needed me, you certainly needed me, and I knew I couldn’t stay that way forever.

When she paused, John realized he’d been holding his breath. He was afraid her words would be devastating, but he needed to hear.

A part of him desperately needed to.

So I sat down in your nursery with you, she said. The same room you have now. I really thought about it for the first time. How we were so happy when we knew there were two of you, planning how we would arrange the house and our lives around you both. How they handed you to me and I became a different woman as soon as I looked into your eyes. From that instant my life was no longer my own.

She closed her eyes for a second before going on in a stronger voice.

I felt so different the second time in labor. The fear was gone. I knew I’d get through it, and I knew I’d get to meet my son at the end. But the doctor and nurses stopped talking and started moving faster. They told me to stop pushing and whispered to each other, and they said something to your father, but not to me. I’d carried both of you for months and had already had you, but everyone suddenly thought I was too fragile to be honest with.

She was talking faster, and John was caught up in another flood of emotions from her. Now he could feel her anger, and her agony.

When it was over, they didn’t hand me a warm baby. I caught just a glimpse of a tiny blue body as they rushed away with him. And he was silent. You came into the world kicking and screaming, so much so that everyone was surprised by you, but James didn’t make a sound. Jack finally told me the cord had been around James’ neck. They brought you back to me, and I held you, looked at you, tried to breathe you in.

John’s father moved closer and put an arm around her.

I thought somehow if I could focus on you enough, she said, it would bring James through. When they came in and told us he was gone, that’s when I went numb. It was a long while before I even realized your father needed to be comforted. He sat on the bed with me and we both held you. He asked the nurse if we could see James, and that’s when we took that picture. The only picture of the two of you.

John had spent more time staring at that one than any of the other photos throughout the house. Trying to imagine how many things could have gone another way.

That first day alone with you, she said, upstairs in your room, I felt every bit of it for the first time. It all hit home with me. What I’d lost, and finally what I still had. I needed to hold you, to let you know how much I loved you and how glad I was you were here, and how sorry I was about James. I was heartbroken that I’d been so closed off I hadn’t really held him. I didn’t even look at him, not really. I didn’t let him know I loved him. I let them put my baby into the ground without ever telling him how much I’d miss him, how sad I was that he had to go.

A huge dam inside that John had never known about burst, and he struggled to keep afloat in the raging flood. All of the isolation and rejection and loneliness he’d been feeling over the past few months multiplied, and he was fighting for his life.

He didn’t want his mother to stop though. He needed to hear what she had to say more than ever. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to stay with her.

"When I went to pick you up, I couldn’t stop looking at that absurdly large crib. I was furious at it, as if it were responsible for everything. I put you in your bassinet, carried you out into the hall, and closed the door. Then I destroyed that crib with my bare hands, down to pieces, down to splinters. I even took the sharp bits of wood and ripped up the blankets that were too big. I don’t know what I would have gone after next, but your father got home."

John’s mother looked up at his dad and smiled through her tears.

I can’t imagine what he thought. Me screaming, or at least trying to with what little voice I had left. You wailing out in the hall with the door closed. He came in and tried to stop me, and…

She caught her breath, her eyes squeezing closed.

It’s all right, Maggie. It’s all right, John’s father said, pulling her close and kissing her cheek. John and I are here.

John realized he was part of the circle, part of this protection around his mother. The need to keep her safe helped him find an anchor inside of himself, a firm place to hold on to. The torrent didn’t get any weaker, but he found he could stand it.

When your father tried to stop me, she said, I attacked him. I hit him more than once, and I actually tried to hurt him with one of those pieces of wood. He finally got it away from me and caught my arms. I was saying the most horrible things, blaming him, asking why he hadn’t saved James. He didn’t even try to defend himself. It was you who finally got through to me, John. You cried out, and I heard you. I heard you needed me, and I heard the terrible things your father was saying, apologizing for what wasn’t ever his fault. I realized just what I’d done by hitting him and trying to hurt him worse than that.

John knew then what a mistake he’d made, being so certain his parents wouldn’t understand what he’d been going through.

They might be the only ones who could.

She smiled up at John’s father. I went to pieces, and he was gracious enough to catch me before I fell. I tried to say it was all my fault, I’d done something wrong and that’s why James was gone, and I was such an awful person I hadn’t even told James I loved him when I had the chance. He let me get it out, but then he told me the truth.

She turned to John.

James’s death was nobody’s fault. Not mine or his, and certainly not yours. I hadn’t noticed until then I was covered in blood, dripping with it. I’d managed to cut my hands and even my scalp with that wood. Once he got me cleaned up, he carried you downstairs and got me settled with you on the couch in his study. He brought me the picture of you and James. He said I could tell James I loved him right then, and he’d understand.

John was struggling again, but this time with the strongest love and acceptance and sorrow he’d ever known. It came from his mom and from inside of him, and he was afraid he’d drown in the middle.

Your father was right. By the time he got done with the awful mess I’d made, I’d calmed down enough to fall asleep with you in my arms. I didn’t get that closed off inside anymore, though I certainly wasn’t calm. I did have more screaming fits and plenty of guilt and blaming myself, so I finally agreed to talk to Dr. Douglas. He helped me as much as he helped your father. He can help you, too.

She touched the fingers of John’s bandaged right hand again.

I’m telling you all this because for the first time since that day, I’ve been feeling empty inside. This time I did it on purpose. I’ve been afraid you’d end up with this awful temper. Two of my uncles have it and have been in trouble all their lives. You know very well how hard your grandfather can be to deal with when he’s in a mood. Everyone thought a quick temper or even hitting someone else was cute in a little girl, but there was nothing cute about the way I treated your father that day.

I don’t think anyone would blame you for that, love, John’s father said. Least of all me. It wasn’t an easy time for any of us.

That doesn’t change how I remember it, she said. How I’d feel if it ever happened again.

She turned back to John.

When you started getting so moody and angry, I was furious with you. It got so bad I was terrified I’d end up...that we’d end up getting into a fight, a real fight, and I couldn’t imagine anything worse. I asked your father to talk to you, to try to handle it, to make sure that couldn’t happen. And I’ve been withdrawing from you ever since. The time you’ve needed me most since the day you were born, and I’ve pushed you away.

It’s all right, Mom. John forced the words through an aching throat. "I’ve been horrible. I understand why anyone would want to turn away. I did my best to drive people away. Before tonight I wouldn’t have listened no matter what either of you said."

You can’t ever drive us away, love, not really, she said. What I think is all three of us should go see about your hand, then go see Dr. Douglas. I know you need to go by yourself, but this time, and any time you need us, we can all go. You can get through this. You’re not broken, John. Needing help does not make you broken.

John nodded, but he was unable to speak. After all these months, nearly half a year, of trying to find ways to fix himself, or at least to fix himself enough to get through the night without waking up screaming, hearing those words meant the world to him. If his mom had gone through all of that and been brave enough to tell him, and if his dad had gone through all of that with her, then he could get through.

For the first time in longer than he could remember, his life felt worth saving.

Chapter 5

Now

A hissing noise yanked John back into his body. He slowly recognized the curving tan walls, tiny oval windows, and constant engine roar of an airplane. The person sitting in front of him peered out at the pink light of sunrise over the Atlantic.

He didn’t think he’d actually been asleep, but the memory was real enough he wasn’t quite sure where he was or why. That early autumn of his seventeenth year seemed much more vivid than wherever he was in his adult life.

But after a lifetime of nightmares, John had anchoring himself in his surroundings down to a science.

He smelled stale recirculated air sharp with the aroma of brewing coffee. He also smelled Branwen, warm and close by. He turned to her, taking in every detail. She was still asleep, her color better than before. Her full lips were slightly parted, and her hands were folded under her cheek like a little girl.

John’s disorientation gradually faded.

They were going to Wales for her grandmother’s one hundredth birthday. He remembered the past few days of rushing to get ready for this trip, the past few months of getting ready to move. Branwen had been ill, but she seemed to be keeping water down now.

He brushed her hair back and touched her face, not wanting to wake her, just wanting the comfort and reassurance of her flesh. Her hair crackled with static, and her skin felt warm, not chilled and clammy.

He didn’t get any clear impressions of dreams. Only a quiet, a calm he hadn’t seen or felt in her for a long while. He barely caught that undercurrent of unease within her, a strange, alien sensation.

Focusing on his own body, John realized he was indeed too weary to have been asleep. His eyes were achy, and his stomach felt unsettled. The nagging pull of memory had faded, but he didn’t quite feel free of it.

Some part of him lingered there in his parents’ house, a frightened boy trying to figure out what would change after such a terrible ordeal made it clear something had to. He hadn’t spoken of that time in his life for many years, and he’d never spoken to Branwen about it.

He hadn’t even thought about it for longer than he could remember.

He looked down at the back of his right hand, at the faint scar below his ring finger. The violent ghosts in his past had to stay right where they were. He had to focus on whatever was going on in his marriage, then move on to less important things like new city, new house, and new jobs.

He hoped the restless door to his childhood would be willing to wait for his attention.

John?

Nothing in his life, past or present, mattered more than that voice, the sleepy brown eyes looking up at him. He kissed Branwen’s cheek. She sent out warmth loud and clear now. John savored it like a caress.

I’m here, love.

What time is it? Branwen said, stretching and groaning at the same time.

It’s seven in Wales. We’ll be landing in about an hour and a half. They’re getting breakfast ready now.

Good, I’m starving. I think I slept harder than I have in weeks, she said as she sat up and looked around, much like John had done.

You needed it. I don’t think either of us has sat still since the end of summer.

The rest of the flight was pleasant, almost as if there had been no problems between them just a few hours ago. She even seemed excited about this holiday for the first time.

Everything came crashing down while they were waiting for their luggage in Manchester. Branwen stood still with her eyes closed and her jaw clenched.

The cold wall between them went up.

Before John could ask if she was ill again, she answered by covering her mouth and running toward the restroom.

Not harsh enough to be flu or food poisoning, and after a calm night he didn’t think dehydration could be causing her trouble. Pregnancy didn’t make sense with a woman so meticulously careful about birth control.

He didn’t notice the luggage carousel start up until someone pushed past. John realized the younger man had said excuse me more than once.

Sorry, jet lag, he said to the retreating back. The kid looked over his shoulder long enough to smile.

John turned back to the carousel just as their small herd of black bags emerged from the chute. He got out their passports, one blue and one burgundy, and pushed the loaded cart slowly toward customs.

When Branwen stepped up beside him, she was again pale and subdued.

She didn’t smell sick this time, not that he could catch over strong breath mints. He decided not to ask her what was going on until they got settled in at her grandmother’s house.

With two hours of driving still ahead of them, he didn’t want any more stress. But he needed going to figure this out before she got any worse.

Ready? he said, watching her eyes.

Her face had absolutely no expression, and everything about her asked him—nearly begged him—to leave it alone. She looked at their bags, then over at customs. No one was waiting anymore.

Let’s go.

Chapter 6

Branwen Rundell Falconer closed her eyes and gritted her teeth as her husband accelerated to the left out of a busy traffic circle. They were avoiding the worst of the morning traffic by heading away from the center of Manchester. John’s unusual choice of a big Audi sedan—better to deal with extra luggage for such a long stay—instead of his usual tiny sports car helped. The speeding mass of cars and trucks all on the wrong side of the road was bad enough.

He hadn’t said a word since they’d left the airport, but she’d bet her life John hadn’t forgotten about her being sick.

She wished his driving reflected his worry a little bit more.

He hadn’t even slowed to ask with his usual smile if she were sure which way she wanted to go out of the airport, something he’d never failed to do every time they’d landed here. One way led to North Wales and her family home, the other much farther north to his home in Glasgow.

Saying they’d gone the wrong way on the M56 had turned into the sweetest joke between them, a wonderful way to recover after making some kind of mistake. Or to deal with whatever family frustration they found themselves in the middle of.

Neither of them mentioning it was another sign of how badly things were going.

Talking would be the best way to distract him, but she was afraid if she opened her mouth she’d be unable to stop her unruly stomach. Just one more way her body would betray her.

She knew morning sickness passed for most women after the first trimester. At least it had with Kim, John’s lab partner and Branwen’s friend, a few short months ago. Branwen had no intention of finding out how long it lasted for herself.

If John saw she was ill again, she’d lose any chance she had of solving this mess.

Can we stop to get a drink? she said.

He pulled off at the first petrol station without a word. The quickness of her adaptation to