Below is the first full chapter.
At the start of time, or more appropriately, at the first moment time mattered, there was a box.
Pandora remembered it as a jar—a jar blown of glass—welding together colors of ice and fire, sunsets and twilights. It was the most gorgeous sight her eyes had ever seen and when she held it in the palm of her hand, she heard it whisper.
She could no longer remember the words it had said; she only knew the rampant desire that gripped her chest of the intangible treasures from which she was barred. All she knew was suddenly her fingers were peeling back the top of the jar as a howling wind emerged from inside.
Pandora hadn’t known it then, but the gusts of air pushing past her were evil in degrees and levels she had never contemplated.
Greed. Cruelty. Vanity. Malice. Vengeance. Death. A countless river of despair.
Her fingers, curious and foolish, had released them all. And now all these years later, every evil of that forsaken jar haunted the earth. They possessed and twisted mortals into beings that could never die. They wielded their darkness to poison even the purest of hearts.
For millions of years, they infiltrated camps, villages, cities, and offices. Then one night, Death found a new home.
The likes of which Pandora had never seen before.
Prologue
Helston, England
December, 1864
The moonlight shined through the window, casting an eerie sheen down her caramel-colored hair. Her fingertips, well-manicured with a light pink coating, gently held the stem of her wine glass.
The large house was empty save for the two of them, and as his eyes surveyed the dim living room, photographs of family members cluttered the mantelpiece above the fireplace. The colorfully decorated Christmas tree reflected in the glass of a framed picture, the holiday lights so magnificent that he could hardly see the middle-aged couple depicted in the shot.
She smiled, and as she did so, he mimicked her gesture.
“Supper was great, thank you.” Past her left shoulder through the window, the silhouettes of bare tree branches scratched at the moon.
“I am glad you enjoyed it,” she responded. What was her name? He blinked. Catherine.
He could faintly tell she was beautiful, and regretted he couldn’t enjoy the sight. Long, wavy light brown hair, just a hue darker than blonde, cascaded down her back. Light blue eyes—sky blue to be exact—glanced at the maroon table cloth. And her heart, beating through her black dress…
He sighed impatiently.
She leaned forward, tucking her hands underneath her chin. “Yes, Cam?”
He narrowed his eyes as he studied her, trying his best to recall the letter that arrived at his flat just last week. The girl was twenty-two. Her birthday was to be on New Year’s Eve, just three weeks away. Her parents, as he had suspected when he had coerced her into inviting him to dinner, were out at a social event. They are clearly well-respected within the community, Cam noted, taking in the high ceilings that resembled a cathedral more than an actual home. If being rich counted as a community.
“I cannot believe we talked for so long,” he heard himself say.
“I know.” She glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. “Three hours.”
“And I really should be going. I told my parents I would be home at half past nine.”
Lie.
She leaned back in her seat. “Oh.”
His lips curved into an easy smile as he stood. His right hand shoved inside his pocket, clacking coins together.
“Are you free next Friday night?” she asked, slowly standing. She tucked her hair behind her ear, cocking her head slightly to the right as she waited for his answer.
“I don’t know, should I be?” Her smile at his small banter sent the ghost of a shockwave rolling in his stomach. He blinked and the feeling was buried. “Next Friday. I’ll take you out.”
Another lie.
A small blush flashed across her cheeks and nose.
How strange that heat should touch her now, he mused, when already the ice that was about to consume her already stirred in her heart.
“Well Catherine,” he said softly as he made his way to the door, slipping on his jacket and throwing his scarf around his neck. “Have a good night. And good luck.”
The girl began to smile just as an incomprehensible look drowned her face.
Ageless black eyes possessed by a young face looked away and quickly back again, watching as Catherine fell.
Without much effort at all, he dipped low and caught the girl, her limp form like putty in his arms. His hand stroked her hair as he held her close, just another still body cooling on a winter’s night.
With a throat that hadn’t scratched with tears in centuries, he swallowed.
Finally, he pulled his hand from his pocket. In his palm, sat two silver coins.
And he placed them over eyes that could no longer see.
Chapter One
Fairfield, Connecticut
September, 2012
The rain was so natural to him; he didn’t even notice it as he stared out the window. With one hand curled in a first underneath his chin, he blinked, watching fall’s remaining leaves sink to the ground.
His elbow pressed hard against the desk. He could almost feel the loose leaf papers from his binder brush against the fine hairs of his arm. They almost touched.
The classroom slowly filled up with students—teenagers stepping into college for the first time. The overwhelming emotion in the room was that of--what was it? he asked himself—ambition. Even the nervous girls with their eyes held down to the floor had it welling in their chests. The whole concept almost made him angry. It probably would have, if he decided enough to care.
He kept glaring out the window, noting in its reflection the empty seat to his right.
Bennett wasn’t there yet.
As the rain pounded the pavement he held his breath, puffing out his cheeks and puckering his lips.
His eyes followed a woman walking along the sidewalk, holding a dark blue umbrella with one hand and grasping a dog’s leash with the other. He could see her posture stiffen and wondered briefly if her change was from the worsening rain or the fall of his eyes upon her. From his seat, through the glass, could he still claw at her? She bit her bottom lip as if deep in thought.
A body clamored into the desk beside him. “Cam.”
Slowly, Cam turned. He raised his eyebrows. “You made it.”
Bennett laughed. “Of course I made it. Can’t start the semester on a bad note.”
“Yes.” Cam found himself grinning. “Let’s not do that.”
Bennett blew air out of his mouth as he arranged his pens into one neat row at the head of his desk. He placed his notebook in the center, opening it to the first clean page. From underneath the florescent lights of the classroom, his reddish brown hair nearly glowed.
The classroom door slammed shut as a man in his forties shuffled inside. Grey hair speckled near his temples, but otherwise, he possessed a full head of thick, dark hair. He had the faintest of worry lines etched across his forehead. A brief glance at the rows of desks lulled the college freshmen into silence.
“Hello, class!” he announced, dropping his briefcase onto his desk. “Welcome to Introduction to Mythology. Wish we had a nicer way to meet each other at eight in the morning.” He nodded toward the window. Rain was trickling down the glass like tears.
“This class is going to be interesting. We’ll be telling stories, understanding the different myths of various cultures, and discovering the impacts of those myths.”
Cam looked over at Bennett.
Bennett smirked, his hands folded neatly on the desk over his notebook. His emerald eyes sparkled.
“Cool it,” Cam warned in a voice too low for anybody else to hear.
“But Cam, this is no ordinary day!” he exclaimed in a voice just as low. He leaned across the aisle. “Happy Birthday.”
“Stop it,” he whispered, turning back toward the window.
“Why? It’s not every day a guy turns…” he paused, silently counting on his fingers.
Cam quickly shushed him.
Bennett motioned toward the window. “What’re you staring at, anyway? Is the rain falling differently today or something?”
“First,” Professor McCullough’s voice rang through the classroom. “Let us start. Write a page about your ideas about Mythology. What do you hope to learn? What do you already know? Let’s work with the person next to us, hmm?”
Papers rustled and fluttered as the students opened their binders.
Cam stayed silent as he stared at the storm. He did not bother to tell Bennett that every rainfall was different. Every droplet of water, every spray of the wind, was unique and fragile. Exactly like the lives he ended with the power he could not control. As he scanned the street, not a soul remained. The houses were dark and the roads were lonely as rain pelted onto gutters, garbage cans, and sewers. Cam wondered if anybody was still alive at all.
* * *
He didn’t feel any older. He didn’t feel different. As he walked out of the building and onto the campus green, he kept his eyes on the ground, thinking about the year that past. September was back again. There were so many Septembers and all of them were different. They held different people, presented different problems, introduced different lives.
Last year for his nineteenth birthday, his friends had taken him to the Maritime Aquarium in Norwalk, Connecticut. It was amazing after living in an area for two years how little he actually explored. He could still remember the way his friends’ faces reflected against the water of the shark tank.
He was still nineteen. Still the same. Not a scar, a sunburn, or a grey hair to testify to his age. Did any of it matter? As he walked past a couple of boys tossing a Frisbee around, a woozy wave of déjà vu engulfed him. Everyone was moving but him.
“Let’s go out to lunch,” Bennett grasped his shoulders.
Cam slowed, but didn’t answer.
“My treat.”
Cam smirked, eyes still straight ahead. “Your treat, huh? What will that get me? Fast food?”
He grinned. “Happy Meal. I’ll even let you keep the toy.”
Bennett was…Cam tried to think of any word that might adequately encompass all of him. Vivacious. Even after so many years together, even though he had been there from the start, he was still in awe of his positive outlook. How could he always be smiling? There was just so much darkness. So many rain clouds.
It was probably because of Bennett’s touch of extraordinary. Where Cam’s entrance into their life had been flooded with despair beyond comparison, Bennett simply rose above. He had not gone by Bennett back then, rather by Henrikus Bennett. That was in 1352AD.
“I don’t think so,” he finally answered. “Thanks, though.”
Bennett groaned and grabbed Cam’s arm. He yanked him around so he could take a good
look at his face.
“You look like someone just killed your cat.”
“I look like I just went to school,” Cam countered, uncomfortably shifting his backpack
on his right shoulder.
“No, I look like I just went to school. You look like…well…”—he stole a quick glance
over his shoulder as they turned down an empty street—“this is what you look like.” Bennett blinked, his face adopting a serious tone as he tightened his lips together in full concentration.
As Cam watched, Bennett’s face began to shift in a soft, fluid transformation like water tumbling into a tub. His face grew longer, more angular, with high cheekbones. It was a face he recognized. Black hair cropped in all directions ran overgrown near his ears and neck. Freckles covered his nose. Only this boy’s vibrant green eyes were different. In the mirror, Cam’s eyes were black.
Silently, they turned off the road and walked up the stone pathway to their house. As Cam looked at it now through the mist that still settled from the morning’s rain, he realized how sad the place looked. There was no denying the luxuriousness of the building, for as he stood outside the front door, he counted twelve windows on one side alone. The panes ran narrow and long, often sweeping from floor to ceiling. Curtains colored in rich shades accentuated the deep brown of the rusted, antique-styled bricks that covered the outdoors.
Absolutely, it was grand, but far too empty for just the three inhabitants. A house. Not a home.
It looked more like a hospital to Cam. A prison. An asylum.
He sighed. The sigh was accompanied by the thoughts that still lingered from the morning. The mornings, so often plagued with hope for so many, only served to haunt him. He knew as men, women, and children awoke to start a fresh day, they gently roused from sleep, wiping dreams from their eyes. They’d lie in bed, as Cam knew all too well, and their hearts would clamor underneath the sheets. They would reach out their arms across the bed, subconsciously feeling for a companion—a friend, a spouse, a parent—and then realizations stung like a cold scrap of ice.
The nightmare that would not cease with the easy opening of eyes. Loss. Emptiness.
Death.
And Cam felt it all somewhere buried deep like the pluck of a violin’s strings.
He slowly pushed open the front door, grateful to be out of the dank air. “Well that was refreshing.”
Bennett glanced up through his unkempt hair as he kicked off his shoes by the front foyer. A smirk was already on his lips. “It always is, huh?” He cleared his throat and bellowed into the house, “Will! Hey, Will! Your children are home!”
Slowly, Cam opened the hallway closet and lowered his backpack onto the floor. He quickly untied his shoes and placed them on the floor before closing the door.
“Will!” Bennett yelled at the ceiling. “Get your crazy self down here!” He murmured to Cam, “If he’s gonna make us go to school, we’re gonna make him listen about it.”
Cam smirked and placed a finger to his lips. He quietly jerked his head toward the kitchen. From where he stood, he spotted the shadow of the broom leaning against the refrigerator door.
Bennett immediately understood. With feet that barely touched the floor, he walked deeper into the house.
Dropping his jacket to the floor, Bennett followed Cam down the hallway. As he walked, he glanced inside the various rooms. The room to the left was absolutely the largest room Cam had ever seen. It was decorated with deep colors and rich wood—the type of room that Cam knew would be considered the “living” room, although most of the living would be done avoiding the room altogether. It was too beautiful to smear with daily living. Whenever Cam had trouble falling asleep, he often snuck down to that room and curled up on the sofa. For whatever reason, its lack of use comforted him.
The tiled hall floor turned into rich hardwood as they stepped into the dining room.
“Maybe he’s out?” Bennett suggested.
Cam almost answered when he looked into the kitchen. He stopped short, his sneakers squeaking against the floor.
The cabinet drawers were all thrown open. The center island was covered in white…white dust. He pressed his fingers against the counter, studying the residue as it formed into his fingerprints. He turned, barely aware of Bennett carefully sidestepping a fallen broom and a four piece set of mixing bowls.
“What in the hell…?”
Pages torn from cook books littered the floor. The books laid, spines broken, across the floor.
“Will!” Cam called. He raced across the kitchen and up the stairs to the second floor. He pushed Will’s bedroom door open. “Will!” That room, unlike the kitchen below, was immaculate. The bed was made, folded in at all sides, the ruby comforter lightly fluffed. The curtains gently swayed and Cam realized the window was open.
But it was raining. Water splattered along the windowsill.
That wasn’t like Will at all.
He slammed the door shut and ran to his room. The door was already open and he pushed his hand onto the doorframe to keep from tumbling onto the laundry basket to the side of his bed. “Bennett?” Cam whispered, “Did I leave my door open this morning?” He rushed across the room toward the closet door on the other side. He placed his palm on the wood, hesitant to open the door. His heart stuttering against his throat, he spotted a pen on his nightstand. He swiped for it and shoved it in his back pocket. “Stupid!” he chastised himself in a whisper. “So stupid!”
“Cam!” Bennett’s voice came from the kitchen. His voice was strained. “Come to the back porch!”
“Oh God,” Cam muttered, racing down the steps. When he reached the landing, his feet skidded. He slammed his hand on the corner of the counter to steady himself. “What is it?” he asked, rushing through the kitchen even though he was scared of what he might find. Bennett stared out at the back porch, his eyes absorbing the outdoor scene. He peaked over Bennett’s shoulder.
There, on the long, rectangular table beside the screened-in porch was a makeshift tablecloth. Newspaper clippings—obituaries—strung together to cover the entire surface of the table.
Three balloons were tied to each corner of the table. Three plastic plates and forks were waiting.
Footsteps he shouldn’t have been able to hear snuck up from behind.
“Who’s ready?” the new voice called, perfectly mimicking Jack Nicholson shouting “Here’s Johnny!” in The Shining.
Bennett whipped around, already grinning. “You son of a bitch!” he laughed.
Dark brown hair tousled as the man laughed, fingertips whitening as he clenched the tray in his hands to keep it from toppling over. The dessert—devil’s food cake with vanilla frosting—slowly lowered to the table.
“This is why the kitchen is trashed? Will, you scared the—”
“I wasn’t about to get a store bought cake. And baking just…got away from me. Bennett, did you go to class looking like that?” With his free hand, Will tugged at Bennett’s black locks.
He almost looked abashed as he grabbed his head. “Oh! I forgot! I was entertaining myself on the walk home.”
“If you had come home last night, I would have been able to tell you about my plans, and in doing so, saved Cambriel a heart attack.”
“I don’t come home many nights,” Bennett shrugged. His gaze turned toward the window. In its reflection, emerald eyes flash against the glass. He leaned slightly to the right in order to grasp a better view. A brilliant grin lit up his face as the glass saw thick, black hair wash into his usual auburn.
“So! Cambriel! Sit!”
Cam was still reeling from the shock and doing his best not to let it overwhelm him like an avalanche. The one thing almost as bad as what one fears most is that slow release of relief: That sweet realization that everything is okay, yet accompanied by that haunting memory of when you thought life was unraveling. His throat was still dry. He snuck a suspicious glance behind him, but all he saw were stacks of dishes on the counter waiting to be sorted into the cabinets.
“I really don’t need to celebrate…” But still, Cam slowly sank onto the whicker sofa. Two long legs straddled the table, the nineteen-year-old limbs too lazy to straighten up even as the obligatory candles were added and lit.
“Give it a chance, you might be surprised.”
Sharp black eyes rocketed toward the left, accompanied by the raise of an eyebrow. “Or it might be exactly what I expect.”
“Indulge me.”
The curvy handwriting of his companion smeared across the top:
Happy Birthday, Cambriel
Cam rolled his eyes, making sure his friend had seen, and blew out the candles. Smoke filled the air then quickly died.
“It’s your favorite, so eat some.” Will pointed at the cake, peering at the younger man over his glasses.
“Birthday Boy doesn’t have to eat first…” Bennett interrupted, “I could always take that responsibility out of his hands.”
Smirking in spite of himself, Cam etched a generous portion with his fork. As the silver utensil slipped inside his mouth, his eyes caught sight of the collage of newspapers on the table that had made for a makeshift tablecloth. Will cut a piece for himself and finally for Bennett.
“Obituaries?”
Will burst out laughing, covering his mouth just in time to save his friend from being speckled with half-chewed cake. “Couldn’t resist.”
“Classy.”
Will’s eyes smiled through his glasses. “How was school?”
“Enlightening,” Bennett answered, mouth full of cake.
Cam watched as a harsh line formed across Will’s lips, a few strands of hair sweeping across his eyes. “You’re having a tough time again,” Will said slowly, brushing the hair away. The skin between his eyes did not crease, but his eyes slightly narrowed.
“No, I’m great. Except you don’t think celebrating my birthday is mocking…” Cam muttered, glaring at the screen separating them from the storm, “everything?”
It never got old. Try as he might, the faces of those lost, the gleam in their eyes fading into nothingness as their souls slipped away, was never something he could shrug off and forget. He hoped maybe after time it wouldn’t matter anymore. Over time, all wounds could heal. What would possibly make this any different? Cam looked down at his hands and stared at the smooth, soft skin that covered his bones.
And although he wished he couldn’t, he remembered them all.
Annamaria. Tony. Bridgett. Ruth.
Will sighed and bent down to pick up a few crumbs that had fallen on the deck. He pretended to look for more just so he could stall for time to think of something to say. He had heard Cam creep home last night, leaving every light unlit, slinking like the dead in the darkness.
“I don’t, actually,” he answered, almost defiantly. “I think it’s what you both need. A life without celebration is a very long life indeed.”
“Here, here!” Bennett’s muffled voice approved.
“Besides, it’s wrong not to enjoy one’s success in guilt of another’s shortcomings.”
Cam smiled weakly at Will before dropping his gaze to the tablecloth. How many people had died last night on the eve of his birthday? How many people mourned for those losses this morning? The cries, the screams, the defeated whimpers echoed in the empty catacombs of Cam’s mind. The disembodied voices were rising. He could not hear a single word clearly, but the loud buzzing of all that pain threatened to set his skull on fire. He held his breath, suffocating their despair, and eventually their chatter died down. He reached into his jacket and clutched a black stick about three inches tall. With it in his hand, he felt a warmth invade his skin. He could breathe again. He could almost smile.
He glanced up at the stars, vaguely remembering how he used to admire them. He could still envision a boy much more naïve, much happier than he, sitting on the stone wall outside his family’s cottage. With his legs dangling off the side, he would stare up at the sky and try to count them all. He would invent his own constellations; would think of stories behind the pictures in the sky.
But that was before that night. Before everything had changed.
Now, all he thought of while looking at the stars were windows with the lights left on.
Through which he was being watched.
At the start of time, or more appropriately, at the first moment time mattered, there was a box.
Pandora remembered it as a jar—a jar blown of glass—welding together colors of ice and fire, sunsets and twilights. It was the most gorgeous sight her eyes had ever seen and when she held it in the palm of her hand, she heard it whisper.
She could no longer remember the words it had said; she only knew the rampant desire that gripped her chest of the intangible treasures from which she was barred. All she knew was suddenly her fingers were peeling back the top of the jar as a howling wind emerged from inside.
Pandora hadn’t known it then, but the gusts of air pushing past her were evil in degrees and levels she had never contemplated.
Greed. Cruelty. Vanity. Malice. Vengeance. Death. A countless river of despair.
Her fingers, curious and foolish, had released them all. And now all these years later, every evil of that forsaken jar haunted the earth. They possessed and twisted mortals into beings that could never die. They wielded their darkness to poison even the purest of hearts.
For millions of years, they infiltrated camps, villages, cities, and offices. Then one night, Death found a new home.
The likes of which Pandora had never seen before.
Prologue
Helston, England
December, 1864
The moonlight shined through the window, casting an eerie sheen down her caramel-colored hair. Her fingertips, well-manicured with a light pink coating, gently held the stem of her wine glass.
The large house was empty save for the two of them, and as his eyes surveyed the dim living room, photographs of family members cluttered the mantelpiece above the fireplace. The colorfully decorated Christmas tree reflected in the glass of a framed picture, the holiday lights so magnificent that he could hardly see the middle-aged couple depicted in the shot.
She smiled, and as she did so, he mimicked her gesture.
“Supper was great, thank you.” Past her left shoulder through the window, the silhouettes of bare tree branches scratched at the moon.
“I am glad you enjoyed it,” she responded. What was her name? He blinked. Catherine.
He could faintly tell she was beautiful, and regretted he couldn’t enjoy the sight. Long, wavy light brown hair, just a hue darker than blonde, cascaded down her back. Light blue eyes—sky blue to be exact—glanced at the maroon table cloth. And her heart, beating through her black dress…
He sighed impatiently.
She leaned forward, tucking her hands underneath her chin. “Yes, Cam?”
He narrowed his eyes as he studied her, trying his best to recall the letter that arrived at his flat just last week. The girl was twenty-two. Her birthday was to be on New Year’s Eve, just three weeks away. Her parents, as he had suspected when he had coerced her into inviting him to dinner, were out at a social event. They are clearly well-respected within the community, Cam noted, taking in the high ceilings that resembled a cathedral more than an actual home. If being rich counted as a community.
“I cannot believe we talked for so long,” he heard himself say.
“I know.” She glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. “Three hours.”
“And I really should be going. I told my parents I would be home at half past nine.”
Lie.
She leaned back in her seat. “Oh.”
His lips curved into an easy smile as he stood. His right hand shoved inside his pocket, clacking coins together.
“Are you free next Friday night?” she asked, slowly standing. She tucked her hair behind her ear, cocking her head slightly to the right as she waited for his answer.
“I don’t know, should I be?” Her smile at his small banter sent the ghost of a shockwave rolling in his stomach. He blinked and the feeling was buried. “Next Friday. I’ll take you out.”
Another lie.
A small blush flashed across her cheeks and nose.
How strange that heat should touch her now, he mused, when already the ice that was about to consume her already stirred in her heart.
“Well Catherine,” he said softly as he made his way to the door, slipping on his jacket and throwing his scarf around his neck. “Have a good night. And good luck.”
The girl began to smile just as an incomprehensible look drowned her face.
Ageless black eyes possessed by a young face looked away and quickly back again, watching as Catherine fell.
Without much effort at all, he dipped low and caught the girl, her limp form like putty in his arms. His hand stroked her hair as he held her close, just another still body cooling on a winter’s night.
With a throat that hadn’t scratched with tears in centuries, he swallowed.
Finally, he pulled his hand from his pocket. In his palm, sat two silver coins.
And he placed them over eyes that could no longer see.
Chapter One
Fairfield, Connecticut
September, 2012
The rain was so natural to him; he didn’t even notice it as he stared out the window. With one hand curled in a first underneath his chin, he blinked, watching fall’s remaining leaves sink to the ground.
His elbow pressed hard against the desk. He could almost feel the loose leaf papers from his binder brush against the fine hairs of his arm. They almost touched.
The classroom slowly filled up with students—teenagers stepping into college for the first time. The overwhelming emotion in the room was that of--what was it? he asked himself—ambition. Even the nervous girls with their eyes held down to the floor had it welling in their chests. The whole concept almost made him angry. It probably would have, if he decided enough to care.
He kept glaring out the window, noting in its reflection the empty seat to his right.
Bennett wasn’t there yet.
As the rain pounded the pavement he held his breath, puffing out his cheeks and puckering his lips.
His eyes followed a woman walking along the sidewalk, holding a dark blue umbrella with one hand and grasping a dog’s leash with the other. He could see her posture stiffen and wondered briefly if her change was from the worsening rain or the fall of his eyes upon her. From his seat, through the glass, could he still claw at her? She bit her bottom lip as if deep in thought.
A body clamored into the desk beside him. “Cam.”
Slowly, Cam turned. He raised his eyebrows. “You made it.”
Bennett laughed. “Of course I made it. Can’t start the semester on a bad note.”
“Yes.” Cam found himself grinning. “Let’s not do that.”
Bennett blew air out of his mouth as he arranged his pens into one neat row at the head of his desk. He placed his notebook in the center, opening it to the first clean page. From underneath the florescent lights of the classroom, his reddish brown hair nearly glowed.
The classroom door slammed shut as a man in his forties shuffled inside. Grey hair speckled near his temples, but otherwise, he possessed a full head of thick, dark hair. He had the faintest of worry lines etched across his forehead. A brief glance at the rows of desks lulled the college freshmen into silence.
“Hello, class!” he announced, dropping his briefcase onto his desk. “Welcome to Introduction to Mythology. Wish we had a nicer way to meet each other at eight in the morning.” He nodded toward the window. Rain was trickling down the glass like tears.
“This class is going to be interesting. We’ll be telling stories, understanding the different myths of various cultures, and discovering the impacts of those myths.”
Cam looked over at Bennett.
Bennett smirked, his hands folded neatly on the desk over his notebook. His emerald eyes sparkled.
“Cool it,” Cam warned in a voice too low for anybody else to hear.
“But Cam, this is no ordinary day!” he exclaimed in a voice just as low. He leaned across the aisle. “Happy Birthday.”
“Stop it,” he whispered, turning back toward the window.
“Why? It’s not every day a guy turns…” he paused, silently counting on his fingers.
Cam quickly shushed him.
Bennett motioned toward the window. “What’re you staring at, anyway? Is the rain falling differently today or something?”
“First,” Professor McCullough’s voice rang through the classroom. “Let us start. Write a page about your ideas about Mythology. What do you hope to learn? What do you already know? Let’s work with the person next to us, hmm?”
Papers rustled and fluttered as the students opened their binders.
Cam stayed silent as he stared at the storm. He did not bother to tell Bennett that every rainfall was different. Every droplet of water, every spray of the wind, was unique and fragile. Exactly like the lives he ended with the power he could not control. As he scanned the street, not a soul remained. The houses were dark and the roads were lonely as rain pelted onto gutters, garbage cans, and sewers. Cam wondered if anybody was still alive at all.
* * *
He didn’t feel any older. He didn’t feel different. As he walked out of the building and onto the campus green, he kept his eyes on the ground, thinking about the year that past. September was back again. There were so many Septembers and all of them were different. They held different people, presented different problems, introduced different lives.
Last year for his nineteenth birthday, his friends had taken him to the Maritime Aquarium in Norwalk, Connecticut. It was amazing after living in an area for two years how little he actually explored. He could still remember the way his friends’ faces reflected against the water of the shark tank.
He was still nineteen. Still the same. Not a scar, a sunburn, or a grey hair to testify to his age. Did any of it matter? As he walked past a couple of boys tossing a Frisbee around, a woozy wave of déjà vu engulfed him. Everyone was moving but him.
“Let’s go out to lunch,” Bennett grasped his shoulders.
Cam slowed, but didn’t answer.
“My treat.”
Cam smirked, eyes still straight ahead. “Your treat, huh? What will that get me? Fast food?”
He grinned. “Happy Meal. I’ll even let you keep the toy.”
Bennett was…Cam tried to think of any word that might adequately encompass all of him. Vivacious. Even after so many years together, even though he had been there from the start, he was still in awe of his positive outlook. How could he always be smiling? There was just so much darkness. So many rain clouds.
It was probably because of Bennett’s touch of extraordinary. Where Cam’s entrance into their life had been flooded with despair beyond comparison, Bennett simply rose above. He had not gone by Bennett back then, rather by Henrikus Bennett. That was in 1352AD.
“I don’t think so,” he finally answered. “Thanks, though.”
Bennett groaned and grabbed Cam’s arm. He yanked him around so he could take a good
look at his face.
“You look like someone just killed your cat.”
“I look like I just went to school,” Cam countered, uncomfortably shifting his backpack
on his right shoulder.
“No, I look like I just went to school. You look like…well…”—he stole a quick glance
over his shoulder as they turned down an empty street—“this is what you look like.” Bennett blinked, his face adopting a serious tone as he tightened his lips together in full concentration.
As Cam watched, Bennett’s face began to shift in a soft, fluid transformation like water tumbling into a tub. His face grew longer, more angular, with high cheekbones. It was a face he recognized. Black hair cropped in all directions ran overgrown near his ears and neck. Freckles covered his nose. Only this boy’s vibrant green eyes were different. In the mirror, Cam’s eyes were black.
Silently, they turned off the road and walked up the stone pathway to their house. As Cam looked at it now through the mist that still settled from the morning’s rain, he realized how sad the place looked. There was no denying the luxuriousness of the building, for as he stood outside the front door, he counted twelve windows on one side alone. The panes ran narrow and long, often sweeping from floor to ceiling. Curtains colored in rich shades accentuated the deep brown of the rusted, antique-styled bricks that covered the outdoors.
Absolutely, it was grand, but far too empty for just the three inhabitants. A house. Not a home.
It looked more like a hospital to Cam. A prison. An asylum.
He sighed. The sigh was accompanied by the thoughts that still lingered from the morning. The mornings, so often plagued with hope for so many, only served to haunt him. He knew as men, women, and children awoke to start a fresh day, they gently roused from sleep, wiping dreams from their eyes. They’d lie in bed, as Cam knew all too well, and their hearts would clamor underneath the sheets. They would reach out their arms across the bed, subconsciously feeling for a companion—a friend, a spouse, a parent—and then realizations stung like a cold scrap of ice.
The nightmare that would not cease with the easy opening of eyes. Loss. Emptiness.
Death.
And Cam felt it all somewhere buried deep like the pluck of a violin’s strings.
He slowly pushed open the front door, grateful to be out of the dank air. “Well that was refreshing.”
Bennett glanced up through his unkempt hair as he kicked off his shoes by the front foyer. A smirk was already on his lips. “It always is, huh?” He cleared his throat and bellowed into the house, “Will! Hey, Will! Your children are home!”
Slowly, Cam opened the hallway closet and lowered his backpack onto the floor. He quickly untied his shoes and placed them on the floor before closing the door.
“Will!” Bennett yelled at the ceiling. “Get your crazy self down here!” He murmured to Cam, “If he’s gonna make us go to school, we’re gonna make him listen about it.”
Cam smirked and placed a finger to his lips. He quietly jerked his head toward the kitchen. From where he stood, he spotted the shadow of the broom leaning against the refrigerator door.
Bennett immediately understood. With feet that barely touched the floor, he walked deeper into the house.
Dropping his jacket to the floor, Bennett followed Cam down the hallway. As he walked, he glanced inside the various rooms. The room to the left was absolutely the largest room Cam had ever seen. It was decorated with deep colors and rich wood—the type of room that Cam knew would be considered the “living” room, although most of the living would be done avoiding the room altogether. It was too beautiful to smear with daily living. Whenever Cam had trouble falling asleep, he often snuck down to that room and curled up on the sofa. For whatever reason, its lack of use comforted him.
The tiled hall floor turned into rich hardwood as they stepped into the dining room.
“Maybe he’s out?” Bennett suggested.
Cam almost answered when he looked into the kitchen. He stopped short, his sneakers squeaking against the floor.
The cabinet drawers were all thrown open. The center island was covered in white…white dust. He pressed his fingers against the counter, studying the residue as it formed into his fingerprints. He turned, barely aware of Bennett carefully sidestepping a fallen broom and a four piece set of mixing bowls.
“What in the hell…?”
Pages torn from cook books littered the floor. The books laid, spines broken, across the floor.
“Will!” Cam called. He raced across the kitchen and up the stairs to the second floor. He pushed Will’s bedroom door open. “Will!” That room, unlike the kitchen below, was immaculate. The bed was made, folded in at all sides, the ruby comforter lightly fluffed. The curtains gently swayed and Cam realized the window was open.
But it was raining. Water splattered along the windowsill.
That wasn’t like Will at all.
He slammed the door shut and ran to his room. The door was already open and he pushed his hand onto the doorframe to keep from tumbling onto the laundry basket to the side of his bed. “Bennett?” Cam whispered, “Did I leave my door open this morning?” He rushed across the room toward the closet door on the other side. He placed his palm on the wood, hesitant to open the door. His heart stuttering against his throat, he spotted a pen on his nightstand. He swiped for it and shoved it in his back pocket. “Stupid!” he chastised himself in a whisper. “So stupid!”
“Cam!” Bennett’s voice came from the kitchen. His voice was strained. “Come to the back porch!”
“Oh God,” Cam muttered, racing down the steps. When he reached the landing, his feet skidded. He slammed his hand on the corner of the counter to steady himself. “What is it?” he asked, rushing through the kitchen even though he was scared of what he might find. Bennett stared out at the back porch, his eyes absorbing the outdoor scene. He peaked over Bennett’s shoulder.
There, on the long, rectangular table beside the screened-in porch was a makeshift tablecloth. Newspaper clippings—obituaries—strung together to cover the entire surface of the table.
Three balloons were tied to each corner of the table. Three plastic plates and forks were waiting.
Footsteps he shouldn’t have been able to hear snuck up from behind.
“Who’s ready?” the new voice called, perfectly mimicking Jack Nicholson shouting “Here’s Johnny!” in The Shining.
Bennett whipped around, already grinning. “You son of a bitch!” he laughed.
Dark brown hair tousled as the man laughed, fingertips whitening as he clenched the tray in his hands to keep it from toppling over. The dessert—devil’s food cake with vanilla frosting—slowly lowered to the table.
“This is why the kitchen is trashed? Will, you scared the—”
“I wasn’t about to get a store bought cake. And baking just…got away from me. Bennett, did you go to class looking like that?” With his free hand, Will tugged at Bennett’s black locks.
He almost looked abashed as he grabbed his head. “Oh! I forgot! I was entertaining myself on the walk home.”
“If you had come home last night, I would have been able to tell you about my plans, and in doing so, saved Cambriel a heart attack.”
“I don’t come home many nights,” Bennett shrugged. His gaze turned toward the window. In its reflection, emerald eyes flash against the glass. He leaned slightly to the right in order to grasp a better view. A brilliant grin lit up his face as the glass saw thick, black hair wash into his usual auburn.
“So! Cambriel! Sit!”
Cam was still reeling from the shock and doing his best not to let it overwhelm him like an avalanche. The one thing almost as bad as what one fears most is that slow release of relief: That sweet realization that everything is okay, yet accompanied by that haunting memory of when you thought life was unraveling. His throat was still dry. He snuck a suspicious glance behind him, but all he saw were stacks of dishes on the counter waiting to be sorted into the cabinets.
“I really don’t need to celebrate…” But still, Cam slowly sank onto the whicker sofa. Two long legs straddled the table, the nineteen-year-old limbs too lazy to straighten up even as the obligatory candles were added and lit.
“Give it a chance, you might be surprised.”
Sharp black eyes rocketed toward the left, accompanied by the raise of an eyebrow. “Or it might be exactly what I expect.”
“Indulge me.”
The curvy handwriting of his companion smeared across the top:
Happy Birthday, Cambriel
Cam rolled his eyes, making sure his friend had seen, and blew out the candles. Smoke filled the air then quickly died.
“It’s your favorite, so eat some.” Will pointed at the cake, peering at the younger man over his glasses.
“Birthday Boy doesn’t have to eat first…” Bennett interrupted, “I could always take that responsibility out of his hands.”
Smirking in spite of himself, Cam etched a generous portion with his fork. As the silver utensil slipped inside his mouth, his eyes caught sight of the collage of newspapers on the table that had made for a makeshift tablecloth. Will cut a piece for himself and finally for Bennett.
“Obituaries?”
Will burst out laughing, covering his mouth just in time to save his friend from being speckled with half-chewed cake. “Couldn’t resist.”
“Classy.”
Will’s eyes smiled through his glasses. “How was school?”
“Enlightening,” Bennett answered, mouth full of cake.
Cam watched as a harsh line formed across Will’s lips, a few strands of hair sweeping across his eyes. “You’re having a tough time again,” Will said slowly, brushing the hair away. The skin between his eyes did not crease, but his eyes slightly narrowed.
“No, I’m great. Except you don’t think celebrating my birthday is mocking…” Cam muttered, glaring at the screen separating them from the storm, “everything?”
It never got old. Try as he might, the faces of those lost, the gleam in their eyes fading into nothingness as their souls slipped away, was never something he could shrug off and forget. He hoped maybe after time it wouldn’t matter anymore. Over time, all wounds could heal. What would possibly make this any different? Cam looked down at his hands and stared at the smooth, soft skin that covered his bones.
And although he wished he couldn’t, he remembered them all.
Annamaria. Tony. Bridgett. Ruth.
Will sighed and bent down to pick up a few crumbs that had fallen on the deck. He pretended to look for more just so he could stall for time to think of something to say. He had heard Cam creep home last night, leaving every light unlit, slinking like the dead in the darkness.
“I don’t, actually,” he answered, almost defiantly. “I think it’s what you both need. A life without celebration is a very long life indeed.”
“Here, here!” Bennett’s muffled voice approved.
“Besides, it’s wrong not to enjoy one’s success in guilt of another’s shortcomings.”
Cam smiled weakly at Will before dropping his gaze to the tablecloth. How many people had died last night on the eve of his birthday? How many people mourned for those losses this morning? The cries, the screams, the defeated whimpers echoed in the empty catacombs of Cam’s mind. The disembodied voices were rising. He could not hear a single word clearly, but the loud buzzing of all that pain threatened to set his skull on fire. He held his breath, suffocating their despair, and eventually their chatter died down. He reached into his jacket and clutched a black stick about three inches tall. With it in his hand, he felt a warmth invade his skin. He could breathe again. He could almost smile.
He glanced up at the stars, vaguely remembering how he used to admire them. He could still envision a boy much more naïve, much happier than he, sitting on the stone wall outside his family’s cottage. With his legs dangling off the side, he would stare up at the sky and try to count them all. He would invent his own constellations; would think of stories behind the pictures in the sky.
But that was before that night. Before everything had changed.
Now, all he thought of while looking at the stars were windows with the lights left on.
Through which he was being watched.