CHAPTER ONE: A BEGINNING AT THE END
Autumn, 2013
Gabe
The Children of the Gentle House had always been weird. Some of it was that they’d always been cloistered. Home-schooled. Living at the same secluded farmhouse in Puyallup and never leaving, for as long as anyone could remember. Some of it was that none of them knew who their parents were, that none of them except for Gabe—who had his uncle Michael—had any living family, and that none of them were related by blood. Agnes and John, the old couple who had raised them all, said that they’d all come from different places that were gone, from different losses and different sorrows, and that while it was sad, it also made them family, and family always stuck together. Always had each other’s backs. No matter what.
For Gabe it was always a little different, which was sometimes good, and sometimes bad. He had his uncle, and unlike the others, he knew what had happened to his family… sort of. They’d died in a fire, his uncle had said. Unfortunately, Michael wouldn’t say anything else. Gabe always assumed it was because it was too painful to talk about, and just let it go, which wasn’t always easy.
The other thing that made them weird was that they could all remember a time—that they weren’t sure was real—when they could do things that other kids couldn’t. Once upon a time, they all remembered, four-year-old Roberta had set some paper on fire without touching it. Once, when they were little, Cody had cut his knee really bad on a tree-root, and when he touched it, the wound had closed. Neither of them could do it again afterwards. Agnes insisted ever-after that they’d dreamed it. Aaron had never done anything special, except pull Cody out of the creek in winter when he fell in, and swam like a kid shouldn’t be able to, especially not when pulling another kid.
And here again, Gabe was different. He had no memory of doing anything weird. Probably because he’d spent his childhood with crushing headaches that had left him bedridden until he was six, when they mysteriously stopped.
And then there was Lina, who was really different.
Lina had dreams. Dreams that made her sick. Dreams that could lay her out for days feeling nauseous. Dreams that sometimes came true.
Which was what happened on a cold, rainy morning in late October when Gabe was fourteen. Lina had a dream, and in retrospect, that was the beginning of the end.
Gabe found her in the hallway between the kitchen and the dining room. The sound of breaking ceramic echoed in his ears, and he dropped the rag he was cleaning with and bolted through the doorway. Lina sat with her back against the wall, the broken salad bowl on the floor at her feet, lettuce, chopped tomatoes, and cucumbers scattered around her like crunchy confetti. Her hands pressed into the sides of her head, and her eyes were squeezed shut. Gabe dropped to his knees in front of her, doing his best to avoid the broken ceramic. Merlin, Agnes’s big black dog, was already by her side. He was huge and quiet, his only markings a white tuft under his chin and his bright blue eyes.
“Lina,” Gabe said. She still shook, her face scrunched up and expression pained. Lina was Chinese, or part Chinese, and she was slight and small for fourteen. Her features were delicate, and when pain and fear spasmed across them, it was twice as scary as it was with anyone else. She let out a whimper between clenched teeth, and Gabe fought down panic. She didn’t answer. The shaking got worse, and her face got scarier. Sweat stood out on her forehead and tears squeezed from the corners of her eyes. Merlin licked the side of her face.
“Lina,” Gabe said again, and his hands snapped out, one grasping her shoulder, the other pressing over the hand on her cheek. “Lina I’m here. Sis, come back.”
He was about to call for help when the shaking slowed. Her breathing steadied, and very slowly, Lina opened her green eyes. It took her about ten seconds, but then she gulped and said “…Gabe?”
Gabe breathed out a wave of tension. Then he asked “dream?”
She closed her eyes again and nodded. Her body untensed. Gabe paused. He knew better than to say something dumb like ‘are you okay?’ or ‘is everything alright?’ He hadn’t had one of his migraines in eight years, but he still remembered what it was like to come out the other side of one, aching and shaking, mouth tasting of the bile from vomiting over the side of the bed. Gabe knew better than to ask an obvious question he already knew the answer to. She felt like shit. Duh.
Merlin made a low grumbling noise and put his head in Lina’s lap. Her fingers reached down and idly scratched behind his ears.
Gabe sat back on his heels, giving her some space, and then quietly asked “Do you want to talk about it?”
“I—” Lina paused for just a moment, her face looking suddenly, mildly reluctant, then said “—nothing distinct. Just a red-haired girl and—”
Heavy footsteps sounded in his ears and the shadow of two adults fell over them. Lina went immediately silent. The first was Agnes—thick bodied, gray-haired, intense eyes assessing the space with a sharpness that missed nothing—who immediately leaned her walking stick against the wall and knelt beside Lina, forcing Gabe to move to the side. “Ach,” she grunted. “Are you alright, girl?” her thick Russian accent was as abrasive as it was comforting to Gabe’s ears. “Nothing cut? Nothing broken?”
“The bowl,” Lina still sounded dazed.
“Nothing important, then,” Agnes grunted. “Domovoi,” she turned to Gabe, addressing him with the nickname he’d had ever since she’d decided he reminded her of some Russian house-spirit. “Clean this up and throw it away. No sense in trying to pick ceramic out of our teeth.” Then she looked behind her. “Why are you just standing there? Get the broom.”
Leaning against the wall, his arms folded, Uncle Michael frowned. “What happened, Lina?” The question was direct. Uncomfortably direct, if Gabe was honest, but Uncle Michael was always like that. He was tall, and everyone said he and Gabe looked alike, though there were differences of course. Michael’s face was a little more square than Gabe’s longer, narrower one. His hair had some small gray streaks. He was built stocky rather than slender. They had the same dark, almost black hair, though. The same straight nose. The same pale white-guy complexion, though Gabe tended to tan darker in the summer than Michael did. Michael’s eyes were a reddish brown, whereas Gabe’s were dark blue.
“Nothing,” Lina lied as Gabe watched. That was weird. “I just tripped and hit my head. It’s fine.”
Merlin made another grumbling noise.
“You’re sure?” Michael pushed. He knows, Gabe thought.
“Do you lack ears?” Agnes snapped over her shoulder. “I said get the broom.”
Michael stared right back at her, and as both teenagers watched, a silent, unspoken battle of wills unfolded. Nobody could talk to Agnes like Michael did. The other kids all intuitively knew it. Finally, however, he caved. “Fine,” he said. Then, from down the hall, he said “do you need a cold pack, kid? Pretty sure there’s one in the freezer.”
“No, it’s okay,” Lina said, getting to her feet.
“Come with me,” Agnes said, and within a few moments, Lina had been hastily ushered out of the hallway to elsewhere in the house, leaving Gabe to take the broom from his uncle’s scarred, outstretched hand and start sweeping. Merlin followed Agnes and Lina. The dog always stuck close to whoever in the house was feeling worst, which lately meant John, who had been on again off again sick for a little while.
After a few seconds of silence, Gabe’s uncle spoke. “She tell you anything?”
Gabe paused for just a fraction of a second, then kept sweeping. He didn’t normally keep things from the adults, but regardless of whether or not what Lina had said made any sense, and it really didn’t, it felt wrong to say anything.
If Lina had lied… she had a reason.
“Nah,” he said, pushing the remnants of bowl and salad into the ancient, steel dustpan. His uncle lifted it up and dropped the remains into the trash. “Probably just got dizzy. Still happens to her sometimes, y’know?”
“Mmm.” Uncle Michael said, and it was impossible to tell if he bought it or not, but he did let it go. “When you’re done, get your coat,” he said. “Training in the woods today.”
A slow grin spread across Gabe’s face. “Sure!”
The Gentle House was a red, two-storied farmhouse on a large property in Puyallup that was mostly woods. Gabe had wandered just about all of it—at least the parts that were fenced-in—and he knew it like the bottoms of his second-hand boots. The trees were mostly evergreens, but there were deciduous ones, and this late in the year the autumn golds and reds were turning slowly brown under the pattering of the rain. Gabe’s breath fogged in the air as the two of them neared the clearing in the forest where they normally trained. They’d been working out in the same spot since Gabe was six years old. Michael dropped the duffel as they stepped out of the undergrowth and stooped to unzip it, pulling out two hickory practice longswords. He tossed one to Gabe, who caught it by the grip.
At first Gabe thought they were going to spar, but then Michael gestured towards the large standing rope-wrapped pell—more a wood pole sticking out of the ground than anything else—and said, “Show me the sequence I taught you last time.”
Gabe took a breath. He’d been learning to swing a wooden sword since he was six, when his uncle had insisted he started training despite his headaches. Something about ‘giving his potential somewhere to go,’ whatever that meant. Either way, Gabe was good at it after seven years, despite being only fourteen. He could move fast when he needed to, and avoided his uncle’s strikes most of the time. He could even hit Michael occasionally, and hard enough to make him yelp once. He’d felt guilty about that after, if he was honest.
This sequence, though, was just confusing. Gabe could never get it totally right, and after a month he was starting to suspect it was because the whole thing was bullshit.
“I—okay,” he said, then set his stance, facing the wood post. Gabe put both hands on the grip, assumed a high guard, then launched himself forward. The wood sword cracked like a hunting rifle against the pell. He rotated his wrist, moved his feet, and snapped his hips. The blade whirled over his head and hit the pell a second time with an equally loud bang. A final pivot, the sword spun once more with his thumb on the flat, and smashed into the wood, actually splintering the pell’s face.
Gabe stood for a moment, breathing hard. He hadn’t needed to put that much into it, but even the thought of the technique had become frustrating, over the past few weeks. “Again,” Michael said.
Gabe frowned. No feedback, good or bad. He turned back to the pell, staring it down. The sword whipped through the air, dancing in his hands. Step. Cut. Step. Cut. Crack, crack, crack. Each blow was an echoing shot of sound ricocheting between the trees.
“Again.”
“What?”
Michael’s eyes were intent, his posture unyielding. “Again.”
Gabe’s frustration grew. This time his sword moved so fast his eyes could barely follow the streaking wood. He was good at this. Knew every pattern given to him, every motion, and could do them all well. Still, Uncle Michael made him do it five more times, until Gabe turned to look at him and said “Okay, seriously, what am I doing wrong?”
“The whole sequence, for starters,” his uncle answered. “It’s one step—one—and three cuts.”
“I did that!”
“You stepped three times.”
“I—”
“You have the speed, Gabe, but not the balance.”
Silence hung between them. “If I do that,” Gabe said, “I’ll fall. I can’t throw that many cuts with one foot off the ground!”
“Gabe,” Michael cut him off. “I’ve explained this before. You’re missing a context to what we’re doing that only comes with time. Be patient, and trust that my teaching has purpose. Now do it again.”
Gabe clenched his fist. “Okay, tell me how this is supposed to work? This makes even less sense than the thing where I just circle the pell and point my sword at it. Or those games with flashlights in the dark.”
Silence followed. Michael took a deep breath. Then he said “The first cut is as you start to move your foot. The second is while your foot is moving. The third the same second you plant. I’ve been showing you this for months. As to the circling, that is one of the most important things I will ever teach you, understand? Everything you need to know is encoded within the sequence.”
Gabe took a deep breath of his own. Careful. Their tempers were both sharp, especially when they got into the weird esoteric shit his uncle liked to go on about rather than just tell him things. He needed to keep a cool head.
Instead he deadpanned “You gonna explain to me why? Or what it means?”
Michael slowly approached. Not so close as to be rude, but enough to make the point that he was irritated. “We have been over this, constantly, for the past six months. Meaning comes after excellence. I have told you this over and over again. If I give you meaning before you’ve mastered the movements, you’ll decide that there’s a quicker way, a faster way, to get to that meaning, and you’ll start making shit up that is untested and likely won’t work, rather than use what I’ve given you.”
“But—”
“What I am passing on to you,” Michael steamrolled over him, “is not simply a bag of techniques to be thrown out just because your inexperienced self thinks there is a better way. Each movement is the embodiment of a concept. Each concept links together like feathers on a wing, combining to defy gravity. Meaning will come, Gabe, but before it can do so, you have to show that you can do the movements well enough for the meaning to slot into place. You have to allow every motion to sink into your mind and your muscle and your bones, until it rewrites the very nerves in your brain.”
Now Gabe was annoyed. His own temper flared, and one of the principles he’d absorbed flooded through his mind in tandem with the surge of anger. Nearest target, shortest distance.
“I’ll rewrite your nerves,” Gabe said, and his wooden sword snapped out at his uncle’s arm. A straight, direct cut.
Uncle Michael barely seemed to move. His sword twitched and Gabe felt a painful smack against the back of his hand. His fingers opened reflexively, and the hickory blade clattered against the dirt at his feet.
The point of Uncle Michael’s sword came to a stop an inch from the center of Gabe’s face.
“Now you are dead,” Michael deadpanned. “And we are done for the morning.” His face softened just a little. “Let’s go get you some ice.”
A little while later they sat at the kitchen table, Michael sitting across from him, examining his hand. “Nothing broken,” he murmured. “Just a bruise.” Then, rising, he pulled a cold pack from the freezer and wrapped it in a towel before handing it to Gabe. Then he stood awkwardly, backlit by the gray light from outside the kitchen window. Behind him, a stained-glass swan, crowned and with a sword beside it, hung in that same window, casting odd lights across the floor.
“I’m… sorry,” Michael said after a moment. “How much does it hurt?”
Gabe was quiet. Toughen up, a little voice whispered. Don’t show weakness.
Nonetheless, tears stung the corners of his eyes, and he said “… more than usual.”
Michael closed his eyes and sighed. “I didn’t want you to break my forearm, but I could’ve been gentler.” One scarred hand came up to scratch the back of his head. He looked down.
Gabe didn’t know what to offer in response, so he just said “It’s… alright. I probably shouldn’t have tried to hit you that hard.”
Michael let out a faint snort. “You have your grandfather’s pride.”
Gabe’s mouth hung open for just a moment. Michael never mentioned any of their dead family, and never specific people. For a second he wasn’t sure what to say, partly because he wasn’t sure from his uncle’s tone if the remark had been a compliment or an insult.
“Do I…” Gabe hesitated “… have anything else from him?”
Michael paused, the look in his eyes pained, then he said, “More your father and mother, honestly.”
There was a small crack as the broom handle fell through the doorway. Michael spun, his mouth clamped closed. He crossed the distance to the door before Gabe could get out of the chair, and said, in a low, almost dangerous voice, “eavesdropping is rude.”
Slowly, Cody stepped out from behind the door-frame. He was a little stockier than Gabe, and slightly shorter, with brown hair and brown eyes that currently looked surprised and a little alarmed. “Both of you,” Michael’s low tone couldn’t quite hide that his teeth were clenched. The third boy who lived at the Gentle House, Aaron, stepped out from behind Cody. He was taller, and his hair was curly rather than straight like Cody’s or wavy like Gabe’s.
“Er, sorry,” Aaron said with slight irritation. “But we live here too?”
“This is a private conversation,” Michael replied. “Family only.”
“We… are family—” Cody started.
“My family only,” Michael snapped.
The two boys stared at Gabe’s uncle wide-eyed. Gabe stood up, taking the towel-wrapped cold pack and walking towards the door. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Michael close his eyes and let out a deep breath. “Gabe, I didn’t—”
“It’s fine,” Gabe said as he stepped past Aaron and Cody. “You do you, but just because they’re not your family doesn’t mean they’re not mine.”
“God,” Aaron said as the three boys moved out of Uncle Michael’s earshot. “Your uncle sucks.”
That didn’t make it better. Gabe shot the other boy a look. “He’s…”
Aaron arched an eyebrow. “Still can’t say it, huh?”
They were at the front door now, the window beside it looking out onto the long driveway lined with trees. “What do you want me to say?” Gabe said, turning around. “That he’s somehow not family anymore? That I’m not related to him?”
Aaron’s face darkened. His anger was still intense. “One day,” he said, “we’re all gonna get out of here, and when we do, when there’s a whole big world in front of us, you’re gonna have to choose who your real family is. Us, or the guy who tells you that we don’t matter.”
“Guys,” Cody said, the shorter boy putting his hands between them. “Come on, we’re brothers. We shouldn’t fight! It’s over.”
“You think so?” Aaron said. He looked at Gabe, direct and still hurt. “Cuz with every year that goes by, I’m less sure.”
The rest of the day was no less tense. Gabe didn’t get a chance to talk to Lina again—she was up in the room she shared with Roberta, laying down. He tried to get his chores done. Red-haired girl. What the hell was that about? Had there been more to the dream? Ultimately, as he was feeding the goats, Gabe just decided to let it go. The dream was only his business to the extent that his adopted sister decided to make it that way, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to pester her about it. The goats went to work on the feed, chewing and pausing only to bray at him. He smiled and patted the head of the smallest one. “I’m fine,” he muttered. “Just go back to chowing down, okay?”
“You okay dude?” the voice was Cody’s, and Gabe turned to see the other boy standing in the barn doorway. “Look, I know Aaron can be… Aaron. I just wanted you to know that I don’t think you did anything wrong.”
Gabe looked back at the goats in their pen. He’d tried to stick up for them, but it hadn’t been enough for Aaron and honestly… it rarely fucking was. That wasn’t something he could control, of course, as Agnes often reminded him. They were all cooped up here, all the time, with only TV and sometimes Agnes’s computer to make them aware of the broader world. It was normal to want out, and Aaron wanted out so badly.
And then there was Uncle Michael. Simultaneously seeming to care about Gabe enough to nurture and teach him but also being emotionally distant and at the same time keeping a hold on Gabe as tight as a vice.
“Thanks,” Gabe said, and it sounded weak to his ears. He was too tired to care. “Yeah, it’s usually not enough for him.” He paused. “Not much I can do about it, y’know?”
Cody walked up and leaned against the rail of the goat pen on his arms beside Gabe. The brothers stood in silence for a while, then the other boy said “did Lina say anything about her dream? Roberta just glared at me when I asked, and I didn’t feel like being swatted.”
Gabe sighed. “She mentioned something to me but it kinda feels wrong to share it without her permission. Don’t worry; it didn’t make any sense.”
Cody nodded. “I guess we’ll find out if it means anything.”
After a moment’s silence, Gabe felt the question rising in him. The sort of thing the kids rarely talked about, but that was always on part of their minds.
“Do you think it was real?”
Cody blinked. “Huh?”
“The stuff from when we were little,” Gabe said. “Roberta and the fire. Your knee. Aaron swimming really strong and fast. I know Agnes said it was a dream, but on days like today… I wonder.”
Cody looked at the goats for a long time, then finally said “I… don’t know. Maybe it was. We know Lina dreams. But none of us have ever done anything since those one times, and it’s not like anything new has happened, y’know?”
He frowned, and after a minute, Gabe said “… but you’re not sure either.”
Cody looked at him this time, then after a few seconds of lingering reluctance, he muttered “No. I’m not.”
They finished the barn chores together, in silence, then they went back inside for dinner.
At midnight, Gabe woke up with a splitting headache. Sweat poured down his face, staining the bedsheets and pillow. There was a storm outside. His breathing came in ragged gasps as the familiar pain, unfelt for eight years, spiked into his skull. Both hands went to the sides of his head. Fuck. Jesus Christ, it hurt. This wasn’t supposed to happen anymore. Merlin was beside his bed, and the big dog let out a whimper. He buried his hand in the black fur, but it only did so much to calm the pain.
Then the whispers started.
Gabe’s eyes snapped open. He couldn’t make out coherent words, but they were getting louder. Multiple voices repeating the same muffled phrase over and over. Ibuprofen. He needed painkillers. He swung his legs out of the bed and hit the night-stand, sending the clock crashing to the floor as he dropped to his knees. “Shit. Ow. OW.”
Cody was awake at once, sitting bolt upright in the bed against the opposite wall. “Mmmwhat?”
“I need—” Gabe pushed himself up. His head hurt so much. The whispers were deafening now, even as he couldn’t understand them. “—pills. Bathroom.”
He staggered towards the door as Cody awkwardly got out of bed behind him, Merlin followed. A crash of thunder shook the whole house. It never thundered in the Pacific Northwest. He stumbled towards the upstairs bathroom with its medicine cabinet and the promise of relief. Made it maybe four steps before he fell again, his head flashing in agony. This was worse than when he was a kid. His stomach lurched and he almost threw up. Another door shut somewhere. No, two doors? Agnes was out of bed, and Michael vaulted up the stairs.
“Domovoi!” Agnes shouted, and dropped to her knees beside him. “What is wrong?”
“Head,” Gabe gasped. “Hurts so bad. Baba I need—”
Then the whispers started again, louder. At first he thought he was losing his mind, then he saw Michael standing out of the corner of his eye, staring alarmed up at the ceiling. “This storm isn’t natural,” he said. Gabe had never heard his uncle sound scared before.
“No shit,” Agnes said. “Domovoi, let’s get you to the bathroom.”
“You said he was just sick,” Michael’s tone was accusatory. At first Gabe thought his uncle was talking about him, but then he said something that made even less sense. “It’s worse than that, isn’t it? The whole thing’s coming down.”
“Michael—”
“Don’t lie to me!” Michael thundered. The wind buffeted the walls of the Gentle House. “This is a message, and we wouldn’t be able to hear it if the Cerement was still working!” Panic edged his voice. He dropped to one knee in front of Gabe, grasped his nephews face between his hands and brought their eyes level with each other. “What can you hear?” He demanded. “What are they saying?”
“I don’t know!” The voices were deafening, incoherent murmurs ripping through his head.
“Dammit,” Michael swore.
“We need to get him pain meds!” Agnes snarled.
“You know fucking damn well they won’t work!” Michael had to shout to be heard above the creaking of the walls. “I can’t make sense of the words, and I bet you can’t either. We need to get him out of here, Now!”
“Michael—” Agnes stood to her full height, and in that moment, she looked somehow taller, more terrible than Gabe had ever seen her. “—I will not let you destroy our peace!”
“It’s already destroyed,” Michael said, and reaching under Gabe’s arm, pulled him to his feet. The act was sickening, and Gabe nearly fell. Merlin was next to him again, shoving his head under the boy’s trembling arm.
“Baba, what’s going on?” Roberta was in the doorway to the room she shared with Lina. Cody was behind Gabe, and Aaron was stepping out into the landing. “What’s—”
“I will not let you,” Agnes started, still staring daggers at Michael. “It’s too dangerous!”
“I invoke your oath,” Michael said. Gabe felt a ripple pass through him and was immediately sicker. “Remain here with the others until we return.”
Agnes stiffened and did not move for a moment. Her teeth set, and she suddenly looked at Michael as if he’d done something unforgivable. “You bastard.”
“Do as I fucking say,” Michael snarled, and pulling Gabe with him, started down the stairs.
“We’re going out in that?” Gabe groaned through the pain.
“It’s the only way,” Michael’s voice was hard. “Gabe,” he said, and there was a thick pain behind his words. “I need you to trust me. More than anything, now, I need that.”
They ran out into the wind and the rain. The dog’s barking grew distant behind them
Branches whipped past Gabe’s face as he tried to run, Uncle Michael’s vice-like grip holding his forearm. They stumbled up the path. The whispers continued, rising and falling, always the same phrase, unintelligible. He stumbled, his head hurting so much his vision was starting to tunnel. Instead of pulling him up, Michael simply lifted him in his arms and started running.
“Matthew,” Gabe heard him murmur, thick-voiced. “Help me now.”
Abruptly they stepped into a clearing. Gabe couldn’t see much due to the darkness and the rain lashing his face. Michael gently lowered him down and Gabe felt moss under his head and smelled wet leaves. Then Michael’s hand swept to his left hip, and Gabe heard a crack followed by a sound like the ringing of a bell. His head hurt too much to see clearly, but as he watched, Michael drew something long, glowing, and red from the empty air at his side. He drew it across his arm, and Gabe thought he saw drops of blood fall to the ground, black in the red light.
“In the name of the Lost Guides and my Righteous Ancestors,” Michael intoned, “I beg you, the boy is not ready. As Regent, speak unto me.”
This time, the whispers were clear, and though they grew quieter, Gabe heard them clear as day.
“The Thread is Cut. The Tree Stands Alone.”
“I hear you,” Michael whispered. “The words are heard.” His voice shook. “Please… rest.”
The pain in Gabe’s head slowly faded. The wind calmed, and the rain began to let up. He lay on the ground, breathing hard, until his uncle pulled him up. Whatever he’d been holding in his hand was gone. Gabe looked around. He glimpsed a circle of stones in the dark, with strange designs between them.
“Come on,” his uncle said, and giving him no time to ask further questions, pulled him away from the clearing.
They arrived back at the house. The lights were on downstairs and Agnes was standing over the kettle in the kitchen. John sat at the table, looking pale and nauseous. Gabe could relate. The pain in his head had fled, but he was dizzy, now. Too worn out to ask questions about what he’d just seen. Agnes looked up as they entered through the back door, and her eyes stared daggers at Michael. “What happened?” she demanded. Merlin was immediately by Gabe’s side again, and he buried his left hand in the thick fur of the black dog’s neck. It helped him anchor himself and slow his breathing.
“A message,” Michael said, guiding Gabe into a chair at the kitchen table. Then he went for his coat. “One I can’t ignore. I have to leave. You know the rules in my absence.”
“What’s going on?” Gabe finally managed, as Merlin sat on his haunches beside him. “What did I see out there? What… what happened?”
Michael paused, his coat still in one hand. He took a deep breath, then said “Gabe, I am going to need you to trust me. To trust that we have reasons for not explaining things yet. There isn’t time, and it would only confuse you more. Right now, I need you to go back to bed.”
“Oh to hell with that,” Gabe said, the anger boiling up out of him all at once. “My headaches come back for the first time in eight years, I see something glowing in your hand, and then you make a storm stop?” he started to stand, though Agnes’s sudden and firm hand on his shoulder kept him in his chair.
“Domovoi,” she said, and her voice was calmer than a moment before. “You are exhausted and it is late. You’re going to bed.”
“The hell I am,” Gabe said. Then he looked at his uncle. “Where are you going? How long are you going to be gone? Why are you going?”
“I’m going to get answers,” Michael said. Then, turning, a flicker of what looked like guilt crossed his face. “And when I return, we’ll… talk. Until then, do your chores, listen to Agnes and John, and do not tell anyone what you saw. Do you understand?”
He headed for the door. Gabe’s jaw dropped. Wait. Just like that? No explanation at all? Nothing? This time Gabe got out of the chair and barely escaped Agnes’s grasp. Merlin followed, barking. The sound was sharp in Gabe’s ears. Michael walked down the hall towards the front door. He was nearly caught up with his uncle when his stomach lurched again and he got dizzy. He caught himself on the banister of the stairs and yelled “Uncle!”
Michael stopped in the open doorway, silhouetted against the front porch light. “You’ll be alright,” Gabe thought he heard him say. Then the door closed behind him, and there was only the sound of his truck’s engine starting, and its wheels grinding away down the long, gravel driveway. Merlin’s barking called after him. The truck didn’t turn around.