Red - Pt. 2

             Taylor Hawkins has had a rough life, but that was her lot. When she was young and asked her mother important questions about life, Christine didn’t lie to her. As a single mother on the run, raising her daughter in an uncertain world, she told her child the truth so that in the future, nothing would shock her. The first questions were about her father and why he wasn’t there.

            “He was killed by evil men.”

            Taylor was confused though. Whenever people they didn’t know asked about the little girl’s father, Christine told them that he was a bum, a deadbeat, no one she wanted to talk about. It was only when they were alone did she speak highly of him. Taylor wanted to run away. She and her mother rarely got along the older she got and every time the young girl finally began to make friends, it was time to go again. Constantly running, but never quite sure why; she followed her mother’s lead, because she had no one else.

            At thirteen Taylor was diagnosed with brain cancer. She was in a hospital for nearly three months. Taylor was scared and in pain. She asked her mother countless times why this was happening to her and when she would be okay.

            “You’ll be fine soon, honey. Just be tough,” Christine constantly replied.

            There was no fear in the young mother’s voice, and only the slightest bit of concern. She simply sat in Taylor’s hospital room with her legs hung over the arm of the chair as she thumbed through the pages of numerous romance novels. Christine was also not surprised when her daughter woke up in those nights in a cold sweat, talking about visions and vivid dreams.

One night Taylor had even tried to run away from the hospital. Feeling alone and helpless, the young girl thought that she could run away from the cancer. It took longer than Christine had though, but after three months Taylor began feeling better, stronger. Soon after a new team of doctors confirmed that she had been misdiagnosed with brain cancer, which had instead been some sort of nasty virus. That night Christine took her daughter from the hospital, skipping out on the bills and any further questions.

On her fourteenth birthday Christine told her daughter that they were going somewhere special. She had lied. Christine drove the old station wagon down a long and winding dirt road to drop her only child off with an old man that she would live with for almost three years, a man whom she couldn’t run away from, even though she tried. Taylor didn’t see her mother again until her seventeenth birthday, and from that moment on she never trusted her again.

Like many people, Taylor ran from her destiny. She did what she had to but refused to let anyone else control her life after the old man let her go. Taylor shirked the responsibility, unsure why anyone expected anything else from her. As soon as everything was set up she left her mother on her eighteenth birthday to find a new start where most teenagers do—college. She had chosen a quiet school down in Waycross, a place big enough for her liking but small enough to hide out in away from everything and everyone else, at least she thought that.

Sanders; or whatever was riding his body was the first one she had seen in almost two years. She could tell too, because she was rusty as hell. Taylor took a quick minute for clean-up, getting the small bits of blood off of the hardwood floor and pulling the smashed bullet from the copy of The Great Gatsby that it had lodged itself in. She paused for the briefest of a laugh, realizing how appropriate that was. A knock at the door ended her jovial moment abruptly.

“Taylor,” the voice of the older man called out. Mr. Benton, the apartment supervisor. Someone must have called about the gunshot.

She quickly hit the light switch and the apartment dimmed to a dull reddish-purple. The only light now was coming from her lava lamp. Taylor slid her shoes on as the man knocked again.

“One second,” she yelled in response.

One last look around the apartment before she opened the door, but nothing could be done about the bookshelf. When she did finally open up, Taylor kept her body between Mr. Benton and the bookcase, hoping he would be distracted enough by her as he usually was.

“Hey, Mr. B,” she said with a smile.

“Taylor, are you alright?”

“Yeah,” she said quickly, sliding out the door and shutting it closely behind her so that he had very little chance to see the damaged furniture. “I was just heading out.”

Mr. Benton looked over Taylor’s shoulder but the door was already shutting firmly and the key was almost in the lock before he got anything else out.

“There was noise. Several of the neighbors complained, said it sounded like a gunshot.”

“A what,” she feigned ignorance. “I don’t- Oh, I bet I had my music too loud again.” The distraction was easy for Benton to buy, as all good lies go, it was laced in truth. “I’m sorry, I’ve –REALLY- tried to get better with that. I hope I didn’t bother poor Ms. Phelps down the hall there.” Taylor gave her performance with near-genuine expressions, her time in theatre paying off.

“Oh, your music again,” Mr. Benton said with a smile. “You really do need to be more careful about that,” he said wagging a finger at her. “You aren’t the only one who lives on this floor you know.” Benton was about to launch into some other semi-flirtatious attempt at conversation, but Taylor was ready to cut him off.

“I know Mr. B., and I will, bye!”

Before he could get anything else out she had already hit the door to the stairwell; gone before her gleeful goodbye had finished registering. Taylor’s feet padded down the old gray steps quickly until she saw the side doors that lead out. Pushing through the first, then the second, she reached the street and took a much needed deep breath when she felt she was far enough away.

“Cool it. Handle it,” She encouraged herself.

The street was lit up by bright orange lamps that hung over her in a haze of humidity that the pale moon could not pierce. It had rained earlier. The wet black pavement reflected the orange of the lamps and the bright blue and white accent lights from the houses of the historical area of Waycross. The fresh night air was still filled with the scents of rain and freshly cut grass, a pleasant mix that represented the southern town quite well.

The walk was actually doing her some good as Taylor ran scenario through her mind, trying to figure out why that had just happened in her apartment. She had wanted to get out tonight, but not for this reason. Tonight was supposed to be about forgetting her problems, Paige and all. Sanders presented a different type of problem though. Now, Taylor was at defcon one.

She took her normal route through the backstreets of the city, by the old houses that had been turned into small apartments for the college students and the brick telephone building with the wrott-iron gates that she loved. That was when it hit her. Taylor immediately turned down a small road that she didn’t normally take. She eyed the unfamiliar white houses and the small dentist office that still had Christmas lights hanging on the window sill.

Taylor told herself to stop it, she would be jumping at shadows soon if she didn’t exercise some control over her fears. Her training was starting to come back. So there was an encounter, just get to a safe place and prepare. Once that was done, work on the how and the why. It had not happened in so long that she didn’t even have a weapon at her place. That was sloppy. The old man would have made her pay for that one if he found out. That notion made her feet move faster more so than the thought of running into another jacker, at least that was what she thought Sanders was, being ridden by some malicious entity. He had been like that for a while though, his eyes barely looked human. The more the spirits rode a host, the less of the host there was.  

Downtown was crowded for Waycross, but Thursday was college night, and this was a college town. Taylor was getting further into downtown, in between the taller buildings and parking decks. She hurried past the family owned camera shop that had been there for two generations and up by the courthouse with its statues honoring the towns founders.

The buildings began to change from private practice offices and dress shops to café’s, restaurants, bars, and clubs. The new light that filled the sidewalks were brightly colored purples, reds, and greens of entrance signs and advertisements. That meant that she was close. Taylor had slowed her pace slightly though, more cautious of the people around her. Without knowing what was going on, an attack could come from anywhere. She should have grabbed a knife or at least another pen from her apartment. Something, anything that she could use for protection would have been better than walking out empty handed.

That didn’t matter now. She was laying eyes on her goal. Aspect. The two story dance club and bar was a safe haven in multiple ways for Taylor. The outside walls thumped with the music that came from the inside and there was a small line outside with one of the usual bouncers checking ID’s. Taylor almost cut through the line, but didn’t want to draw any unneeded attention. When she got up to the man at the door he simply smiled and nodded her through without checking anything. Not only was she a regular, Taylor had the owner’s favor.   

            The club had two entryways in the lobby. The door to the right enticed her with the loud bass and flashing lights. That would only help to relieve the small problems though. The person she was looking for would most likely be upstairs though, as he was most nights she was actually able to see him. He would only help with the main problem, but that was what troubled her the most right now. Maybe after that, Taylor thought, she could have some time to herself to unwind.

            Taylor turned to the left instead. A rather plain looking archway greeted her instead that led to a dull brown staircase with a few hanging portraits of UK bands and rock stars. On the ceiling at the top of the stairwell a Union Jack flag hung that made way for the football memorabilia on the walls for the various clubs. The upstairs was more of a bar setting than the club below it. On Friday and Saturday nights there would usually be a live band or karaoke’ night set up. The long bar stretched across the rectangular room against the mirrored side wall. Small red and white lights hung from the ceiling, coupled with the mixed culture decor that was lit up on the wall. Taylor made her way through the tables, past the row of booths and up to the bar.

            Taylor looked down the long bar and was about to check the back of the room before she saw his reflection in the mirror. She blinked; sure that he wasn’t there a moment ago. She approached him, dressed in his gray slacks, black vest, and the rolled up sleeves of his button-up shirt. He hadn’t turned around, making himself a drink from what she could tell in the mirror.

            “Malcolm,” she addressed him. “Malcolm,” a bit louder, but still he didn’t turn around. She began to say his name again very loud over the rock music that played, but stopped when she saw his hand raise to his ear, mimicking that he wasn’t hearing her. Taylor sighed.

            “Raven,” the name trailed off as she cut her eyes at him harshly.

            Finally the sharply dressed club owner with the spiky brown hair spun around and took a sip of the alcoholic beverage in his glass. He was smirking as he leaned over the bar and looked Taylor from bottom to top, taking another drink.

            “Ello’ there love. You come for some company or just to bother me?”

            “I had a run in,” she said seriously, “with a jacker I think.”

            “Well that is a bother,” Raven said, downing the rest of his drink.

            Raven came from behind the bar and motioned Taylor to follow, waving his two fingers towards the door, beckoning her. The two walked past the last booth in the back, past the pool table and the overly loud speakers to the plain brown wooden door that Raven unlocked with a silver key from his key ring. Like the gentleman that he was half the time, he held the door open for Taylor to enter with a waving motion.

            The office was deceptively large. When the door shut, all of the ambient noise from the bar and downstairs club was shut out, almost too quiet actually. There were two couches against the walls and a large wooden desk with two chairs. A globe with several oddly colored areas on the sphere sat on the dexk. Bookshelves lined the back wall with different tomes and volumes in multiple languages and a computer monitor was hooked up to an old typewriter on a table next to it. In an odd way, it was kind of what Taylor expected.

            “Nice place.”

            “Eh,” Raven replied with a sour twist of his lips. “I work with what I have. You should see my flat sometime; make you feel right at home.”

            He took a seat on the sofa and motioned for her to join him. Instead, Taylor turned the chair on the opposite side of the desk to face him.

            “I didn’t come here to flirt with you, Malcolm.”

            “This again?”

            “Raven, whatever,” she trailed off in frustration. “I’m not even sure your accent is real.”

            “Course it is,” he said, insulted. “I guess I do keep it a little thick though. You southern girls practically swoon over it.”

            “Will you stop, I told you what happened.”

            “No, you said one word. Explain.”

            Taylor sighed and crossed her legs, throwing her head back and closing her eyes as she felt a headache coming on. It was probably from Raven. She took a breath and then regaled him with the story.

            “I’m pretty sure it was a jacker that found me in my apartment somehow. It knew where I was and it put up a decent fight. The thing had a gun. By the time most of them find me they are too stupid to use guns.” She looked to the side. “Not going to lie, I’m a little worried. What if this wasn’t just a random attack like the last one?”

            “I told you this would happen.”

            “It’s been two years!”

            “Well,” Raven said shaking his head. “The world let you run from what you are for two years longer than it lets most people. The stronger you get the easier that they’ll be able to find you.”

            “I’m not like you,” Taylor protested.

            “Of course you aren’t, you git.” Raven stood and began explaining a bit more passionately with his hands. “You’re an anomaly in a world full of freaks. You stick out more than an albino at a meeting of the Farmers of America.”

            “Okay, I get it!”

            “No, precious,” Raven said, leaning down to look her in the eyes. “I actually don’t think you do. I’ve been trying for over two years now to get you to accept the world you try to ignore, to learn and be ready. You disregard it so much that you still call me by my human name even when it’s just us.”

            “Raven sounds a little too Emo.”

            “Fine, be cute,” he turned. “See if I’m here to help you when the jackers, the leeches, the incubi and all the others decide they want to put you out of their misery.”

            Taylor didn’t know what to say. She simply stared at him for a long moment before looking down at her hands that had been folded neatly across the black shirt.

            “What do I do?”

            “Way I see it you have two options: run, or do your job.”

            There was another pause as she considered his words. There was that thought of running, trying a new state, maybe in an even less populated area. He had warned her before though, the stronger she became; the more they would be able to find her. She thought about her other problems too, with the school, with Paige. It was an odd mixture of wanting to run, to make everything easier, but realizing that for the first time in her life, Taylor had actually begun calling somewhere home.

            “I… I mean this can’t be that bad, right; a small infestation, a minor demon or something, nothing big, right?”

            “I don’t know,” he crossed his arms and mused for a moment. “What about the gargoyle thing? Think they still have it out for you?”

            “This wasn’t a gargoyle, Raven. I know that much.”

            “They could have hired someone, made an alliance.”

            There was a long pause. Raven stared at her. Taylor stared at the wall as her fingers tapped nervously on the arm of the chair, echoing in the quiet room.

            “No,” she finally said out loud to the wall.

            “No, what?”

            “I’m not going to run.” Taylor stood. “I’m going to go find out what is going on and take care of it, and then I’m going to take a vacation.”

            “Vacation? This is the first we’ve seen of anything in two years.”

            “Not just from this,” she corrected, “from everything. Trust me. I need it.”

            Raven shook his head and stood, muttering, “Whatever you say. But, you’re going to need weapons if you’re going hunting.”

            “What did you have in mind?”

            Raven walked over to the bookshelf behind his desk and let a hand fall onto an old brown book with a smudged title that loosely spelled out Wuthering Heights.

            “Luckily, your mum had me hold something aside for you. She knew you’d be needing it eventually.”

            Taylor felt a cold chill on her spine as her mother was mentioned. She looked over her shoulder at Raven and saw the bookshelf shift slightly when he pulled the book from the shelf. There was a four foot safe behind it that she couldn’t see very well with him in the way, but instead of hearing the tumblers or a keypad, there were four notes of distinct sound that escaped into the otherwise quiet office.

            Taylor had an idea what it was, but her mouth still gaped a bit when she saw the open box. It was beautiful. The small wooden box held in it a silver-plated Beretta 92FS, an extended clip sitting next to it on the felt fabric of the box.

            “Dad’s gun,” Taylor said in a hushed tone.

            “He called it Julia,” Raven informed her, “and now it is yours.”

            She picked up the weapon gingerly, as if it were a fragile thing. The name of the piece was mouthed again by her lips, paying reverence to an artist’s creation as the pads of her fingertips ran down the side and she checked it. Taylor was no stranger to guns, not at all. They were one of the preferred weapons of hunters, one of the many disciplines she had been trained in, but it had been quite some time since she had held one.

            “Glad you approve, but the box is mine.” Raven’s words pulled her out of the state of awe. He handed her the clip and closed the lid on the receptacle, placing it back in his safe and closing it as well. “I’m also fresh out of silver-tipped stilettos. You’ll have to get your blades elsewhere.”

            Taylor didn’t indicate if she heard him or not as she ran a thumb over the exposed bullet at the top of the magazine before loaded the gun. She pulled back the slide and aimed the pistol at one of Raven’s older paintings, judging the sights.

            He stepped in front of her with his hands slightly raised, protesting the abuse of what he called good art.

            “No, no. Stop it. Why don’t you go downstairs and have a drink, burn off a little steam by shaking your bum, and not put any holes in anything of mine while I promise to put my ear to the ground and listen for whoever might have it out for you in the underworld. Agreed?”

            She nodded and slid the gun away into her purse. Taylor felt his arm wrap around her shoulders, leading her to the door. She looked up at him as it opened, feeling like there was more to say.

            “Don’t worry love. I don’t plan on letting anyone hurt you. At least not until all your debts are paid.” He smiled and noise flooded back into the upstairs bar as he closed the door behind her. She stood there against the wall for a moment, hesitant about what the night may hold.