“Freefall on a windy morning shore,
Nothing but a fading track of footsteps
Could prove that you’d ever been there.”  ---Duran Duran; ‘Secret Oktober’

“I think we have the kind of friendship where if I *were* the devil you’d be the only one I would tell.”                           ---Albert Brooks; Broadcast News
 

1.
 

Someone was screaming.

It took me a full gut-wrenching minute to realize that it was me. Blue darkness surrounded me as I sat up in a strange bed, my nightshirt drenched with sweat, the ghost of the machete still in my grip. I clutched at my chest as if I could reach my heart and still it.

“Edward…”

My single whisper broke the silence of the motel room and somewhere in the shadowy space, I heard the chickens coo.

I rushed to turn on the bedside lamp, as if reaching for my sanity. Suddenly, everything was bathed in yellow and rustic blues, and I knew where I was: The Bluebird of Happiness Motel. And there, on the floor near the dresser, was the little wire crate with its two chickens.

Alive chickens.

Strangled laughs escaped me and I could breath again. Jesus Christ. I’d had a goddamn nightmare!

Yet the practical side of my brain wouldn’t let me rest with that realization. I was out of bed and opening my gray gym bag in a flash.

My zombie raising equipment was clean and untouched. I lifted the machete into the soft light of the room and turned it over and over. The steel was smoky and sharp and without one hint of blood or flesh –

Of Edward’s flesh.

Touching the blade gave the lingering dream a warm power – I could remember all of it; going to Rosario Cemetery. And I still had a brand new night of it ahead of me.

I told myself nothing had changed; that I would still follow through with it. And if there was nothing to raise from the grave then I’d find him somehow – Edward had requested my presence for a reason. I just hoped that this time no one lost their heads.
 

2.
 

I was never one to put much stock in dreams until I’d met Jean Claude. Call it a forced attention into my engrained practicality. And I was made wholly aware of it as I stepped into the front office of the Bluebird.

“Hi. May I help you?” The motel clerk in question was well into his late thirties, dark hair and comely. The overhead lighting angled through his thick bifocals and tossed strange light patterns onto his face, giving him an ominous glow.

Lord, as if the evening wasn’t creepy enough.

I placed my driver’s license and credit card on the counter. “Yes. I’m in Room 27. I requested a car rental.”

He glanced at my ID. “Yes, of course, Ms. Blake. Just a moment. Let me collect the proper paper work.”

He left me alone then. Or so I thought. A moment later something soft and foreign nudged against my arm. Startled, I pulled it back to myself.

A small cat sat curled on the Formica counter watching me. Its yellow eyes matched its definitive stripes – it’s tiger stripes.

We stared at each other for some time, my dream of Edward and his deep scarring of claw marks clouding my mind. Had the cat been here when I had checked in? I was almost certain it had.

Funny how waking life could effect our dream life so effectively. It made me wonder how many other things the dream had mirrored. After all, it had been so vivid – the blood, the earth, Edward’s eyes, his voice, his touch.

The warm way with which he had looked at me.

I’d only ever seen him look at me like that once – several months ago when I’d last seen him. After years of a strange, lukewarm friendship, had it really affected me so much– that it would still be so richly embedded in my mind?

It seemed so silly, and so complicated, that I could probably dismiss it as pure dream fiction, just as I’d tried to dismiss every other strong emotion I’d had since hearing of Edward’s death.

As I reached this practical conclusion, the cat slinked off elsewhere; revealing the nameplate it had been curled up against. Reading it, the hair began to rise on the back of my neck.

It was like any other desk nameplate – a long triangle of faux wood and bronze.

Only this one read: Brackenberry.

Edward had said the name of the were tiger in the dream as if I should remember it; as if he’d been deliberately hinting at clues that would reveal that I was dreaming.

“Brackenberry.” I hadn’t realized I’d whispered it out loud until I got a response from the desk clerk that had returned – who had indeed been the one that had checked me in earlier this afternoon.

“Yes, ma’am?”

I must have looked silly blinking at him in question. I saw that the nametag on his lapel read the same thing. When I didn’t answer, he pushed forward a slip of paper for me to sign and held out a set of keys.

Absently, I signed the rental sheet, cursing dream-logic in its entirety.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening, Ms. Blake,” Mr. Brackenberry smiled as I took the car keys from him.

It was safe to say that the irony of his send off was lost on him.
 

3.
 

Ah. Irony. It crawled on the night air like the overcast clouds up above, so thick I could taste it.

After stopping back at the room to pick up the chickens and the zombie paraphernalia, I pulled the rental car gently in through the gates of Rosario Cemetery. I turned off the engine, killed the headlights and flicked on the interior light briefly so I could read the plot map that Bernardo had given me.

Indeed, the cemetery was made up of roads named after the things of nature; specifically trees. But the red “X” that marked Ted Forrester’s grave was not on “Sycamore” as the dream suggested.

It was on a street called “Silver Tip”.

I glanced at the gym bag in the passenger seat that held the ritual machete and I grumbled to myself.

Fate was fucking with me, that’s what it was.

Yet, as it happened, Silver Tip wasn’t located on a lofty slope with a desert view as I had envisioned, although it was nestled back in a grove of trees nearby. I simply sat there, the weight of the Browning Hi-Power nestled against my ribcage making me alert to my darkened surroundings. My night vision was fairly sharp and I saw no movement amongst the headstones.

But that didn’t mean there was nothing lurking out in those trees, supernatural or not. I briefly wondered where Bernardo was, although I should’ve been more worried about all the other more deadly characters of Edwards’s strange life. I had to stay cautious. The nightmare may have hardened my resolve, but the extra protection of weapons helped.

I finally got out of the car, leaving the chickens; I’d come back for them if need be. The bright half moon peeked through the humid clouds every few minutes, tossing a dappled pattern of shadows on the gravel path.

I walked into the grove slowly, map in one hand and gently touching the butt of my gun with the other.

The actual grave was inside a large, raised family plot surrounded by concrete curbing. Donna’s family, no doubt. And as I looked over the surrounding headstones, I saw the Parnell name pop up here and there. But this time around, I found no pretty granite headstone with Ted Forrester’s namesake. There was just a soft, fresh mound of earth – six feet by four – right where the red “X” suggested.

I stood at the foot of the grave and stared at it. The ripe vision of Edward raised from the grave and drinking blood for the power to speak came up fast in my mind like bile.

//I hated saying goodbye to you, Anita. But I knew you’d come looking…//

Even as his determined voice echoed through me, I cursed myself. It had been foolish of me, even while dreaming, to raise a corpse I wasn’t sure of. No use in killing innocent chickens in the name of hastiness.

The completely awake and alert parts of me wanted to ignore the deep seeded curiosity. I should simply call upon the necromancy to stir the occupants of the grave, and upon discovering Edward’s identity I would act accordingly; I would turn my butt around and in the morning I’d call the local mortician for an exhuming, and that would be that. I could avoid bloodshed, the chickens would live, and I could go home and grieve…

I set the gym bag down with a decisive thud, knowing full well that I might be full of shit. I was standing here alone in a strange cemetery after all, which meant my curiosity was stronger than my power of will.

…It always was when it came to Edward.
 

4.
 

The night was humid, and even amidst the brief moment of meditation I used to prepare myself before calling power, I could feel my body begin to sweat. It made the scent of Rosemary oil that much stronger.

The truth of it was a little anonymity and a little camouflage was preferred for the task at hand. But I was finding that the clouds and trees were making enemies of themselves, hiding the light of the moon to see by.

Fuck night vision. I wanted clean and open space to aim and shoot by. Too many hiding places around me in the shadows.

Then, I felt the necromancy stir and all my senses sharpened. The myriad of upright headstones around me woke up with projected images. Not of the dead, but of random memories of Edward. They seemed to flow backward in time, searching for that one important ghost:

- Edward sitting at my dining table, peeling the flesh off of a plum.
- Edward staring at my vampire eyes in the bathroom of the Obsidian.
- His expression as he told me I was his soul mate.
- Standing over me in various hospital rooms after many close calls.
- Being introduced to “Ted” at a fetish party with Phillip
- The night we met, chasing rogue vamps.

My mind’s eye seemed to settle on that powerful image of seeing those cold baby blues for the first time. I filled my thoughts with him as I sent the power diving into the ground at my feet. My arms began to ache with a flowing energy and I let it search on its own without direction until something began to stir in the near vicinity. I could almost see the tendrils of power swirling around my legs like mist.

A corpse called out to me then. And then another. Confused, I pushed the energy deeper. Ted’s plot was large, but I was slowly discovering that the dead things in question were on either side of the grave I stood upon. But it wasn’t Parnell blood I was looking for, it was Edward’s, and it excited me that I hadn’t found it yet. But I had to be sure. I focused everything and pushed all the necromancy into the fresh earth as if I could use it as a mental shovel to unearth a coffin.

The magic was eating away at me until I was on fire. I knew it was time to reign it in – there was nothing there, no body to raise. I stood and shivered with this knowledge until the excited corpses in the rest of the plot lay still.

The urge to laugh out loud was strong. But my relief at not yet finding Edward’s wayward corpse was shortened.

At first I took the uneasiness in the air as a lingering of death-magic that had yet to dissipate. But it was as if the desert night had grown eyes to see with.

I drew the Browning and prayed that the moon wouldn’t be too long in hiding.

I was being watched. And not by the undead.
 

5.

He couldn’t feel the magic she was performing, but he could see it happening in her body language, and he caught the scent of Rosemary in the night air. From the deep shadows at her back, he’d stood and  bared witness as she came upon the sight of Ted Forrester’s grave.

There was something so solemn about her as she stood there, as if maybe she’d had her share of grieving even before finding the answers she was here looking for. He wasn’t quite sure if this qualified as out of character, although that sappy conscious would certainly do her no good.

Yet he couldn’t bring himself to berate her for it now. That she was here in Santa Fe at all said something to him: she hadn’t been able to cast him off so easily.

He smiled in the darkness.

And, at that same moment, she drew her Browning and scanned the shadows around her.

It looked as though she would finally draw down on him.

That was just as well. It was time to make himself known. He’d been waiting here for her all evening; a container swathed in a velvet bag under one arm. He supposed it was a kind of peace offering.
 

6.
 

Mother fucking son of a bitch, I thought to myself as I brought the dangerous end of the Browning around to aim behind me.

Crazy shadows swirled amongst the monuments and one of them had more of a body than the others.

“Who’s there?” I kept my voice calm and cold. As if in answer, the moon made an appearance, and I could just make out a pair of startling blue eyes in the dimness.

Against my better judgement, every bone in my body began to hum and quiver. Every instinct I’d had about Ted’s demise was about to be validated. The figure stepped forward, revealing himself.

“Edward?” I whispered. But I kept the gun aimed at him. This was a game I didn’t know the rules to.

“Anita.” He was smiling and looked relaxed, the bastard.

It took me a while to find the right words and when I did, they came out scared and angry. “I thought we agreed no more cryptic games, Edward. So what the fuck is this? Your answer better be good.”

The smile faded on his lips and he took another step forward. “Is that a threat?” It was then that I saw that he carried some sort of package under one arm, and the bulk under his tight t-shirt said he was armed. But I stood my ground.

Sort of. Unfortunately, my voice began to shake as I answered him. “Damn straight.”

He regarded me for an endless amount of time before I saw his body relax again.

“Just like old times, isn’t it?” he asked, and set the package on a nearby headstone.

He was trying to disarm me. I put up a fight for all of a minute, but I was too wary and too tired to keep up the heat. I just didn’t have it in me. With a quiet sigh, I lowered the gun and finally put it away.

“Hardly, Edward.” And I closed the distance between us until I was a few feet from him. I couldn’t bring myself to get any closer. Touching his animated corpse in that now-distant dream was enough to hold me over for the moment.

As if reading my mind, he said, “You look tired.”

“No shit?”

“I’m sorry.”

This startled me, and I think I must’ve looked up at him with a completely unguarded expression, because that hard, tanned face softened with slight humor. I let the apology go, but I still didn’t know what to do about the uncomfortable air that suddenly appeared around us.

Or maybe it was only myself that was uncomfortable. He seemed right at home in this garden of corpses.

Finally I just shook my head. “Did your escape from the day to day world have to be so damn extreme?”

He chuckled softly, but his eyes held something of a far more serious nature. Somehow I didn’t think he was going to give me every detail I was looking for. But his answer was simple.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He shook his head, almost sadly. “Anita. Anita. Does it really matter in the end?”

I was jolted with déjà vu. Wasn’t that the same cryptic answer he’d given in the dream? I was beginning to realize that the unconscious world was such a strange mirror for the waking one. What would be duplicated next? My feelings?

“It matters to me.” I said after a long moment.

This comment didn’t surprise him as much as it should have. He just shook his head at me. “It had to be done.” He set his hand gently on the velvet bag. “With any luck, this will seal my fate, and ‘Ted’s’.”

I stared at the bag more closely and recognized it. After all, I’d been around the cemetery business enough to know.

“Ashes?”

He nodded.

“Whose?”

He shrugged like he wasn’t going to dignify that with an answer. “They belong to Donna now.”

This idea suddenly saddened and hardened me at the same time. “Was this some kind of weird last favor I owed you, or something? Playing delivery girl to your grieving fiancé?”

Edward stared off into the near distance, his jaw set. “It will keep her, and the kids, safe.”

I couldn’t really argue with that. I supposed that I would have to tell Donna that an exhuming had been preformed without her. But I asked, “Does Bernardo know?”

“No. And by now he has set enough people wondering about Edward’s demise as well.”

“I certainly was,” I retorted, and he glanced back at me, at the unhappy look that must have been plain on my face.

He sighed heavily and leaned against a large monument at our backs. After a long time of not looking at me, his voice was soft and heady with a strange emotion I barely recognized.

“I did it for you too.”

I took a confused baby step toward him, putting us closer. “And yet here you are, exposing your newest and deepest secret.”

He smirked at me warily. “So I am.”

Another step. “I thought you liked to keep those good one’s to yourself.”

He shrugged again nonchalantly, but I felt him become aware of our closeness and I saw him accept it on more levels than one. He kept his eyes on mine as if he’d never look away.

“Some things change,” was his soft reply.

I thought of all the parallels and paradoxes in the known universe and managed a small smile. “They sure do.”

In response, he who took a small step forward, and as he leaned in to place a soft kiss on my forehead, I felt his body gauging the time.

Was it dangerous for him to stay in one place too long? Of course it was. And in a moment’s time, he’d be gone like a ghost in the night, leaving me to wonder when I’d see him again.

“But some things never change,” I muttered under my breath as he began to walk away, leaving me to stare after a stranger’s ashes in a box.

He had gotten half way across the Parnell plot when he turned back, this time with a secretive smile on his lips. He looked at me as though he were taking a mental picture, and it was soothing and unnerving at the same time.

“Nope,” he replied. “Some things are stubborn that way.”

Slowly coming to terms with something unspoken that seemed to have taken place - in that damn dream or otherwise – I felt it appropriate to re-quote myself.

“Like a good man at my back?”

Edward turned and walked away into the night, an air of relief and of ‘starting over’ around him. But I heard his voice thrown over his shoulder plain as day.

“I’ll always be that, Anita.”

~fin~