Three a.m., the witching hour, an hour Lee Jones knew all too well. She breathed in the heavy, September air, relishing the smell of the brackish Cooper River, and the sounds of a bustling college town on a Friday night.
The Holy City. Full of ghosts and angels, tourists and smiling locals, church steeples and gulla gee chee spices; there was no place like it. Her home. Her city. Her love.
From beyond the barrier islands the breeze brought the fresh, uncompromised scent of the sea, gently shaking the palmetto fronds into an odd symphony of rustling tendrils. A tingling sensation filled her as the rare, pure smell flooded her nostrils and mind with the memories of countless summer days spent at IOP.
Summer made her restless. It always had. Nights that were once spent lazily chattering on the porch with friends and family, were now consumed by introspective thought, and when she thought about things too much she started to sulk. Lee's life had been too good. She didn't deserve to sulk.
So she did a little moonlighting, bartending, hit up the jazz clubs, or picked up a few gigs with local bands, members of which she'd gone to school with several years ago. Anything to keep her busy.
Going for a run at three o'clock in the morning was nothing out of the ordinary for Lee. Her friends told her she was crazy; they said she had a death wish, but the ones who truly knew her let it slide, knowing that any argument they made for her safety would be lost on deaf ears.
She jogged down the steps carefully, the familiar, dull ache already creeping down her left leg, and hit the street running. A large, mostly black, German shepherd ran happily by her side, soaking in a plethora of smells, sounds, and sensations that Lee could never hope to recognize. His out-of-place, pale blue eyes lit up in the illumination of street lamps, revealing him for what he truly was, a mutt.
Her dark curls jostled joyfully with every step, though her gait was smooth and calculated; she fought hard to eradicate any signs of a limp. A limp was a sign of weakness. Weakness meant vulnerability. Vulnerability could mean death.
The cold metal of her Glock 22c burned familiar warmth into the skin of her back, engraving her with confidence and security.
No one messed with Lee Jones. No one.
Sweat dripped down her face and accumulated heavily beneath the black brace on her leg, hiding the tell-tale signs of bite marks; the remnants of one of life's many lessons she had learned the hard way.
The humid air clung to her every pore, and she absorbed it like only a blue-blood Charlestonian could.
In Dixie Land I'll take my stand, to live and die in Dixie.
She passed George Washington park, slowing down with her dog as he looked longingly to the monument which bore his name.
"Tomorrow, Beauregard, I promise." He let out an appeased yelp in response and quickened his pace, challenging her to keep up. Tonight they were headed for the Battery.
The story was that the ghosts of executed pirates could still be seen hanging from the live oaks. She'd never seen them; in fact, Lee had never seen a ghost at all, but she'd heard one once.
Her first year of college, she'd woken up early one Sunday morning and decided to go for a stroll; she hadn't paid attention to which street she was on, but an odd whistle caught her ears. The tune was familiar but she couldn't place it. She had looked everywhere for someone else, outside on their porch, or in a secluded garden, but there had been no one, and the whistling never increased or decreased in volume. It ceased suddenly and was replaced by church bells, hammering out the exact same melody. It was only then that she realized she was on Church Street. She had heard Dr. Joseph Ladd.
Seven years later, and the memory still thrilled her. A cynical skeptic, the enticing world of the supernatural razed the otherwise rational personality she maintained. She wanted to believe, but she couldn't believe.
But the internal conflict only served to draw her in further. And there had been no need for Fox to cancel The X-Files.
Ok, maybe there had been. No, there had been no need to resolve the sexual tension between Moulder and Scully, thus ending the series.
Personally, Lee had always been a fan of the smoking man.
A sullen whine from Beauregard jerked her back into reality. The dog had his eyes set one of the trees closest to the old Gazebo.
There had been a time in Lee's life, when she would look at that gazebo and envision their wedding.
"And youth is cruel, and has no remorse, and smiles at situations which it cannot see." She muttered the lines softly, her slight drawl tainted with slender sadness.
The always aloof, yet flamboyant, General P.G.T. Beauregard suddenly went ape shit. And of course, she had to follow him.
He ran around in tight circles beneath a low-hanging branch. Lee didn't have to look hard to see the dark outline of man hanging precariously by a rope.
She hadn't brought her phone. She never took her phone with her, even when she ran at three in the morning.
"Damn." She mumbled to herself, audible only to her dog, who was not giving up. His barking increased in intensity. It could only mean one thing. "He's still alive?"
A wag of the tail was all she needed, and Lee was in business mode. She didn't hear him coughing, or struggling, but she knew the dog sensed things she couldn't.
Lee surveyed the situation, knowing that she was too short to cut the rope. She drew her gun, slowly, knowing that she was wasting valuable time, but there were things one had to consider before shooting a gun in a residential area.
She aimed, hearing her grandfather's voice as she always did when she drew her weapon. Never aim, lest you aim true.
The shot rang out loudly, in an otherwise quiet part of town. Lee was vaguely aware of footsteps and shuffling, winos fleeing the scene, lest they be implicated.
His body hit the ground with a sickening thud. There was only one thing left to do…
Her lips hadn't been hot rose buds of passion; they were cold, unforgiving, and as they pressed against his own a feeling of dread settled heavily in his gut.
He couldn't do it. He couldn't force her to live a life of misery, married to Hephaestus when she could happily have Adonis.
Erik knew all too well how that myth played out. Aphrodite was less than loyal.
His hand was still touching his lips, in utter disbelief. He was a monster and a fool. There was only one way to have any redemption.
"Go away."
She didn't say anything, just stared at him with those light brown eyes, like a deer caught in the headlights of a Lamborghini doing 300 on the autobahn. "Leave me. GO NOW!"
She turned quickly back to the boy, and rushed to his side, pulling him up from his knees. Erik turned his back, unable to watch them walk away, hand in hand.
Five days later, a small package arrived at his door. It contained the ring he'd given her. The next day, a marriage announcement was in the paper; they'd eloped.
He thought that if he left Paris it wouldn't be so bad. If he went somewhere away from her, away from them; where there was no possibility of a chance encounter, however minute; he thought he could forget.
Everything he owned was rotting away in storage units, save a suitcase of ridiculously expensive, hand-tailored clothing, left in the corner of a high priced hotel room.
He'd destroyed his compositions, sold his 650i coupe, fired his maid, renewed his passport and took the first flight out of Paris to America. From Atlanta to Charlotte to Charleston, frightened mothers and children in every airport; it had been hell.
And it hadn't gotten any better. Not after his things arrived and were properly stored, waiting patiently for him to purchase a home. Not after buying a new car, something American, something macho. The memory of his angel plagued his every waking moment, and violated what little sleep he achieved with wicked dreams.
So three weeks after he had arrived in Charleston, he left the dark confines of his hotel room, got into his car, and drove aimlessly, knowing that the right place would blatantly present itself.
Erik was always meticulous, and his final feat had to be his most perfect. He looked out over the water, forgetting its proper name, thinking of another. He should have ended it so much sooner. His existence left a scar on the living world worse than the right side of his horrid face. No one could love him; no one would love him, not his father, not his mother, and not his angel.
With a final sigh Erik Destler launched himself from the ancient branch, anticipating the cold splash of oblivion as he plunged into the river Acheron.