Chapter 3
"He saw her from the bottom of the stairs
Before she saw him. She was starting down,
Looking back over her shoulder at some fear.
She took a doubtful step and then undid it
To raise herself and look again."
- Home Burial, Robert Frost
The red orange flames pooled from the windows, stokes of the element coating the outside walls in a thickening pool until they caught on the roof's lip, eagerly spreading further. The tongues of liquid heat flickered and danced in their devouring haste, smoke billowing out from the blasted-through windows and the ajar door. The backdrop of a night sky stretched in stark contrast to the great column of soft gray, the bottom of which glowed a soft yellow. The raw amount of the toxic gas was startling, clearing away the pajama adorned neighbors and the first responders who lacked protective masks. The taste of it was on their tongues, nostrils filled with the attractive yet fear invoking scent. Pleasurable and primal, like adrenaline. The home was too hot for humans to survive within, firefighters working to keep away the public and contain the flames. The dry grass and shrubbery had caught several times, professionals dousing the slightest glimmers and sparks before control was lost.
The general public had moved down the block, chatting mindlessly and murmuring condolences whenever the thought occurred to them that Jazmine could very well be an orphan. Sarah Dubois was declared dead at the scene, there being no way she could've been alive within the undoubtedly destroyed home when the firefighters arrived. Thomas, however, had been stepping outside the home when the arbitrary combustion occurred. He was in critical condition, unconscious form rushed into an ambulance and driven off to the hospital.
Upwind of the burning home, the firelight illuminated the street, reflecting from the glass of neighboring windows and fallen shards. In stark contrast to the actual season of late winter, warm air flooded and expanded about Woodcrest. Hardly a residing soul was oblivious to the event, and tragedy was publicized further by a shining local news van. The white paint looked gray in the night air, firelight reflecting from and thusly covering the proud green and yellow Wuncler "W" on the side of the van.
None of this mattered to the silent little girl at the edge of the crowd, whose formally bright olive eyes were dull and bloodshot. She was empty of conscious thought, hands clinging tightly to the rough wool blanket draped across her shoulders. Her gaze was locked upon the flames, watching her world burn. The paramedics had already treated her, bandaged her hands and knees where there was need. She had spent a half hour being tossed from adult to adult, some questioning, others fretting. Eventually they let her be, addressing other urgencies.
That was all she wanted, most assumed, was to be left alone like a broken thing which couldn't be touched for fear of damaging further.
If she had been herself, she would've wondered where her best friend had disappeared to. Instead she sat with a stillness foreign to her, the impossibility of the situation staling her grief and leaving her frozen.
Riley hummed along to the music, wine hued eyes shut tight against the biting lamp light of his home. Sweat coated his form, shoulders jerking with the occasional shiver induced tremor. Although he was blind to it, he was painfully aware of the nervous looks his grandfather kept shooting him, the anxious man's gaze paranoid beneath his wide rimmed glasses. The eight year old did his best to ignore it, trying to focus on the words and how the artist emphasized their meaning. It was a simple distraction from the stress and embarrassment he currently felt, humiliated by his own weakness.
Houses abandoned and boarded up.
Gave us hope and you tore it up.
Feel like they missed the form-
deported us then aborted us
loved us and then got bored with us
kissed us then shut the door on us
look what you did to us!
I'm here,
"But here's more of us.." He finished in a whisper, gut sinking as the song went into the upbeat chorus. He was isolated, detached from his ill fitting form which before had been so comfortable. His mind hung adrift above, trying desperately to escape the being which warped and binded it. A cocktail of depression and exhaustion churning within his unsettled stomach, the worries he had suppressed beginning to surface despite his efforts to maintain normalcy. It was a difficult thing to accomplish after your paranoid Granddad discovers the truth.
Riley shook his head, opening his eyes to remind himself of reality. The volume of his headphones tuned out the program broadcasted on BET, and without thought he removed the buds, flashing TV light flooded across his face. The laughing of his grandfather was white noise, yet he joined in with his giddy cackle. A forced smile stretched across his face and he pushed all thoughts of salamanders and isolation from his mind, perceiving the faint smell of smoke in his nostrils to be remnants of his dream.
Another rerun of the latest Thugnificent hit, bass violently shaking from the speakers, and his eyes were beginning to sting.
Granddad was pulled from his usual oblivious mindset, slowly rising from his favorite cushioned chair. "Smells like somethings burning.." He murmured, sniffing the air comically and looking about. Riley watched as his grandfather began inspecting the kitchen, a slightly tired hobble in his step that painfully reminded him of his age. He inspected the oven and microwave, finding both utilities to be cold and empty.
"You got any candles lit Granddad?" Riley suggested, trying to be of assistance without actually getting up.
The old man shook his head, muttering about how he wasn't going to waste money on colored wax when he could just by some febreze. Sticking his head into the laundry room he confirmed what had already been known, the drier was off and the faint, mysterious smell remained. Scratching his white haired head he returned to the living room, a comic expression of confusion deepening his wrinkles.
Riley lifted himself from the couch, blanket falling to the floor as he peeked through the nearest blinds. "Maybe it's comin' from outside." Peering into the darkness, his young wine eyes widened at the orange glow pooling from beyond his vision. The dancing yellow glimmer reflected off of houses windows, and he recognized it on an instinctive level.
"Shit!" He exclaimed, turning towards his elder who hurried over and forcibly opened the blinds, almost knocking his grandchild to the ground. For once Riley made no homophobic comment on their close proximity, voicing his concerns worriedly. "Huey ain't back yet Granddad! And that could be the Dubois house! You think it's-?"
His raised voice raked on Granddad's nerves, and the man snapped irritably. "Dammit boy! Stop talking and get me my coat!" The eight year grinned, feeling a rush of excitement and ran to the entry way closet where their coats hung. He pulled a stool out fast as he could, climbing atop and tugging the heavy garment from its wire hanger. Tossing it on the ground beside the stool he retrieved his own winter shield, shrugging it over his arms and shoulders and yanking the zipper up. His pajamas bunched underneath, but it was a mild discomfort he easily forgave, grasping his elders coat and delivering it to him. The man adorned it, feet sliding into his outside slippers as he gripped about Riley's avoidance of putting away the stool. Seeing as his misbehavior was a common occurrence and the greater matter of seeking out his other grandchild took prominence he left the issue alone.
Together they headed outside, wincing at the cold slap of air across their faces. The door shut behind them, and Riley's young eyes scanned the faces of the neighbors. His grandfather squinted and approached hesitantly, the child remaining behind. He analyzed the scene before him nervously, unaware of the familiar silhouette slipping beyond their peripheral vision, headed towards his home.
A couple moved within the silhouettes, revealing a young girl with a head of all too recognizable curls. Riley bolted forwards, abandoning his grandfather who cursed and demanded he return fruitlessly. He wove between pajama adorned people, most displeased at his presence and parting with grunts of annoyance.
After short but frustrating moments of struggle, he made it through the crowd, nearly falling to his knees with the leftover momentum of his chase. He could see the burning house clearly, illuminated firemen dousing it with powerful hoses of purposeful containment. The fire was too mighty to fall to the efforts of man, but it wouldn't be allowed to spread to other homes. A gold light casted onto the street, the smell of smoke so strong his nose curled in disgust.
Sitting on the curb, as close to the flames as she was allowed, was Jazmine. She had her back to him, and just when he opened his mouth to call her name his words faltered. There was a wrongness in her posture, she was far too still. One of the things he always complained about when she visited his brother was her constant movement. The bubbly girl was rarely ever motionless, bouncing with a childish vigor he felt she should've outgrown.
Another look to the burning home, smoke billowing into the night sky as a pillar of stark blackness. He was unnerved by the absence of his sibling, and a gnawing thought he refused to address settled in the pit of his stomach.
Clearing his thick throat, he called her name, his voice surprising him with it's uncharacteristic timidity. "Jazmine.."
No response, just a ball of frizz resting atop a slouched back, the only movement being the soft ruffling touch of a passing breeze, the wind's fingers entangling through her curls.
"Jazmine." He tried, louder this time, and with a frustrated furrowing of his brows the eight year old realized he was being ignored. The indifference of her posture as she watched her home burn angered him, he felt his anxiousness flow into his limbs, stepping closer to her.
He roughly grabbed the older girl's shoulder, forcing her to turn, to see him.
"The hell's wrong with y-" He stopped, cut off by her empty eyes and blank expression. With haunting paleness, her face was turned towards him, firelight outlining her rounded nose and lowered lashes.
He knelt down in front of the older girl panic seizing him. "Jazmine! Where's Huey at? Where's my brother bitch, tell me where he gone!" Wine eyes lightened to a golden brown in face of the flames, he gazed once again to the all consuming fire. The threat to his life, to his little family.
He gripped her shoulders tighter, knuckles white and teeth clenched, shaking the ten year old. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, not the loud, obnoxious ones from her tantrums. These were silent, and he began pleading with desperation at her inability to meet his gaze, with the dead eyed stare that paled her features.
"Please Jazmine, I can't lose my big brother, yo'se bein' an uncooperative broad, Jaz come on, don't tell me he in there! You gon'answer me-" He was grabbed from behind and lifted from his feet, trapped in the strong arms of his grandfather.
He struggled in the old man's grasp, not daring to strike him but attempting to escape all the same. "That's enough of your insensitivity Riley." The man sternly but quietly reprimanded, wrinkled hands speckled with age spots holding him still.
"Insensitivity!" The eight year old exclaimed, seizing his thrashing and turning to face the old man. Disbelief and a hint of paranoia raised his voice, and the old man hushed him as he spoke. "Granddad, she won'tell me where Huey gon'to. What if-"
The oldest Freeman interrupted him, Riley's twisted features reflected on his shimmering glasses. "Dammit boy, quit embarrassing yourself! This little girl's parents just died, I thought you of all people could understand that. Besides, unlike you Huey has intelligence - he probably went to get help." The intense contrast of the night and the fire deepened the old man's wrinkles, changing his appearance to an ancient one.
Riley sighed, his calm exterior convincing his guardian of his readiness to be put down. Sneakered feet on the ground and his grandfather's calming hand on his shoulder, the sleeve of the man's robe tickling his neck, Riley guiltily turned his gaze to the girl. She hadn't moved, staring intently at a piece of glass glowing yellow in the night. He noticed for the first time how tightly her hands gripped one another, how her lip trembled with held terror.
His grandfather was wrong, he didn't understand. How could he? He hadn't before experienced loss. That simple truth kept him from fully comprehending the gravity of the situation, and the minor sense of guilt and remorse was drowned out by his own concerns.
He would never admit aloud the lack of memories regarding his parents, who seemed to be ghosts rather than lost loved ones.
Huey took a deep breath, hands consciously loosening from their white knuckled grip. His katana, well cared for and custom made for someone of his height, rested coolly against his raw palms. The orange street and firelight flooded into his shared bedroom window by his feet, the rest of his form lost in shadows.
He needed to get a hold on himself, his emotions were weak points easily exploited, especially by someone like his opponent. Where Huey knew almost nothing about The White Shadow, the man knew everything about him. It was most certainly unwise to go out looking for a fight, but he was dangerous, and Huey was the only one who could stop him. The only one who knew. He could easily imagine the authorities reaction to his story, their gently mocking words and barely suppressed, condescending laughter. He wasn't one to waste time on pointless ventures.
Not when his revenge was on the line.
Huey opened his eyes, gritting his teeth and leaving the room. Every second he spent trying to settle his thoughts was another second justice remained un-served. The calm tranquility of Jazmine Dubois' life was an irreplaceable hindrance, one which Huey's shadow had wrongly stolen. Often enough Huey had been irritated with her sheltered, naive innocence. She was blind almost willingly, and she refused to see any element of the truth. It was hopelessly vexing, and on occasion Huey desired to grab her by her shoulders and shake some sense into her.
However, as unnerving as it was to admit, he had grown close to the girl. She was a clingy, emotional pest which tired him more than his frustratingly ignorant sibling and self centered grandfather. She hated the best things about herself, and was frightfully white washed, oblivious to her own culture-her african heritage. Yet she, with a willingness and attentiveness unlike anyone he had known, listened. Her comprehension of his words, of his dreams and passions was low, but it didn't seem to matter. She admired him, was inspired by him, and sought to hear him and understand. Cario, his ex best friend, would listen, but was often times thrust into boredom by his spiteful rants. He had never once, looked at him with the same vivid awe that Jazmine did.
And now, because of his actions, her life was shattered. How could he ever again speak to her? Sickening guilt unlike anything he had ever felt, was shoved into the back of his mind, restrained by the promise of a vengeance only he could provide: the death of his shadow.
The average ten year old would feel overwhelmed, the oppressive weight of untimely obligation stupefying them. Huey had dealt with that for years, he understood better than most adults the pressure of living for others. Tonight, he would show the beast just what it meant to dedicate your life to those around you.
He left the house, headed towards the darkness of the park.
As the flames began to subside, her once grand house crumbling into charred rubble as entire beams collapsed, devoured by the endless appetite of the fire. Jazmine's frozen mind thawed, and she began to register the terrible implications of tonight's events. Her breathing quickened with the pace of her thoughts, and like a cornered animal she felt the urging desire to leave.
She stood, a silent shaking figure in the night whose existence was swept away like ash in the wind, forgotten to her neighbors. Their chatter and suffocating sobriety surrounded the child, stuffing her helplessly into a box of containment. She backed away from the crowd, from the lights and the noise, and staggered.
She had to get away, to escape from everything and everyone. It was all too much, and she ran, bolting off into the night.
Jazmine didn't know where she was going or even why, she just moved her body faster as the tears streamed down her cheeks. The rushing air felt like ice against her sweat and tear soaked skin, and she felt sticky and tired and frightened. No one would be there to comfort her, and she sprinted away from the fact.
In her haste she stumbled, a minor trip resulting in a rough fall of catastrophic proportions. She skidded against the ground, all her momentum thrown back at her and the world was still.
It was then that the tears came, hot and heavy, rolling past her cheeks and into her messy puffs of hair. A shard lodged itself in her throat, and she choked past it, squinting her wet eyes in pain. The dizzying splay of stars speckled across a navy backdrop blurred. The ground was rough and her body ached, Jazmine felt heavy enough to sink through it.
A single, unbearable question formed in her mind, a concept more than a conscious thought.
Why?
She didn't hear the oncoming footsteps, didn't see the person who stopped just outside her field of vision.
Strong, steady hands lifted her gently from the ground, pulling her close, and instinctively she reached out, sobbing and clinging to the warm figure's uniform. Her ears were filled with the unwavering beat of his heart, and the soft murmurs of comfort. A kind hand stroked her matted curls, the worn coils that tiredly attempted the usual voluminous bounce.
With her trembling body secure in his arms the officer walked, returning to the light.
"It hurts.." She gasped through sobs, burying her face into his clothes. Her fingers bunched the fabric beneath her small fists, the material soaked with tears and sticky with snot.
"It always will." The man stated, and she cried harder, having not expected a response. The stranger's voice was a cruel reminder that this indeed was reality, and their was no way to go back. Through her blurred vision she could see the silver buttons of his uniform, flashing red as they neared the line of police cars and firetrucks.
"But you will continue to live, it's all you can do."
It didn't take long for Huey to make it to the hill, and there waiting for him, just as he expected, was The White Shadow. He stood facing the suburban town below, back to the child, the fire in the distance little more than an orange flower in a field of black and gray.
The ten year old hand planned on attacking him on the spot, declaring his rage to the world in a cry for justice and a swing of his katana. However, upon arrival his throat locked and fear seized him. The quiet, unnerving kind that works your insides up into a panic.
"So you've come for revenge," The white haired man asked, not facing him. Hands remaining lodged in his pockets he began to chuckle darkly, shaking his head. "Typical." His voice bit the air like the snapping jaws of a cornered weasel, small and wrathful.
Huey could deal with the disgust he sensed, that was easy, many stomachs had turned at his presence in the past. He used the familiarity of the emotion to steady himself, working past the instinctive jumble of nerves with long, meditative breaths.
A flash of silver, and Huey blinked, reflexively ducking into a roll and raising his blade in defense.
Sparks flashed as his small sword connected with his opponents own, the orange light flickering across his black glasses. A powerful twitch of muscles, and Huey lurched backwards, narrowly avoiding the darting metal slick with ill intent. His small blade flicked forwards in his retreat, however, just barely nicking the man's face.
"Well done Huey!" The man mockingly praised, righting himself with an unkind grin.
The ten year old's almandine eyes remained locked on his enemy, narrowed in hate but lacking their previous steel. Something was off with the man, he realized, as The White Shadow turned to face him. The way he held himself, the eerie air of confidence radiating from his agonizingly casual posture, was disrupted. Somehow the sense of absolute control was lost, sanity shattered. The young Freeman remained silent, mouth stretched into a tight line.
The White Shadow accepted this with a look of understanding, glancing back at the fire without repositioning his body. "Ah, the silent treatment. Understandable considering I did just, destroy your little friend's home and kill her parents. But you never liked them, they were all blind fools, unlike you and I. It won't take long to brush this off."
The Freeman's voice was low and dripping with hate, a poised viper. "It is just like government scum to take the lives of American citizens so lightly. Differing beliefs or not they didn't deserve to die." Unwilling, his thoughts flashed to earlier, Tom's descent into the corrupt regions of lawyerhood. "They did not deserve to die." He repeated, albeit softer, as though he was speaking to himself.
Huey's attention was snapped back to the present and his muscles tensed, The White Shadow lurching forwards with his sword hilt held close to his core. Huey evaded easily, the older rushing past and spinning on his heel with a momentum powered counterstrike. Steel met steel, ringing in the tense night air, and the two engaged.
They were a flurry of silver, blades whirling in a deadly dance searching for a hole in the other's defense.
His heart pounding in his ears, blood rushing as he narrowly dodged another strike, Huey was slowly gaining ground. His opponent changed tactics, realizing the lost advantage. Huey backed up the slope towards the oak tree, quick feet avoiding the suddenly low swings of the taller man's blade.
The White Shadow brought his sword up in a curving jab, the Freeman nimbly avoiding the power filled offense and deflecting with a flick of his wrist. This left the older wide open, and Huey rushed him, kicking the man in the stomach with all his strength and knocking him into a backwards roll. The flailing sword skidded against his own katana in it's wild rotation, weighed down with The White Shadow's attempt to remain balanced.
Then they were both tumbling down the hill, rocks digging into Huey's wincing form and their swords left somewhere above, knocked from their grips. The two reached the base simultaneously, a sharp pain shooting up Huey's arm as it broke his fall. The White Shadow landed in a far kinder manner, stumbling disorientedly to his feet and half heartedly brushing off his dirted suit.
Huey tried to rise, cradling his throbbing arm close to his chest and standing on shaking legs. It was likely sprained, he guessed, having felt this pain before. It didn't hold a candle to the time he broke his arms, but it was enough to hinder his progress.
He glanced around for his enemy, spotting him just as the government agent delivered a harsh foot to the child's stomach. His hands were pocketed as the child collapsed, the wind knocked out of him.
Huey couldn't help the involuntary, wheezing gasps that left his shaking lips, nor the hot panic as he struggled to recover. He glared piercingly at the man above him, wine eyes black in the night.
The White Shadow let out a short, barking laugh, dabbing his bloodied cheek with his tie. "You fought just as expected Huey, with all the fire you have. Too bad it wasn't enough." The agent lamented, eyes flashing beneath cracked shades.
He bent into a crouch, grabbing the falling child by the shirt and hoisting him into the air. Despite his pain the youngster struggled, spitting out a venomous question. "Why?"
His shadow laughed, his teeth sharp and white in the darkness, a little too straight. "Not to get at you, if that's what you're egotistical little head thinks. It was business, I'm tired of stalking timid runts and they offered me a reinstatement to my former status if I proved myself. Resumes become practically useless as you age in the field."
His grip on Huey's shirt loosened as he spoke, and the child swung his leg forwards in a furious kick, twisting from the agent's grasp as his foot made contact. He landed on his knees and hurried away from striking distance immediately, fumbling in an one armed crab-walk.
The agent was bent over and holding his torso, gasping at his surely bruised ribs.
"..Fucking shit..!" He gasped, and Huey wasted no time scrambling for his katana. It was too dark and he wasn't quite sure where it had fallen, but he made his way wide eyed up the hill nevertheless. His eyes scanned the thick, dead grass for a glint of metal, and found one, a meter ahead. He lunged for it, sliding on his bruised knees and snatching it to his chest. The hilt was painfully cold against his stiff fingers, goosebumps and sweat texturing his skin.
A voice light with dark humor snapped the tension in the air, "You put up quite a fight Kiddo, I'll give you that."
Huey whirled around, but found himself alone in the night, breathless and bruised and broken.
Later, when his grandfather came and picked him up from the emergency room - bewildered and pissed that in all of this chaos Huey managed to get himself hospitalized - the anger came. He refused to speak to, or to look at his family members. He didn't deserve their comfort, their conversation.
So he let the rage churn inside of him, and rather than sleeping in his welcoming bed, he stared at the ceiling, and planned.