Blind Spot: The Prologue

Kenny: January 29th in Parkville, Missouri

“...reckless, irresponsible, idiotic, and selfish!"

Evelyn Vine, my beloved sister, was in rare form.

Her condemnation, declaimed with stentorian flair, failed to provoke me...much. I had calculated the risk of my current venture. In a place with only bad choices, this was the best.

Ignoring Evy's histrionics, I traced the nurse's path as he prepped the room. His movements were graceful and economical. There was something reassuring in his competence – the fluidity of purpose.

Swathed head to toe in generic teal scrubs, there was little to see of the man underneath. He was several inches below average, dark-eyed, with only brief flashes of brown skin revealed at the neck and cuffs. If I had not already known who he was, I would not be able to recognize him again.

The dopp kit he’d been holding hit the metal cart with a resonating clang, bringing my gaze up to his. Evidently, he wasn't keen on being the object of my attention. My mouth twisted in wry amusement. It was possible that he wanted to be here even less than Evy did. We hadn't exactly warmed to each other.

“No! This is...,” my sister continued, choking on her fury. I had some concern that she might inadvertently damage herself. Or advertently. It hadn't occurred to me that she might until now. “This is insanity! After what happened to Dad...you can't let her do this!”

My eyes traveled to where my mom sat, serene in stone-washed jeans, a black blazer, her pixie cut perfectly imperfect, with her dog as the final accessory. The Belgian Tervuren stood at parade rest, guarding her. It was the perfect ensemble to launch a criminal enterprise. Although her expression seemed frozen — a steely veneer concealing...I wish I knew what.

A wave of guilt beat at me. I had miscalculated this moment. I’d thought choosing a direction would bring us a sense of purpose, if not peace.

Mom endured our strange tableau without her customary smile. Her smiles were a language, a barometer of her mood, and as habitual as breathing. They were her sword and shield. Its absence flummoxed me. What did it mean? There were no more illusions, no comfortable lies, no polite assurances?

A goose walked over my grave.

It hit me. This was real. My mother, her dog, my sister, and my best friend would serve as my witnesses and custodians. A blanket of surreal dread smothered me, stealing the oxygen from my lungs. All my scheming suddenly seemed like a bad joke.

"I don't let her do anything, my darling. Neither do you. Kenny knows what she's risking.”

Did I?

“Our task is to trust her," my mom rebuked, as she stroked Mel's dark head.

Was it?

I suppose it would be too easy if she had said, “She’s doing the right thing.”

Beside her, Mel remained alert, one ear cocked towards the door and both eyes locked on the stranger in our midst. He was oblivious to my existential crisis. He hadn't reacted to my sister's ranting, either. He knew neither of us presented a threat to his familiar.

I envied the simplicity of his task.

With a grimace, I returned to watching the nurse as he unzipped the leather bag and slid a sharp, slender tool from its sheath. One by one, he laid out an impressive array of scalpels, serrated forceps, delicate clamps, and oddly shaped scissors on a white cloth. Objectively, they were beautiful — in a utilitarian sort of way. Subjectively, it was difficult not to theorize on their functions.

Holding up a scalpel so that it winked in the light, the nurse sterilized the pristine implement. In the mirrored surface of one of the wider tools, I caught his notice. Seeing the unfiltered fire in his liquid brown gaze, his expression was easy to read — rank suspicion accented by a softer strain of contemplation.

A smaller, slighter figure, equally aqua and anonymous, banged through the door and scanned the room with a gimlet eye. Everyone jumped, except for the dog.

"You want to do this here?" she demanded, appalled.

I surveyed the garage. Pegboard walls, dust-blanketed machinery, and a damaged workbench stacked with dingy tools and cardboard boxes surrounded us. Broken fishing rods lounged beside rusting lawn furniture, clothed in cobwebs. The ceiling was unfinished, with exposed insulation, well past serving any purpose. In the cold, stale air, everything looked tired, brittle, and hopeless. It was eminently suitable.                

The lighting was dim, so we had arranged half a dozen mismatched floor lamps to brighten the ambiance...or, at least, mimic a clinical glare. They circled a second worktable draped with old sheets. An operating theater it was not, but it would do.

"Yes," I confirmed.

"It's not sanitary," she remonstrated — as if the state of the small building indicated a personal failing rather than an environmental concern.

"It is," I corrected, wriggling my fingers.

She regarded me skeptically, then shrugged. "It's your funeral."

An unfortunate choice of words. Evy found her second wind.

"Please, stop this, Mom," she begged, her voice hoarse and thin. I felt another twinge of guilt until she added, "She's not mentally stable!"

That was uncalled for.

It was true, perhaps...probably, but rude!

The nurse’s brows lifted in surprise. He hadn’t expected to agree with anyone associated with me.

I gave him a vicious smirk. Don't kid yourself, buddy. If I'm unstable, what does that make you? An upstanding member of the Community associating with an unstable practitioner? Heaven preserve us!

"Enough," my mother barked, two tears breaking past her resolve.

Something cold and hard formed in my throat. Her mask had slipped, and one trembling hand curled around Mel’s collar. She was dangling over the abyss, and I had pushed her there.

Evy crumpled. The blaze that had sustained her died in an instant. She really believed that I was going to die — if not here and now, then soon after, and Mom refused to save me. I shut my eyes. Cowardly, perhaps, but I couldn’t back out. I had to do something!

My lips flattened, a grim fatalism wicking away the dread. I had to do something. Once I accepted that, everything else fell away.

"On the table," the nurse grunted.

I did as instructed, kicking off my flip flops and lying back on the hard surface. My robe did nothing to protect me from the frigid worktop. My headlights were on bright, and my backside was stiff as a board. We should have brought a space heater.

The nurse's gloved palm twitched as he reluctantly took hold of my arm and sterilized a patch of skin near my elbow. He needn't worry; what ailed me wasn't contagious.

A second later, I felt the pinch of a needle. He taped the IV in place and turned back to his cart. The surgeon was busy scouring her hands and arms up to the elbows at the rusty sink. I felt oddly detached as the nurse prepared a syringe...as though all of this were merely a scene from a play.

I suspected myself of dissociating.

"I can't do this. I can't watch this...lunacy," Evy rasped, charging out the door with a sound somewhere between a sob and a bellow.

I shored up my resolve but couldn't keep from glancing over at my mom once again. She closed her eyes for a long moment but said nothing. Nore silently emerged from the shadows hugging the walls to stand beside her. She took one of Mom's hands between her own. Her mild expression betrayed nothing, but she offered me a slow blink from fathomless, black eyes and a single nod.

Four witnesses would have been better, but three would do.

"This is the point of no return," the nurse growled, unaffected by the drama. He held up the hypodermic needle. "Are we proceeding?"

A memory unfolded in my mind, like a paper crane being unmade. Warm, golden light splashed through a window and over the sink, staining the counters and the hardwood floor, catching on a bowl of apples. The familiar, comforting scent of fresh lemons and baking soda enveloped me.

A younger me stood on a step stool beside the marble countertop and explained the finer points of sandwich-making to an invisible audience. I was pretending to host my own cooking show. My ingredients were arranged in a row, along with a plate garnished with carrot and celery sticks. Mel listened from the floor as I crafted the pinnacle of peanut butter and jelly perfection — sliced diagonally.

The image fled as quickly as it had come — a mirage, quicksand. Even at eight, I had known my place in the world. The point of no return had come and gone twenty-two years ago. More recent events had merely underscored the inevitable.

"Do it.”

"Glasses," demanded the nurse.

I swept them off and handed them over, closing my eyes to the searing light and stray visions my brain conjured. Although I didn't observe what followed, I swore I heard the scrape of rubber against glass as the plunger of the syringe depressed. Half a moment later, ice slid beneath my skin.

"Sleepy yet?" asked the nurse, apathetic.

"No."

"Count backward from ten."

"Ten," I began. The swish of fabric sliding against the sheet-covered table whispered in my ear. The ting of metal striking against metal pierced the air as I imagined hoarfrost creeping deeper into my veins.

"Nine," I murmured, trying not to fight the anesthesia. I didn't like being helpless.

I took a deep breath...and another, filling my lungs with cold, sour air. I wasn't alone. If I did pop off, I would be avenged.

The thought pulled a smile to my lips.

"Eight..."

Hours, weeks, or months later, I awoke...floating in a sea of dazzling light. The slow, persistent motion of glacial water, lifting my body only to fall again, made me queasy. Fighting the clinging lethargy, I opened my eyes, and two sharp blades speared through my skull. I shifted, trying to evade the pain.

"Where do you think you're going?" grumbled a voice from far, far away.

Heavy hands pressed my shoulders back down against a hard surface.

A few more synapses flickered back online, and I remembered — the operation. The voice belonged to the nurse. And his question was the closest he'd come to a friendly overture. He'd even managed to sound relieved that I was alive and awake.

Desperation did funny things to people.

As my awareness solidified, the iron-laden odor saturating the now humid air imposed itself.

Ignore it. Refuse to think about it.

A metallic film coated my mouth. I could taste it. My body heaved — once, twisting inside, then a second time. Gulping air, I shoved the feeling back, timing my inhalations and keeping my eyes clamped shut.

Don't think about it. If you think about it, you'll convince your body that it's going to happen.

"You've been out for a little under six hours. The surgery was a success. No surprises along the way, except for the return of your sister halfway through. You'll experience some vertigo and nausea, so for everyone's sake, stay still," the surgeon informed me with ambiguous satisfaction.

I didn't bother nodding but continued counting. I heard the clatter of metal tools, and instantly, a blue cloth stained red and brown manifested in my obliging imagination. I rattled my brain, hoping a distraction would fall out.

The tap was running, and I pounced on the sound.

Focus on the pure and neutral sound of water flowing.

The hushed murmur was textured with the splashes of someone washing their hands...washing off all the bl...

Focus on the sound of the damned water, Kenny!

A piece of tape was ripped off my arm, and I hissed, popping one eye open to glare in the general direction of the nurse. A frisson of electric agony was the predictable result. Reclamping it, I was forced to assume that I had successfully communicated my displeasure and resumed listening to the tap flow with violent determination.

I hadn't noticed that Florence Nightingale had also removed the IV until the stiff sensation of a needle buried in my arm began to fade. He pressed a cotton ball against the puncture site and applied a new piece of tape to hold it in place.

The water cut off, taking my salvation with it. I shoved my attention back into counting breaths.

A few minutes later, my stomach unclenched. I pressed my elbows against the table, the cold burrowing into my bare flesh. The world wasn't spinning yet, so I pushed myself up slowly. I made it six inches before my stomach lurched and gravity dissolved. After five long beats, things stabilized.

It was hardly the stiff-backed rise from a coffin traditionally depicted.

"Glasses", I hissed, trying to hold my head up without it rolling off my shoulders.

"Idiot," the surgeon diagnosed.

Someone perched the frames on my face, and I opened my eyes. The light was still harsh, but manageable. I didn't study the new stains on my medical team's scrubs but looked past them to where Mom sat. She still didn't smile, but there was a gleam of triumph in her baby blues.

It was done.

Mel hadn’t budged, still on duty.

Evy paced back and forth behind them, her expression just this side of murderous. Faded mascara circled her puffy manic eyes, and the state of her blond mane suggested she was coming off a week-long bender during which copious amounts of recreational substances had been used with unprecedented results. Retribution would be swift and terrible for putting her through this.

Nore contented herself with a small Mona Lisa smile.

“May I see a mirror?”

The nurse pulled a hand mirror with whorls etched into a pink plastic frame from the lower shelf of the cart and handed it to me. My fingers felt clumsy as I peered into it, slightly surprised that I recognized myself. There was some swelling in my cheeks and mouth, but otherwise, nothing had changed.

I grimaced, inspecting my teeth. They were all present and accounted for, if a little gory around the edges. Mentally, I searched for tiny muscles that never appeared in anatomy textbooks...and found them. With a gentle snick, a pair of slender fangs shot out from under my gums and glided over the slick contours between my lateral incisors and canines.

They were a perfect color match.

"The material is home-grown," the surgeon explained woodenly. “There is nothing artificial in your head, no stitches that need to be removed, nothing major left to heal — but maybe wait a few hours before brushing your teeth. The Agency could autopsy you tomorrow and be assured that your cold, lifeless corpse belonged to an unfortunate but upstanding member of the Community.”

Charming. More to the point, liberating. The Community outlawed ‘witchcraft’, but vampires were welcome.

The nurse made a sharp, sudden movement so that the glaring light and empty shadows engulfed him in equal measure, painting him in Rorschach blots. A yank on his mask and his own much more prominent bicuspids were beautifully silhouetted.

“Congratulations on your rising,” he purred softly.

Suddenly, he was looming over me. I hadn't seen him move.

"We have upheld our end of the bargain. Your turn.”

I smiled at my reflection, turning my head left, then right, inspecting the craftsmanship. My fangs were flawless.

“Indeed.”

Unwillingly, I set the mirror aside and took off my glasses, bracing myself. The world fractured into chaos — a meld of gloom and glow, solid objects stretching into impossible shapes and mind-numbing panoramas overlaying the garage. A sheen rippled off gossamer webs connecting everything real and unreal, each thread pulsing with energy. It took a few moments for my mind to make sense of it.

When it finally did, I noted that one outer-world resident stared, for lack of a better word, back at me. He was gargantuan, naked to the waist, and the acres of bare, clammy, gray skin on display were textured with ritualistic scarring. His head was missing a face. His dank hide stretched over where eyes, nostrils, ears, and a mouth ought to be. Yet, somehow, he was aware of us. He followed every stray noise on our end of existence, swaying as though curious — even though sound couldn't...shouldn't...travel between planes.

A dull ache blossomed behind my right eye, a reminder to get a move on. Dabbling in the beyond was not without risk — it was more than the human mind was designed to accept. And attempting to manipulate the ley lines when I hadn't even gotten a handle on the post-op drool was exquisitely stupid.

I took a deep breath and lifted my hands, weaving to create intricate patterns as ley energy began to curdle around me. The movements were unnecessary — just window dressing. Practitioners, conjurers, sorcerers, diablerists — whatever word you fancied — we understood the inherent magic of the theater and capitalized on it. Mystique was just another shield.

I was rewarded for my efforts when the real vampires’ jaws dropped. My eyes had lit with white fire, causing the throb in my head to strengthen. I'm photosensitive. External light was bad enough; internal light was simply masochistic. The choreography was familiar, though, and I needed familiarity for what I was about to attempt.

A radiance rolled under my skin, erupting into a million will-o'-the-wisps fluttering through my veins. My dreadlocks came alive, floating around and coiling over each other like luminous snakes. Working the light show, I rose to the tips of my toes, ascending until I was cradled two feet above the floor, basking in the splendor of my special effects.

It was a ridiculous waste of energy.

I plucked at the ley lines, priming them with my own power, while keeping the hand jive on overdrive. Magic wasn't all that magical. It's a mechanical process that every living creature participates in. Cause and effect; launch the right program, pull the right lever, and abracadabra! No one ever wills something into being. If that were how it worked, we’d have been overrun with ponies, sand fairies, sky bison, and regal rangers with broken swords long ago.

Once I’d spindled enough juice, I took a deep breath and started excavating a tunnel through the bowels of the beyond — or, more accurately, constructed a temporary transplanal bridge. Easy-peasy. I had managed it four times. I’d been assured that it would get easier with practice, as all sequences did. With sweat dripping in my eyes and an immense pressure crushing my chest, I doubted my handler’s promises.

And then, stuck between an arcane rock and a hard place, I hesitated.

Ley manipulation attracts attention — the Community relied on Agency warlocks to hunt, subdue, or exterminate any magic-twisting vermin. To prevent uninvited guests, we’d warded the garage so thoroughly it felt like a null zone. Unfortunately, wards only operated on this plane. My skills were unique on Earth but not in the greater existence. Gritting my teeth, I pushed past my anxieties.

I’d made a promise.

Sooty vapor unfurled from thin air, reaching out with nimble, greedy fingers. It curled around and between us, stalking us, eager to swallow us whole. Between one breath and the next, the lights were snuffed out. I couldn't see my hand in front of my face. I checked.

And then, the clicking began.

Vaguely metallic, there was a soft shush and then a hard click. It repeated, getting closer. The heavy energy buzzing through the circuit built upon itself, the sensation potently addictive. Reality receded the more deeply I became enmeshed with the beyond, the visual noise lessening and with it, the ache behind my eyes.

Above the operating table, a sphere grated into place, plate by plate — composed of ley energy, time, space, and whatever useful bits of matter had existed between me and my goal. The clicks graduated to a roar as the portal stretched.

“What have you done?” the nurse shouted.

I didn't bother replying. He wouldn't have believed me.

Turbulence whipped against my skin, informing me of what I could not see. The attack never landed. I was too deeply cocooned within the field of magic.

A mildly hysterical cackle bubbled up within me, but I wasn’t safe. I needed to hurry.

The sphere tore open — a lipless mouth, taller than the building, yawned wide and warm, fetid breath beaded on my flesh — revealing a shadowed and jagged pit beyond. Existence stretched grotesquely to accommodate the construct, warping the roof and floor.

The faceless spectator, having drifted to the left, grinned with an uncomfortable stretch of skin. His chest rolled as he laughed, fading out of view. There was no other visible presence, but as I anchored my gate, I knew I wasn’t alone.

The watcher. Every time I attempted a working, there he was — as if to weigh my raw and naked soul before the cosmos. My breath rattled in my throat, my palms grew slick, and my muscles refused to obey. I was small in the vastness of creation; insignificant. Perhaps it was by that token that I’d managed to survive thus far.

I forced myself to exhale. He was here, and he wanted me to know it. Inhale. Fine. He could watch, judge, and leave. Exhale. It made little difference.

Something massive whipped past, inches from my face, distracting me from my feelings of inferiority and impending doom before whistling by again. Screams cut off as the metal mouth liquefied and sealed — sated. The word rang loud in my mind as the gash on this physical realm smoothed without a scar, leaving us in a stinging well of silence.

Exhaling again, I dared the Watcher to do something. Was he going to reach through the primordial nothingness and pluck me out of existence — again?

I rammed the intrusive question into a mental box, welded it shut, and chucked it into a conceptual ocean. I didn't know his purpose. I didn't understand his interest. He’d only interfered once, and I had survived.

Shaking, I forced myself into action, scrubbing the building of magical fingerprints. As the magic broke down and was funneled away, the room returned to its former brilliance.

My right eye socket throbbed, hinting at imminent mutiny.

Almost done. Just sweeping the lint under the carpet...

Stepping down from the tangle of lines that had held me aloft, my bare feet found the gritty concrete floor. The flickering lights writhing under my skin settled down to hibernate. Some residual energy in my hair snapped at me. I squeaked, rubbing the current from my palm, and forced myself to slow down. Power took time to spindle and release safely. Carelessness would only lead to unwanted attention from threats on this plane.

The rest of my weavings collapsed in a whisper as I funneled the energy back into the lines, like tired party decorations. The quiet became natural.

Looking up, Mom regarded me with resigned humor.

Mel looked bored. Nore issued a delicate snort, and Evy, slumped against the pegboard wall, muttered, “Drama queen.”

I stuck my tongue out at her.

I'd never told them about the Watcher. There was nothing they could do about him except forbid me from using my gift and worry when I refused.

My medical team was conspicuous by their absence.

“A promise kept,” I murmured, the charged air giving a final crackle as I stepped back into my flip flops. I mentally checked off step one of my master plan; unfortunately, step two — winning over and leading a cadre predisposed to loathe me — was rather complicated.

Baby steps.

Clapping my hands, I barked, “All right, everyone, grab a lamp.”