3
OTHER
At the pace I was driving, I would make it back to Nashville in less than three hours. The roads were nearly empty, so I sped across them, cutting through the night air at speeds unsafe for the average driver.
I felt freer on the road, and being away from Cole made it easier to focus. He had an uncanny ability to cloud my judgment and my senses-a dangerous combination. I needed my nonhuman side to be in control at all times so I wouldn't slip up and expose myself, or, worse, hurt someone.
The streets of Nashville were not as quiet as the roads in Tupelo had been. It was, after all, Saturday night. I pulled off West End Avenue into the Hutton Hotel a little after one in the morning. Ever since Corrina had left Nashville the year before, I had been trying new places to stay when I returned to Nashville from each of my trips. When I had returned from South America earlier in the year, I had found the new Hutton open, and its east-facing penthouse had become my new home base. As I drove up, Sean, the overnight valet, greeted me.
"Welcome back, Ms. Matthau," he said. I had noticed that all the employees knew my name. I appreciated them for that. It made me feel like I was coming back to a home instead of a hotel.
"Hi, Sean. I've got luggage. I just got back from a trip," I said, popping the trunk.
"I'll bring them up," he said, flashing me a smile. He was flirting, of course, but in a polite, socially acceptable way. I knew the real reason he'd see to bringing the bags up himself was for the tip I would give him. I kept a stash of twenties and fifties inside the side table in the foyer of my suite. I arbitrarily chose which to give when. It made everyone here like me a little more.
In the lobby, I was again greeted by name by every member of the graveyard shift skeleton crew. I liked the Hutton's main lobby. It looked less like a hotel lobby and more like an upscale living room. It added to the charade that this was my home.
"Welcome back, Ms. Matthau. Anything you need brought up to you?" Veronica, a small, round woman with thick black-rimmed glasses asked as I made my way toward the elevators.
"Pillows?" I said, imagining barricading myself into the bed on all sides. I longed to be able to sleep.
"How many?" she asked, scurrying behind me to match my long stride.
"Lots," I said, smiling as I reached out and pressed the elevator button.
"Certainly, Ms. Matthau," Veronica said as she backed away.
The hallway on the top floor was silent. I trod lightly, sensing that others were sleeping. I was relieved when I opened the door to my large suite and felt cold air rush over me. The housekeeping staff had left the air on as low as it would go, no doubt something they noticed I did. It was a small comfort they provided, and I was grateful for it. Some members of the staff were intrigued by me, but others felt a certain amount of pity toward me. They all wondered why I was alone, and why someone so young seemed to have no family or even friends. This wasn't an uncommon thing for people to wonder about me.
I went into the wet bar. Though I never needed to eat or drink anything, I often liked to drink water. It was soothing to be cooled from the inside.
There was a knock on my door. I sensed the feelings from the other side of the door: anticipation. It was Sean with my luggage.
"Here you go, Ms. Matthau," he said, bringing each piece in and setting them down in my bedroom.
"Thanks, Sean," I said, backing out of his way so he could do his job. "You know," I said, "you can call me Sadie." He had to be a few years older than I was in human terms. Surely I didn't need the title.
He smiled. "Sweet of you to offer, but boss's rules," he said shrugging. I nodded. "All set," he said and headed for the door.
I already had the bill in my hand. "Thanks again," I said, slipping a fifty into his palm. His heartbeat picked up a little bit. I sensed he needed the money.
Veronica came and went with the pillows, thanking me profusely for my generous tip. I understood that the way people reacted to the sort of money I threw around was something that should alarm me or at least encourage me to change my habits. Instead, I liked bringing them joy. Money was a means to an end to me-a way to live my life without being tied down to many human constraints. It didn't bring me joy despite the fun I had with it. It didn't relieve any stress. But it always did that for other people when I tipped them, so it was a habit I'd never break.
I turned out all the lights and slipped into my most comfortable clothes. I barricaded myself in with pillows so that every inch of my lean frame was supported. I was dying to sleep. It seemed cruel that I, who had limitless time on Earth, would be the one who didn't have to-and couldn't-sleep. The irony was not lost on me.
I worked hard to still my breathing. But just like the night before, it was no use. After a while, I sat up, pushing pillows aside so I could crawl out of bed. I flipped on the lights and sauntered around the penthouse, trying to decide what to do. I had spent so much time anticipating the wedding that now that it was over and I had a monotonous eternity to look forward to, I wasn't sure what to do with myself.
I settled on going for a run. It was about 3:00 AM, which was tricky on a Nashville Saturday night. There were still enough people milling around the streets that it was impossible to run in the city like I wanted to. I decided to drive to the Natchez Trace and run there. It would be pitch black and deserted, perfect for discretion. I'd be able to run as far as I wanted, as fast as I wanted, and no one would be there to see me.
I slipped into the kind of clothes I often saw humans wear to exercise-this puzzled me because I could run in anything-and made my way back downstairs to the lobby. I sensed the suspicious feelings coming from the staff as I passed by them, and I tried to block out the negative thoughts.
The tail end of the 444-mile Natchez Trace Parkway was a straight shot down West End. After driving painfully slowly on deserted city streets, I finally saw the old neon sign for the Loveless CafÇ, the last landmark before I merged onto the Trace. The ramp for it was marked with a road sign I had seen nowhere else: "No Commercial Vehicles of Any Kind."
I drove around the twisting road lazily. As expected, I couldn't see or sense another soul. A few miles in, I stopped in a small parking area where there were other cars-they belonged to campers, I was sure-and got out of the car. I slipped off my shoes and left them in the car-the skin on my feet were the only soles tough enough to endure the speed at which I ran. I secured my car key remote in the tiny pocket in the back of my running pants and took off.
The mild night air whipped past me, cool on my skin. The moon had risen since I was at the wedding nearly six hours before, and now the waxing moonlight coated the world around me so that it seemed to glow faintly. I ran for twenty minutes at my top speed and then twenty more at a slower pace. When I hit the Alabama state line, over a hundred miles southeast of where I started, I turned around and headed back to Nashville.
Just past the sign for the exit at Waynesboro, I heard the humming. It was distant, but it was clear. Suddenly, I felt thick curtains of fear hanging in the air, so far away that they only dusted against my skin. As I got closer, the fear swallowed me the way the sea swallows rocks.
I came to an overpass on the Trace and stopped, the humming ringing loudly in my ears now. It was below me. I followed the sounds and moved closer to the edge of the bridge, looking for the source. I looked down-it was about a sixty-foot drop to the ground below. I decided I could jump it. I wanted to be closer. This, I understood, was completely adverse to the typical reaction of a woman alone in the middle of the night. Had I possessed any human instincts at all, I would have run away as quickly as I could. But I didn't have human instincts. Instead, I was a girl who could tempt fate, who wondered just how much I could endure before being a Survivor became less an inborn trait and more a condition easily changed. I tested my limits, quietly searching for the way to meet my end.
I launched myself over the rails and landed hard in thick brush. The humming quieted for a moment-the source of it had heard me-but then it picked up again. I was close enough to hear voices now. There were people here. I felt their feelings, too. I was wrapped up in a cocoon of terror and anxiety, of anger, and-very distinctly-of homicidal rage. I stayed low to the ground, shielded by the wild grass, but I couldn't see what was happening from there. There was a tall line of trees above the road. Though I knew I might get caught, I would see better from there. I decided not to consider the consequences just yet. Crouching low, I launched myself over the roadway and into the trees. Neither of them saw me.
From my new perch, I saw a girl with black hair and brown skin lying on the ground and sobbing hysterically. She had to be the source of the fear and anxiety I felt. The rage came from the rugged man on top of her-ripe with alcohol and filth. He was screaming at the girl to shut up, holding her down by her neck. She was fighting him with all her strength, and I could tell by his feelings that he was intent on killing her.
I knew I had to do something. I surely could fight off this man; I was more powerful than any human alive. But if the man fought back, I'd have to defend myself, and I would hurt him. I would do what it took to save this innocent life, but there'd be some kind of fallout I didn't know how to deal with. I had never actually attacked a human, but I could imagine the mess.
In a moment, I had examined all the angles, formed a game plan, and was ready to pounce. But out of the darkness, another body-a guy about my age, maybe even younger-appeared. His skin was pale and glowed in the moonlight, much like my own, but his features were dark. He looked menacing. I couldn't tell where he came from. My senses were momentarily blinded by his presence, and though the impairment quickly remedied, I could get no read on him specifically.
"Clarence, you get off of her!" the young man yelled, his voice unclouded by the Southern drawl of the older man. He charged at the drunkard. The girl screamed, her fear upgraded to full blown terror as the young man ripped Clarence off her and flung him off the road and into the tree line below me. The young man sped off into the woods toward the old man's hunching form, his figure a blur as he moved at speeds that rivaled-if not exceeded-my own. I blinked twice, sure I had seen it incorrectly.
I could see the men from my place in the trees, but I had to remember that my original goal was to save the girl. She was shaking on the ground, clearly in shock. I was torn. I so wanted to see what this younger man was, but I was scared for the girl, too. I dropped to the ground next to her. She screamed when she saw me. I put my finger to my lips to silence her, grabbed her up in a swift motion, and sprinted as fast as I could toward the town. In the few seconds I had her in my arms, I drowned in her terror, her disbelief, and her gratitude for these strangers who had come between her and death. I set her down gently in front of a 24-hour McDonald's with two police cars parked out front, and before she had time to react at all, I sprinted back to where I had been, hoping I hadn't missed seeing anything too important.
I had to ask myself why I was running back. My goal had been to save the girl, and having ensured she made it to safety, my part in this was over. But I couldn't pull myself away from seeing what the young man would do. I made it back to the tree line and watched from behind a low branch dangerously close to the men. The old man was standing against the trunk of a giant oak, struggling as if he were bound though I could see nothing holding him.
The rage I had sensed earlier still hung in the air, but it was evaporating as the old man struggled against the invisible chains. The young man paced with intent, seeming to calculate his next move. I knew the old man was going to die. I struggled over whether to get involved. It seemed like an opportunity for me. Morbidly, the danger in this situation was an incentive to get involved. I wanted to find my breaking point. But I willed myself to stay still. Painfully, I understood these urges meant that I was as eager to die in reality as I was in the abstract. The old man yelled, a gurgling, painful sound erupting from his throat. Unable to turn away, my eyes were glued to the scene.
Then the young man growled. I gasped at the sound-it was the kind that came from an angry lion, not a human being. The young man thrust his arms out toward Clarence, and he began to writhe in pain. His legs twisted underneath him and went limp but he remained upright. The younger man pressed his wrists together with his palms fanned out. When he twisted his hands, the assailant let out a cry. He was gasping for breath. I could feel his pain.
"Clarence, Clarence, Clarence," the young man said, a mocking tone in his voice. "Why didn't you believe me?" His question was clearly rhetorical. The assailant could not answer, overcome with his pain. "I told you that was your last shot. I swore if you touched a hair on another girl's head, I'd kill you. I offer every man a chance to change, Clarence. A chance to make his peace with God. But you didn't do that, did you? You thought I wouldn't find you here, but here I am, keeping my promise." He began to pace back and forth again. His body looked almost relaxed. Apparently, it took no effort for him to restrain the old man this way. "If you'd listened to me, I wouldn't have to do this."
The assailant choked out a laugh. He was trying to be defiant, scoffing at the young man's abilities, attempting to look brave in the face of death, I suppose. Laughing, though, was not the right thing to do. It angered the young man considerably.
He raised his left hand and held it as if he were pressing the old man against the tree though he was several feet away from him. The man's chest became pinned to the tree. Then he raised his right hand and clenched his fist, crushing the man's windpipe. I felt my own throat close as he did this.
The young man was taking Clarence's life without even touching him. I was shocked. It wasn't the violence or the power that was unbelievable. I had seen comparable talent before-Mary and Catherine, two of the elders of my family, were capable of the same thing. What stunned me was that this was not a human capability. As I watched this young man torture the assailant, I understood that, without a doubt, I had met an Other.
Another one like me.