Nadjia was a snugly swaddled wide eyed newborn staring Clayton in the eyes when he finally saw her. He felt a chill run down his back, the baby's blue eyes nothing like her mother's. "The mother?"
Doctors Lance, and Martin Bellar stood side by side. They exchanged looks. They spoke in unison. "...there was a complication."
"What kind of complication?"
Martin Bellar stepped forward, holding his hands up. "She's fine, now... but she died on the table, Clayton."
Clayton lifted an eyebrow.
Lance cleared his throat and stepped up past Martin. "Goodman, she died on the table."
Clayton felt a lump forming in his throat. He swallowed twice before he could clear his throat enough to speak. "She's gone?"
Lance shook his head slowly, staring at Clayton's shoes. "No. She died immediately after delivery. She just stopped... and then, on her own..."
Clayton sighed in relief. "On her own she started again."
Lance Bellar stared at Clayton wide eyed, his face pale. "Reviving someone on the operating table isn't unheard of. Someone reviving their self? It simply doesn't happen. It's like..."
"...like magick?"
"I was going to say it's like a miracle. I've been blessed to serve The Order a long time, Goodman Walker. I cannot say this with certainty, but I believe I would catch it if someone was casting or conjuring up some spell."
Martin Bellar had an expression of disgust. Lance, and Clayton ignored him.
"You're reasonably certain."
Lance Bellar nodded. "Beyond a reason doubt? I believe I'm certain. I certainly witnessed nothing to indicate any ritual, or utterance of incantation."
"Where was Amir? Where is Amir?"
Martin coughed. "He couldn't handle seeing Mrs. Sharif in labor. He stepped out... as far as where he's gone? I couldn't say. We don't know."
Clayton stared past them, at Nadjia swaddled tight in the arms of the midwife Grandma D. D grinned at him with her bright denture smile, and then turned her attention back to baby Nadjia.
Baby Nadjia turned her small head, and stared at Clayton again. "Doctors Bellar. Is it natural her eyes should look like that?"
Lance and Martin Bellar glanced at baby Nadjia. Martin made a strained expression and Lance took the lead on answering to Clayton. "Most babies I've ever delivered - that is not to say all of them - had blue eyes. Hers however will likely stay that shade of blue the entirety of her life."
"They're such a pale blue. Is she healthy?"
Martin considered the question. "Ten fingers, ten toes and a strong heartbeat. She can breathe on her own..."
"...what aren't you telling me?"
"She was conscious when we delivered her, and not long after her eyes were open. She did not cry during delivery, and not since. Not even a whimper."
"Is there anything the matter with the baby?"
"No. Goodman Walker, Nadjia is fine. She's healthy. Robust even, as robust as any newborn could be."
"...but no crying? Babies cry."
Martin Bellar looked between Lance, and Clayton. "Clayton, Nadjia's fine. I understand you're concerned, but you need not be."
"A moment, please?"
"Absolutely not, Martin. There has to be a degree of professionalism where we're not pandering to Clayton Walker. Right now, Nadjia is fine. Our focus is on Nida, and keeping her under observation until we know she'll be alright."
Grandma D giggled at Nadjia, and cooed her, touching the tip of the baby's nose with her wrinkled finger. "Let's go see mommy while these big tough men argue about who's bigger, and tougher."
Clayton, and the Doctors Lance, and Martin Bellar watched her stand up out her seat. She hobbled past them without acknowledging their presence, and without a word, she continued to Nida's room, shutting the door behind her with a pronounced click.
"I'm sorry, who is that woman?"
Clayton felt his cheeks cooling. Grandma D made her point, and she did it without having to raise her voice. "Midwife. I'm leaving. Doctor Bellar, keep me apprised, should anything change."
Both doctors nodded, though where Lance Bellar kowtowed to Clayton's whims, Martin was dismissive.
When Clayton was gone - when the door audibly closed, and he was certain the man was gone, Lance's tone changed noticeably. "You need to show Goodman Walker respect."
"That's funny." Martin Bellar turned to face his brother.
"Martin. These people can make, and break you."
"I don't remember the word servant anywhere in the job description. I'm a doctor, Lance. Not an errand boy."
"Clayton got you out of that mess back in Los Angeles."
Martin shook his head once. "Treating these people like they're people, the same as anyone else is the only way they'll take serious anything you say. You're not going to get anywhere kissing their asses. If Clayton, or anyone in their fraternity wants to shit can me for doing my job, it's their loss."
Lance frowned. "When you came to me, you sounded so genuine. You asked for help, and you never do."
"I don't play quid pro quo, and my time is too valuable for sycophancy. You wanted to get me up here, I'm here. Now, I'm going to see to your patient."
✟ ☧ ✟
"Clay," Emily Walker sat behind her husband, stroking his hair. "So he's and asshole. You're not a pompous self-important prick. Don't be one. You've got a life now everyone in The Order wants. You did your duty, let everyone else do theirs."
Clayton gritted his teeth. "I don't care if they drop the façade with titles, or obsequious traditions. I care that Doctor Bellar's an asshole."
"Lance is only ever been good for our family, Clay."
"Martin, Martin fucking Bellar! The Goddamned doctor's doctor-brother from Los Angeles!"
Emily shook her head. "Don't blaspheme, Clay."
Clayton's face darkened a shade of red, and he clenched his jaw, and fists. "I... fine. Hail Mary full of Grace. The Lord is with thee..."
Emily sat by patiently, watching Clayton and trying her hardest to contain her amusement. She waited the twenty minutes it took Clayton to finish. When he did, his face was still a dark red. "Well, baby... that was good... but His name in vain? One more pass."
Clayton glared at her, but by virtue of their faith, her station in The Order... and The Order itself, he began again.
Emily waited another twenty minutes, excusing herself once to check on Jonathan. She returned in time for Clayton to finish his last pass on the rosary. He put his rosary into his pocket to clarify he was finished. His face was flush, but almost it's normal color. "The guy's a fucking prick, Em."
"Why?"
Clayton closed his eyes, and while closed Emily grinned, covering her mouth as she watched her husband count backwards quietly from ten. She composed herself in time for him to open his eyes, trying her hardest to look interested in the very uninteresting g complaint that would follow.
"He's arrogant, disrespectful and unprofessional. He observes none of our traditions, interrupts the Bellar that actually matters, and he's lucky I didn't fucking wipe the floor with him."
"Was Grandma D there?"
"She made fun of us. All of us. Called us big tough men."
"...well, you are a big tough man, so I suppose that worked out well for you."
"She didn't mean it, Em. She was being flippant."
"Facetious, even?" Emily watched his face brighten a moment, the very moment he realized she was not taking him seriously. He put.on his best angry face, but it was only a matter of time now before he broke.
Clayton stared her down, only to find her staring back, unafraid of her husband. "He's not right for The Order. He's just another self important Gary Jennings standing up on his self righteous pedestal. I should put him in his place!"
"Right? You should! When you're done, you can find his father and knock him on his ass. Maybe he'll piss himself, too. Then you can spend the next eight years comparing everything to that Goddamned day back in 'fifty-six!" Emily clapped gleefully, but her face showed none of the enthusiasm.
"Rosary." Clayton crossed his arms.
Emily cursed under her breath, turned from Clayton, crawled across the bed to her side, opened the drawer on the bedside nightstand and drew out her rosary.
"You keep it in a drawer."
Emily stared at him. "Hail Mary full of grace. The Lord is with you. Blessed are you, among saints."
Clayton unfolded his hands and put them in his pockets. "You keep it in the drawer. You should have one in your drawer, my drawer, your dress pockets, your purse, and one in the glove compartment of the car."
Emily stared Clayton in the eyes, her home-made eyes dilated to pin pricks. "Our Father who is in heaven..."
Clayton nodded, and admired his wife's features. "Em, I don't like self important people. I'm not trying to compare him to Gary Jennings, but the two should really start a bowling league."
She shook her head and continued. Clayton waited in silence until she made two revolutions of her rosary. She kept it on her lap. "Maybe you should join their league. You've never been a self important man, Clayton. After the wreck in 'fifty-six, you were a wreck. I've been a patient wife, letting you tell whatever necessary lies you feel you have to tell so you can go to the crash site every January thirteenth to mourn your lost love."
Clayton blinked.
"Yes, I know. I'm you're wife, Clay. We're married. It's been eight years, and you know what? I get it. We were practically strangers when we met, and do you think I wanted to marry you?"
Clayton shrugged. "I never thought to ask."
"Of course you didn't, you dope! We were doing our duty. Then I got to know you, to know this meat headed ex-jock living in the shadow of a legend, and believe me, Bart Walker is a badass legend. Survived against all odds. Not even a scar."
"He's got scars."
"We've all got scars, Clay! His are just in his head, and in his heart! You'd never know it."
"He was an asshole."
"No, Clay! You were! Let's go back to 'fifty-six! You had a bad dream. Faith, God, Providence, divine intervention - call it what you will - and you knew tragedy was coming!"
"That's why I did what I did."
"Did you tell Bart? Did you tell anyone else about it? Or were you so busy trying to be in control, you lost control completely?"
"You shouldn't speak of things you do not fully understand."
"Don't I? Your father had the Judge's ear. I imagine if you came to him and explained it to him, he would have had that school closed down."
Clayton's head dropped. "...but you were a punk teenaged riot living in his shadow. Trying to live up to it. You beat some poor asshole across a theater stage. You broke his jaw, and shattered his teeth. Clay, you could have killed him, and why?"
"To get myself out of the game. To keep them from making me get on that bus."
"Don't you see it, baby? You weren't thinking straight. You're the son of Bart Walker. You could have refused. You out that kid down, and then you out his father down, too. You made a grown man piss himself, and got yourself expelled."
"...but I survived."
"Yes, baby. You survived, and she didn't. It's possible nothing you could have done would have saved her. The same thing that saved you may have condemned her. There is a Balance for a reason, and it is in us to maintain it. You, me, and The Order."
"It wasn't fair. It's not fair."
"What's not fair was you. While I was being raised - groomed - to be your future wife, you were given clemency to pursue love outside The Order. You were allowed to do whatever you wanted, however you wanted. The great Clayton John Walker, a big, tough man. Now you want to do it again? Who's life are you saving this time?"
Clayton took a deep breath through his nose, and exhaled through his mouth. He could not swallow. He could not even speak, his voice trapped in his throat, protests and reasons he could not voice.
"Is it my life? Jonathan's life? Is it the newborn baby girl, whatsername? Is is Nida? What are you trying to prove? From where I'm sitting - to me, baby - you're the one who's become another Gary Jennings. You're the one who's become self important. I love you, Clay. I'm sorry I'm not her..."
Clayton shook his head, and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. "...you don't need to be her."
"Then what is it? What's wrong? You're twenty-five going on seventeen, still angry, still filled with that same riot."
"I don't want to be angry. Sometimes... I can't help it. The things I've seen, and done? I see some asshole with a doctorate talking down to me..."
"You're twenty-five. The average life of any one of us in The Order is a year less than that! You're a badass. You win. You survived, and you're retired! Can't you see me? Can't you see Jonathan? Don't you want him to make it? To see his children grown?"
Clayton nodded, and fell to his knees at the end of the bed. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Em."
Emily crawled to the end of the bed, and lay flat on her stomach. She kissed Clayton in the forehead. "Jonathan needs you. I need you, Clayton Walker. You're my husband, and you're my best friend. I don't just love you. I'm in love with you. I want you to look at me the way you once looked at her... Not to love me more... I want you to love me, and me alone."
"...and Jonathan."
"Yes, and Jonathan... and Zigmund, Gretchin, Rolando, and Ming."
"Who the fuck is Ming?"
"The milkman's baby, if you don't treat me right, Clayton Walker."
"Is the milkman an Oriental?"
"We don't have a milkman, Clay."
"...good. We're not naming our kids Zigmund, Gretchen, or Rolando. Where the hell do you get these names?"
"See, my husband's too busy picking fights with people that are too stupid to know their place. I'm not terribly imaginative with names."
"You're not... I mean, we only had Jonathan in November."
"No, you dolt. Now, come to bed. You're tired, and I'm tired." Emily pulled at his head, and Clayton grunted.
"You know you can't just drag me around by my head all the time."
"I took the same Rites and Blessings you did."
"No, I mean you're going to break my neck."
Emily laughed, and slapped the top of his forehead. "Come to bed."
"Fine, but I'm going to write a strongly worded letter to Martin Bellar's superiors."
"I hope you know your home address."
From the hall, Jonathan's not-so-faint voice cried out in a shrill scream. Clayton was fast onto his feet as his baby boy began to cry, the sobbing echoing from down the hall.
He looked back at Emily who had her eyes shut.
"I know you're not sleeping."
She snored, and made a sharp gasp, and then made another snore.
"Fine. My turn."
Emily muttered in her pretending-to-talk-in-her-sleep voice, something about him pushing the baby out of his body next time. Clayton shook his head once, and hurried out of their bedroom to see to his son.
✟ ☧ ✟
It was the crying that woke him up.
Clayton yawned, sitting up in his bed. Emily stirred next to him, muttering a string of nonsense words into her pillow.
Jonathan's voice echoed from down the hall, faint and hollow. Clayton shifted, his back creaking as he did, and hefted his legs over the side out of bed, the thick shag carpeting warm and comfortable beneath his feet. He crept toward the bedroom door in silent steps to keep from waking Emily.
The hallway was dark, and it was a long walk to Jonathan's room. Longer still, because his bones, and body ached.
"Dad?" A familiar voiced called.from next to him. Clayton turned out of reflex, and David caught his wrist.
The hall light was in now, bright in his eyes - almost blinding - and Clayton found himself face-to-face with a young man, maybe in his late teens. He had hair like Emily's, but looked a lot like Clayton when he was the same age. The young man's empathetic brown eyes searched Clayton's.
"Who - who are you?"
"What are you doing out of bed? Is everything alright?"
"It's fine. I... I heard Jonathan crying. It's been a long night, and I just want to let Emily sleep."
Clayton was alone in the hallway, in the dark. He blinked, and shook his head, Jonathan's crying closer now.
He stood in the middle of the hall, near the stairwell, and stopped his slow walk at sudden movement on the landing below.thensecond flight of stairs. Clayton stared past the railing, and saw Julie on the landing. She was dressed his his mother's Sunday dress, a large snake coiled around her arm. She tilted her head, and her skin took on a translucent ethereal gleam, her muscle, and bone visible beneath it.
"Clay, baby? Your breakfast is almost ready."
Clayton shrugged. "Keep it warm, baby. I have to check on Jonathan."
"You mean David, right?"
Jonathan's baby voice echoed down the hall again, no longer crying. He giggled, and babbled in the distinct speech of babies. Clayton glanced down the hall. "David? No, Jules. I mean Jonathan. I don't know know who David is."
He looked back to the landing. It was empty, the hardwood floor polished, Emily's tea cart sitting in its place, the place it was always since they married.
"Clay, what are you doing out of bed, boy?"
Clayton spun on his heel and ducked. He felt a small wind follow the slap. Bartholomew Walker stood only a few feet from him, eyes furious.
"Dad, why are you trying to hit me?"
"I told you to stay in bed, boy."
"What are you talking about? Someone's crying in the guest room. I'm just trying to get to the guest room."
Bartholomew took another swing at Clayton, and Clayton parried the strike. "What are you doing?"
"I'm trying to knock some sense into you, boy! You need to wake up! The real world ain't going to be like it was at school! You're dreaming, ya jackass."
"Dad!" Clayton dodged another swing, parried a swat, and shoved Bart back with a palm to the chest. "It's fine! Did Emily call you? We had an argument, but things are fine now. I'm ready to move on."
David narrowed his eyes, rubbing his chest. "Dad, what are you doing? It's me. You need to go back to bed."
"Your mom's sleeping, boy." Clayton did not like the tone in his voice. It was too much like his father's.
"Sleeping? Dad, Mom's dead."
"I just left her sleeping in our room, boy! Your mom's fine!"
David looked worried, and the look of worry was a reflection of his young face, but an expression Emily used every time he left on a mission for Grifford.
"Go back to bed, Dad. We'll talk in the morning."
"David, I need to get to your brother. He's awake, and I need to help him get back to sleep."
"Brother?"
"Your brother. Jonathan." Clayton turned, and David caught him by the arm.
"Dad. You don't want to go in there. There are things you shouldn't ever see."
"You're alarming me, son. If you don't let me go I'm going to have to make you let me go."
"Fine." David's hands were up, acquiescent. "It's better you not dwell in the company of snakes."
"Da!" Jonathan's voice was louder now, Clayton closer to the guest room.
Guest room?
The last time Jonathan's room was a guest room, Clayton was small, himself.
Jonathan's room.
"Clay?" Julie called from the landing.
Clayton turned slowly this time, his pulse quickening. Julie stood on the landing as he remembered her, in the red and black uniform worn by the cheerleading squad. "Julie, I have to see to Jonathan."
"It's cold."
"Keep it warm for me, babe. I'll be down after I check on my boy."
"I'm cold, Clay."
"Go and sit by the hearth. Dad should be able to get a good fire going if you're cold." Clayton returned on his way to Jonathan's room, walking side-by-side with David.
"You're not going to like what you see."
"I've seen a lot of shit I don't like, son." Clayton could smell David, and he smelled like family. Clay spared a moment's glance at the young man, and returned his attention to the door. "Where's the doorknob, David?"
"It's right there, dad." David reached for the doorknob, and turned it. The door creaked open.
Clayton stepped past the threshold, and into Jonathan's nursery. The nursery's large walls towered over Clayton, too far to walk from one wall to the next. Starlight dotted the night sky, shining pinpricks in the black canvas of sky through the open ceiling. Jonathan's crib sat in the center of the room beneath an ancient, towering, twisted tree whose branches stretched in all directions. He could hear muted growls, snarling and snapping jaws from somewhere in the leafless branches of the old, and ancient tree.
Under the inexplicable twilight glow of the room, her shadow - the tree's shadow - moved, it's shadow branches reaching out like tendrils in all directions. He could see the shadows of seven creatures perched on her - Clayton had the distinct impulse to call the tree her - winding branches.
He could see nothing in the physical tree.
A large white barn owl - with almond black eyes sat atop Jonathan's crib staring down at him. Baby Jonathan sat in the crib, in a corner holding up what appeared to be a large dead snake, laughing at the owl. The owl turned it's head to Clayton, blinked once and took flight into the night sky.
Jonathan watched the bird a moment, turned his head and stared his father in the eyes. He smiled a clumsy, toothy smile and in a voice not his own, he called to Clayton.
"Get out!"
(Get out!)
(Get out!)
(Get out!)
✟ ☧ ✟
Clayton woke to find his bed in disarray. Emily was standing flat against the wall, staring at Clayton with wide eyes, her terrified expression beyond screaming.
The sheets were torn, the pillows cut open, the mattress in ribbons. Springs jutted from the destroyed fabric, and padding.
Clayton wiped his brow, and found he was holding his dagger. The blade glistened in the artificial incandescent light of the bedroom.
"Clayton, what happened?"
"...bad dream." He cleared his throat.
"You have tears on your cheeks. You were screaming, Clay. Flailing, and arguing with your father."
"You heard him?"
"Shake it off, baby. Someone's fucking with us."
Clayton planted his dagger into the mattress and wiped his cheeks. They were wet. He shook his head. "No, Em. You know they can't cast against us. Magick doesn't affect us. Rites and Blessings."
"Then it's something else." Emily kept herself pressed to the wall.
Clayton stared past her, and saw Julie Wood standing in the doorway. He squeezed his eyes shut tight, and rubbed them. When he opened them, she was still there in the doorway.
"What is it baby?"
Clay kept his eyes locked on the apparition, and moved slowly to toward the other side of the bed, Julie's head turning, her eyes locked on his. He took a deep breath and released it slowly. "It's nothing. Go check on Jonathan."
Emily hesitated.
"I'm not going to hurt you, Em."
"I think you were meant to."
"Jonathan was in danger. In my dream... nightmare... Jonathan was in danger."
Emily nodded her head, and took a cautious step away from the wall. There was a large clatter as her dagger fell out from behind her, and rolled along the hardwood floors. "I would do whatever I had to do to protect myself, and our family."
"I wouldn't expect anything else, Em. Go check on Jonathan."
Emily knelt, aware Clayton was staring into the empty space of the doorway
She picked up her weapon, and stood. "I'll be back soon. Do you want me to call the judge?"
"I'll do it. Just..."
"...yeah, baby. I'll go see to Jonathan."
Clayton watched Emily walk through Julie, and waited until he heard her in the nursery. "Julie, go away."
She stared at him, her expression pleading.
"I can't help you. I have a wife, and a son. If I could help you, I would... I have to let you go."
She stared at him a moment longer, turned and flickered out. Emily returned from Jonathan's nursery, her son in one arm, and a long, thick snake dangling from her free hand. The diamond pattern running down it's back, and the earth tones were unmistakable. She held the rattlesnake from it's throat, at the base of its large triangular head, blood creeping up over her thumb.
Jonathan played with her hair, and stared at the stained woodgrain wall behind her as she continued into the room in slow careful steps.
"Are you bit?"
Emily shook her head and threw it onto the foot of the bed. There was a large chunk of flesh missing from the side of the snake's throat. She propped Jonathan into his arm and cradled him so Clayton could see him. "I found Jonathan on the floor of the nursery, playing with it when I went in."
Clayton looked from the dead snake, to Jonathan. Jonathan grinned a clumsy toothy grin, his mouth - the entirety of the lower part of his face - and all his teeth stained in the blood of the snake. "He killed it?"
"Magick, or none, someone's fucking with us, Clay. Find them, and snuff them out."
Clayton felt gooseflesh rise over the entirety of his body, the flesh shrinking back and tightening in his groin. The details of the dream we're already fading, the faint embers of memory dying in the hearth of his mind. "I'll call Grifford, now."
Emily and Clayton startled in unison as the phone rang down stairs. Clayton rose from the beside without a word and left Emily, Jonathan and the dead snake in the room behind him.